And Christ reward the hand that finds, and does this Christian deed, For He hath said unto His flock, “See that my lambs ye feed.” She rose with awe, he beckoned her, the chair began to creak; He pressed two large brass nails which lay beneath the leather back. And there inside the haunted chair were heaps and heaps of gold. And papers tied with tapes, and strings, and dusty parchments old. Her dream she told that Christmas morn, the haunted chair was brought-- A fearful weight it was to move, ’twas well and truly wrought-- At length with pressure brought to bear the nails began to move. When there disclosed to light of day, lay the old man’s treasure-trove. The lady won’t believe in ghosts, but she believes in dreams, And also that this lovely world is better than it seems. To-day we are the owners of the ancient haunted chair-- And clasping Christmas presents my wife is seated there. [Illustration: text decoration] A LONELY GRAVE. Somewhere it lies near the gleaming bay, On the Redland road with its winding way Through the bush--where a fence in a lonely spot Surrounds a grave in its hallowed plot. List in nights so lonely Zephyrs sigh only A requiem. Through the scorching heat of the bush fire’s breath, Which hath spent its rage near this place of death, Unscathed it remains--with the tree which grows At the foot of this grave, which nobody knows-- Where in night so lonely The winds breathe only A requiem. Somebody knew; but now nobody knows Of the poor lone corse which in deep repose Lies in earth’s embrace--till the sleeper awakes In the glorious dawn, when God’s morning breaks, And no more so lonely The winds sigh only A requiem. Is it the grave of a father old Who had toiled too hard for the red, red gold? Or a brother, a sister, a mother, or son Or a lover adored by a trusting one, Who, through long years, Shed bitter tears-- Her requiem? Then peace to this grave, of whom nobody knows, Right close to the track, where the sunset glows Through the network and woof of the whispering leaves-- One spirit at least for thy loneliness grieves-- Where in nights so lonely, The winds chant only Thy requiem. [Illustration: text decoration] THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. A baby softly nestling ’Mid clouds of fluffy white, In nurse’s arms, with pinken charms Quite hidden out of sight. Or next, displayed on cushion fine, For visitors to see, This precious mite is brought to light For compliments--at tea.