If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company would drown all recollections of that fearful dream; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock, and my father's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudinous proportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens! something yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokens speedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it be possible! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp! I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" I started round the room. I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted through the maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, and baptizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on my senses--"Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of his hair!" BECAUSE Why did we meet long years of yore? And why did we strike hands and say: "We will be friends, and nothing more"; Why are we musing thus to-day? Because because was just because, And no one knew just why it was. Why did I say good-by to you? Why did I sail across the main? Why did I love not heaven's own blue Until I touched these shores again? Because because was just because, And you nor I knew why it was. Why are my arms about you now, And happy tears upon your cheek? And why my kisses on your brow? Look up in thankfulness and speak! Because because was just because, And only God knew why it was. TO THE CRICKET The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain May clink his tinkling metals as he may; Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away; Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain Till not a note of melody remain!-- But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay, Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray, Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again: I shall not weary; there is purest worth In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth Of childish memories--no harsher tone Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth, Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth. THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE