Homeward stealing when they had passed, Winifred gazed at the sight aghast. With wrecks of revel the floors were strewn, With tables broken and chairs o’erthrown; Delicate saucer, and cup, and plate, Ruined all—but, strange to relate, The porcelain tea-pot standing still, Safe and sound, on a window-sill! Long and long have the lichens grown, Wreathing a slender slab of stone, Till scarcely the letters can you see That spell the name of Winifred Lee. But the pictured porcelain, handed down, Far from the old elm-shaded town, An heirloom prized, had found retreat High over a thronged Chicago street— There, in its corner, fresh and gay As tho’ it were made but yesterday. When in the night a terror came, And the great city was red with flame, And the people, jostling, gasped for breath As they wildly fled from the jaws of death; Little leisure or care had they Their household treasures to bear away. Nevertheless, as one returned To where the _débris_ smouldering burned, Where heaps of ashes, and brick, and stone, Were all that remained of a goodly home— Saving a charred and blackened wall, Like skeleton rising gaunt and tall— Glancing upward, with wondering eye, The marvelous tea-pot did he spy, Boldly gleaming against the sky. Ah, old tea-pot, gleaming still, What is the magic that guards from ill, From tempest, and war, and time, and fire— All for thy ruin that conspire? Behold thee, shining so bright and gay! Old tea-pot, art thou bewitched, I say? If that be true, and in some hour Thou shouldst possess thee of speech the power, With the vapor that curls from thy graceful spout What prisoned secret wilt thou let out? Wilt tell how gossips have lisped and chided At little suppers where thou hast presided? Wilt ever laugh at the fortunes told, The willing credence of young and old, As the sibylline leaves thou didst unfold? Forsooth, as I watch thee blink and shine In that remarkable way of thine, I’m half afraid of thee!—No, not so, Thou precious relic of long ago! Breathing fragrance and friendly cheer, Live for many and many a year! The next Centennial may’st thou see, Is the toast I drink in a cup of tea. ORANGE, N. J., 1876. IN LILAC TIME. The bobolink sung to ’is mate, The doves wuz softly cooin’, I heard the clinkin’ of the gate, When Joe first come a-wooin’. I stood beside the lilock bush (The sun was slowly sinkin’); My cheeks wuz all to once a-blush, When I heard the gate-latch clinkin’. Fer Joe he wuz so good an’ kind (Tho’ such a bashful lover), No truer friend you’d ever find In all the wide world over. He sez, “Ez I wuz goin’ by, I seed yer hair so shiny, Yer eyes ez blue ez summer sky, Yer cheeks ez red’s a piny;