The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom. The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead. W.D. HOWELLS. That Day You Came. Such special sweetness was about That day God sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year. Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me. As after song some snatch of tune Lurks still in grass or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now. The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees. L.W. REESE. Negro Lullaby. Bedtimes' come fu' little boys, Po' little lamb. Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po' little lamb. You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'? Yes, you tole me dat, befo', Don't you fool me, chile, no mo', Po' little lamb. You been bad de livelong day, Po' little lamb. Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, Po' little lamb. My, but you's a-runnin' wild, Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile; Mam' gwine whup you atter while, Po' little lamb. Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def, Po' little lamb. Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref, Po' little lamb. See dem han's now,--sich a sight! Would you ever b'lieve dey's white! Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right, Po' little lamb. Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight, Po' little lamb. Hadn't oughter played so late, Po' little lamb. Mammy do' know whut she'd do, Ef de chillun's all lak you; You's a caution now fu' true, Po' little lamb. Lay yo' haid down in my lap, Po' little lamb. Y'ought to have a right good slap, Po' little lamb. You been runnin' roun' a heap. Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po' little lamb. P.L. DUNBAR. A Woman's Thought. I am a woman--therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!