A BIT OF GOOD LUCK MAY 4th, 1898. — To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I found Joseph Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook, casting the fly for trout. He said he had fished this very stream three-and-forty years ago. Leaf from my Diary. W E met on Nature's stage, And May had set the scene, With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks, And violets blossoming over the banks, While the brook ran full between. The waters rang your call, With frolicsome waves a-twinkle, They'd known you as boy, and they knew you as man, And every wave, as it merrily ran, Cried, "Enter Rip van Winkle!" A SLUMBER-SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD FURL your sail, my little boatie; See, the sunset breeze is dying; Far away, my little boatie, Roaring waves are white with foam; Father's at the deep-sea trawling, Bring him safely home! Not for you, my little boatie, Is the wide and weary sea; All day long you have been straying Furl your sail, my little boatie, Fold your wings, my tired dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; All the night, my little boatie, THE ECHO IN THE HEART IT'S little I can tell About the birds in books; And yet I know them well, By their music and their looks: When May comes down the lane, To welcome her with song, Each minstrel weaves his part |