. . . . . . . Two buds on the bough in the morning-- Twin buds in the smiling sun, But the frost of death has fallen And blighted the bloom of one. One leaf of life still folded Has fallen from the stem, Leaving the symbol teaching There still are two of them,-- For though--through Time's gradations, The LIVING bud may burst,-- The WITHERED one is gathered, And blooms in Heaven first. ONLY A DREAM Only a dream! Her head is bent Over the keys of the instrument, While her trembling fingers go astray In the foolish tune she tries to play. He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad eyes Never change to a glad surprise As he finds the answer he seeks confessed In glowing features, and heaving breast. Only a dream! Though the fete is grand, And a hundred hearts at her command, She takes no part, for her soul is sick Of the Coquette's art and the Serpent's trick,-- She someway feels she would like to fling Her sins away as a robe, and spring Up like a lily pure and white, And bloom alone for HIM to-night. Only a dream That the fancy weaves. The lids unfold like the rose's leaves, And the upraised eyes are moist and mild As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. Does she remember the spell they once Wrought in the past a few short months? Haply not--yet her lover's eyes Never change to the glad surprise. Only a dream! He winds her form Close in the coil of his curving arm, And whirls her away in a gust of sound As wild and sweet as the poets found In the paradise where the silken tent Of the Persian blooms in the Orient,-- While ever the chords of the music seem Whispering sadly,--"Only a dream!" OUR LITTLE GIRL Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin-- 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches Of the mother's gentle care, And the kisses and caresses Through the interludes of prayer. Her baby-feet had journeyed Such a little distance here, They could have found no briers In the path to interfere; The little cross she carried Could not weary her, we know, For it lay as lightly on her As a shadow on the snow. And yet the way before us-- O how empty now and drear!-- How ev'n the dews of roses Seem as dripping tears for her! And the song-birds all seem crying, As the winds cry and the rain, All sobbingly,--"We want--we want Our little girl again!" THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW 'Twas a Funny Little Fellow Of the very purest type, For he had a heart as mellow As an apple over ripe; And the brightest little twinkle When a funny thing occurred, And the lightest little tinkle Of a laugh you ever heard!