This poem was written to her mother on her seventy-seventh birthday. The spring is fair; it has its flowers, Its happy time of sun and showers; Then summer cometh as a queen, With roses on her robe of green; But autumn brings the crimson leaves And wealth of golden, garnered sheaves, And grapes that purple on the vine, With spring and summer in their wine. The morning comes with rosy light That dims the candles of the night, And wakes the nestling birds to song, And sends to toil the brave and strong. Mid-day and afternoon are spent In search of gold or heart-content; Then comes the sunset's glow and rest, And this of all the days is best. The baby comes with Paradise Still shining in his smiling eyes, And childhood passes like a dream, As lilies float upon a stream. Then youth comes with its restless heat, And manhood, womanhood, replete With care and pleasure, joy and strife, Lead to the richest part of life. And it has reached these, mother dear, The sunny, mellow time of year; Though with a climate of thine own, In constant sun thy soul has grown. Time counts not helpful, happy years-- He only numbers sighs and tears; So rich in blessings, strong in truth, Thou hast not age, but richer youth. WAYSIDE FLOWERS. By CARRIE CARLTON. (Mrs. M. H. Chamberlain.) A SPELL IS ON MY SPIRIT A spell is on my spirit And I cannot, cannot write, All the teeming thoughts of glory That crowd my soul tonight. They come in quick succession, Like the phantoms in a dream; And they surge in shadowy billows, Like the mist upon a stream. Oh! had I but the language, I would give these visions birth; I would shadow their glorious meaning, And their untold, hidden worth. They were raised by wild thanksgiving, For a blessed answered prayer; And their fleeting, changing beauty, Held my spirit breathless there. I had pleaded, oh, how earnest For one precious, precious boon; For one gift to cheer this bosom, That was desolate so soon. Now I know my prayer is answered, And my soul would fain adore, Him whose promise is forever, And is faithful evermore. UNDER THE PINES. By ADA F. MOORE. Published by West and Co., Milwaukee, 1875. LINES FOR THE TIMES There's a certain class of people In this sublunary sphere-- (And if I'm not mistaken, You'll find them even here), Who think the rare old precept To the old Athenians given, And esteemed so full of wisdom That they deemed it came from Heaven,--