"Poor Sabrina, she _is_ a little weaker minded than Jeb, and Jeb is a kind soul in his way. We must let the judge know the trouble, and see if some honest and capable person cannot be found to handle that 'proppity' and not squander, too recklessly, the two dollars and eleven cents in the months that are to come. The life of an heiress is, indeed, beset with pitfalls even among the Ridgers." THE BROOK. BY P. H. S. I love the gentle music of the brook, Its solitary, meditative song. On every hill Some stream has birth, Some lyric rill, To wake the selfish earth, And smile and toss the heavens their shining look, Repeat and every flash of life prolong. In spite of play, Along its cheerful way It turns to rest beneath some sheltering tree In richer beauty; Or at call of duty Leaps forth into a cry of ecstacy, And sings that work is best, In brighter colors drest Runs on its way, Nor longer wills to stay Than but to see itself that it is fair,-- Thou happy brook, true brother to the air. I fear the steady death-roar of the sea, Its sullen, never-changing undertone; Round all the land It clasps its heavy strength, A liquid band Of world-unending length, And ever chants a wild monotony, A change between a low cry and a moan. The earth is glad, The sea alone is sad; Its swelling surge it rolls against the shore In mammoth anger; Or, in weary languor, Beaten, it whines that it can rage no more, And sinks to treacherous rest, While from the happy west The sun is glad; The sea alone is sad. Its voice has messages nor words for me, All, all is pitched in one low minor key. Then take my heart upon thy dancing stream, O tiny brook, thou bearest my heart away. Run gently past The breaking of the stones, Nor yet too fast; And on thy perfect tones Bear thou my discord life that I may seem A harmony for one short hour to-day. Why wilt thou, brook, Not check thy forward look? Why wilt thou, brook, not make my heart thine own? The wild commotion Of the frantic ocean Will madden thee and drown thy sorry moan, And none will hear the cry; Then run more slowly by-- Nay, for this nook Was made for thee, my brook, Stay with me here beneath this silver shade And think this day for thee and me was made.