While all about him were visions Full of prophetic bliss; But he never thought of the magic In his little daughter’s kiss. And she, with her kettle swinging, Merrily trudged away, Stopping at sight of a squirrel, Catching some wild bird’s lay. And I thought, how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners Were seasoned with a kiss. A HINT. Our Daisy lay down In her little night-gown, And kissed me again and again, On forehead and cheek, On lips that would speak, But found themselves shut, to their gain. Then, foolish, absurd, To utter a word, I asked her the question so old, That wife and that lover Ask over and over, As if they were surer when told! There, close at her side, “Do you love me?” I cried; She lifted her golden-crowned head; A puzzled surprise Shone in her gray eyes— “Why, that’s why I kiss you!” she said. ANNA C. BRACKETT. THROWING KISSES. Girlie on the stairway, mother up above; Girlie’s eyes and mother’s full of tender love; Girlie’s little fingers throw a hurrying kiss Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss; Mother throws one downward to her Golden-hair; Girlie cries, “They’re meeting, mother, in the air.” By-and-by the girlie stands all, all alone, Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone Up the heavenly stairway. Girlie, standing here, Knows the mother surely surely must be near. If she throws her kisses up the golden stair, Will they meet the mother’s half-way in the air? MINNIE SLADE. KISSES TO-DAY. Banish, O maiden, thy fears of to-morrow; Dash from thy cheek, love, the tear-drop of sorrow; Pleasure flies swiftly and sweetly away: Tears for to-morrow, but kisses to-day,— Kisses, love. Hear me, then, dearest, thy doubts gently chiding: Know’st thou not true love is ever confiding? Why snatch from Cupid his bandage away? Love sees no morrow, then kiss me to-day. Kiss me, love. CONSECRATION.—A LOVER’S MOOD. All the kisses that I have given, I grudge from my soul to-day, And of all I have ever taken, I would wipe the thought away. How I wish my lips had been hermits, Held apart from kith and kin, That fresh from God’s holy service To Love’s they might enter in! MISS BATES. “UNDER THE ROSE.” [A Platonic Kiss.] You kissed me, as if roses slipped Their rose-bud necklaces, and blew Such breaths as never yet have dipped The bee in fragrance over-shoe, While rose-leaves of their color stripped Themselves to make a blush for you. Nor chide with such a cold constraint, As if you laid the rose in snow; For this the summer stores her paint, The dappled twilights overflow With motley colors, pied and quaint, For kisses that in flowers do grow.