But it is after dark, and the snow is falling heavily, and mamma will want her little Edith home. So Kate sets forth with her small charge, well wrapped and protected from the cold—although they have but a few steps to go, as Edith lives in the next house. When Kate returns, her brother’s voice greets her from the parlor with— “Sukie, heard of the last new poem?” “No. What is it?” “Oh, it’s an epic!—a grand affair—second only to the Iliad!” “Strange I haven’t heard of it, isn’t it?” “No, not so very; it hasn’t come out yet.” “How did you hear of it? Some one been in while I was gone?” “Yes.” “Do tell me, what is it about, and who is it by?” “It’s about a child, I believe—but modesty forbids my mentioning the name of the author.” “Ah, you old rogue, I see what you’re driving at!—you’ve been having a call from the Muse.” “Rather from some poor vagabond tricked out in her cast-off mantle, you mean.” Kate goes and stands behind the high-backed arm-chair, and toys with her brother’s jetty locks. (Are they not her pride and consolation—those clustering curls? Not all the flying bullets, and slashing sabres, and ruthless cannon-balls could rob him of those—no, nor the weary, wasting sickness that followed the privations and exposure, and left him—blind.) “Come, now, Wallie, stop joking, and let me have the verses, won’t you?” And so this is what “Wallie” says about “NEIGHBOR EDITH.” Alas! I cannot see what hue her eyes are, Nor yet the color of her silken hair; Tho’—thought consoling!—if I could, I fear me She’d be less lavish with her kisses rare. I know her lips are dewy as the rose-bud When first it wakes, the flush of dawn to greet; Her breath it fans my face like early zephyr Up from the Southland roving, warm and sweet. Her bird-like voice in simple, childish chatter, No better music need you care to hear— Unless it be the music of her laughter, Like rillet, gurgling now, now tinkling clear. And when, in short-lived moods of thoughtful silence, You feel her tiny form against you lean, Or when anon her dainty, dimpled fingers Come creeping trustfully your own between, Somehow there’s soothing in the touch, you fancy, A secret charm for sending grief astray: I half believe she is a born magician— This wee, wee elf the wind could blow away. And that is Edith, that is neighbor Edith, Our winsome friend the other side the stile. When we’re sad-hearted and the days are dreary, We go and borrow her a little while. CASTLE MARVEL.