Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares, Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths around The portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil Maries That Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned. "Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.) "How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat, Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringing Till at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet, Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet. JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. Then just within the gate I saw a child,-- A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; He held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be." HENRY VAN DYKE A WONDER GARDEN "And a little child shall lead them" Into her world, beneath her smiling skies; A little child with wide, wondering eyes Deep with the mystery that in them lies. Her soft hand plucks a stem asunder, And with the dream that is a part Of Childhood's heart, She questions: "Now I want to wonder!" She "wants to wonder" how so fair a thing Is born; from what it springs, and why it blooms: Whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,-- The garnered fragrance of a hundred Junes. Was it all planned,--or just some lovely blunder? Thus gazing, with the seeking look that lies In Childhood's eyes, She questions: "Now I want to wonder!" Dear Child, your groping mind seeks far and true: Mankind and Nature,--all "want to wonder" too. FREDERIC A. WHITING FROM A CAR-WINDOW Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses; Gold in a pool, from the western glow; Spread of wings where the last thrush passes-- And thoughts of you as the sun dips low. Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ... (_How many summers have died since then?_) ... I wish you knew how the deepening shadow Lies on the blue and green again! Dusk, and the curve of field and hollow Etched in gray when a star appears: Sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,... And thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears. RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING