1867. THE BOOK AUCTION. “How much am I bid?” said the spry auctioneer, “For the lays of a well-known bard?” The bard, incog, who was hovering near, Glanced up, and his breath came hard. “I am offered a dime! Just think of it, gents! For these ‘Songs of the Dewy Dawn’! Are you all done bidding? Ten! ten cents-- Ten cents--and--going--and--gone! “You don’t know elegant books from trash!” Joked the jubilant auctioneer; The dubious author bit his mustache, And felt confoundedly queer. “A beautiful copy of Shakespeare’s pomes! How much am I bid? Look alive! A right nice work to embellish your homes; Five cents! Sold to cash, for five!” The incog singer twinkled his eye And inwardly said with a thrill: “American poetry doesn’t sell high, But I’d hate to go cheap as old Bill.” A GIFT ACKNOWLEDGED. February 19, 1881. Your Winter gift of bud and bloom Took nature by surprise; ’Twas sudden Summer in my room, And April in my eyes. The kindly mist a moment stole The flowers from my view, But lo! they blossomed in my soul, Where love their fragrance knew. Fair embassy! their smiles I greet, Camellia, pink and rose; I understand the message sweet Their gentle hearts enclose. Their winsome beauty gladdens me With this immortal truth: No age can quite unhappy be That still remembers youth. Dear boys! companions! friends sincere! More warm and true than men, I thank you most because my tear Made me a boy again. THE OLD HOMESTEAD. Enshrined among roses The Homestead reposes With vines mantled o’er; Ground-ivy and clover Are running all over The stone at the door. Pinks, lilies, are blowing, Blue violets showing Gold hearts to the June; Bees going and coming Keep evermore humming Their Hyblean tune. ’Twas here that I wasted Youth’s flower and tasted Love’s first honey-dew; A boy here I slumbered, By care unencumbered, Long, balmy nights through. The wood-birds each morning Gave musical warning For shadows to fly; Their rhapsody choral Foretold the auroral First flush of the sky. With rising emotion Akin to devotion The scene I behold;-- With fond recollections Of tender affections Too sweet to be told. JENNIE MOORE. The morning air is richly rife With southern soft perfumes; Yon orchard glows with sudden blush Of mingled buds and blooms; The madrigals of wooing birds Awaken amorous Spring, And “Jennie Moore, sweet Jennie Moore” Is all the song they sing.