The Mourner

BY T. A. DALY.

Out o' bed of a mornin' was Mary McCroal
Before ever a sunbeam had cut its first caper,
An' had fetched from her doorstep her bit of a roll
And her wee jar o' milk an' her mornin' newspaper.
Then, the while she was wettin' her kittle o' tay,

She'd the paper forninst her ould specks as she read What she held "the importantest news o' the day"An' that same was no more nor the list o' the dead. She could aisily wait fur the bit an' the sup,

But the hunger fur news she could never control, Readin' wan colyume down an' the nixt colyume up, Till: "Here's wan at St. Ann's," cried ould Mary McCroal,

"May the Lord rest his soul!"

She'd make way wid her tay in two minyutes or less,
An' she'd ready the table an' lay the cloth on it,
An' she'd deck hersel' out in her dacint black dress
An' her cashymere shawl an' her ould velvet bonnet.
Then 'twas off at a trot to the church o' St. Ann-
To be there when the corpse an' the mourners came in.
Shure, what odds if she never had heard o' the man,
Nor had knowledge at all of a wan of his kin?
Faix, 'twas little, indeed, that the corpse needed care,
An' no bar to his soul on the way to its goal,
If no wan o' the mourners there bowin' in prayer
Prayed as strong or as long as ould Mary McCroal:
"May the Lord rest his soul!"

Ye might canvass the parish; not wan on the list-
Not a wan-but would tell ye he couldn't remember
Anny funeral mass that she ever had missed,
Under roses o' June or in snows o' December
An' there's some that'd smile, recollectin' the sight
Of a red flannel petticoat, aye! an' a show

Of a dacint clane stockin', ould-fashioned an' white,

Whiskin' over the graves in the dust or the snow. There was some might have said, wid a shake o' the head, She was jisht an ould crow. But ye'd find, on the whole,

Not a wan o' thim all, when they buried their dead, But was glad o' the prayers of ould Mary McCroal. May the Lord rest her soul!

Aye! "the Lord rest her soul," Ah! the church was so bare

When she lay there th'-day, fur the mourners were

few.

But, shure, why should she care that the only wans there Were the sexton, the priest, an' ould woman or two? An' what odds if the prayers at her passin' were brief As the ride to the grave, when those prayers had been said?

Fur, shure, death was a joy to this friend o' the dead.

Ah! 'tis well to believe that the prayers that she prayed
Fur the many before her who shared of her dole,
They have gathered together an' woven an' made
As a ladder o' light fur ould Mary McCroal.
May the Lord rest her soul!

Poe

From "The Man and the Rose.”

BY ALANSON TUCKER SCHUMANN

He is the poet of the weird and drear:
For things uncanny he awakes and calls;
He sits with midnight in deserted halls,
Amid the hush and imminence of fear;

He walks where foul shapes hover hugely near,
Where death's chill step his shuddering soul appalls;
He sees in caves, round hollow waterfalls,

Slim serpents their hot hissing crests uprear.

In visions vague, disconsolate, and grim,

He roams lone lands where wailing winds blow shrill,
And the gaunt ghost of desolation dwells;
With ebon croak the Raven comes to him;

Then, music-tranced, he hears the throb, the thrill,
The revel and the rapture of the Bells.

My Little Boy

BY CECILE JOYCE.

O little boy, my little boy,
Why do you stay so long?

The night is here, with shadows drear,
'Tis time for mother's song.

The cheering crowds have gone away,
The streets are still and dead,
Why do you stay so long at play,
'Tis more than time for bed?

A great, great day this day has been,
'Tis writ in blood and flame,
And in the papers that they brought
I read your precious name.

Your name, my boy-O little boy-
What do you know of war?

Could God have meant the brow I've kissed
Should wear a battle scar?

O little boy-my little boy,

They tell me you have grown;
But, dear, 'twas only yesterday
You could not stand alone.

How could those tender, clinging hands
A heavy rifle bear?

You were too tired to march, I know,
And so they left you there.

O little boy-my little boy,
You've rested all the day;

Wake up the game is played and won,
'Tis time you came away.

The country has a million arms

To claim the nation's due,

A million hearts to bleed and break,
But I have only you.

Wake up-wake up!-the hour is late,
You should not tarry there;
The night is dark on San Juan hill,
Too dark for hope or prayer.
Wake up!-my arms are opened wide
To welcome you with joy,

And still you sleep-and sleep and sleep,
O little, little boy!

The Christmas Fire

In Woman's Home Companion.

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

The tree grew green in the forest,
Grew green in the sun and the dew,
His branches reached for the shadows,
He feathered his tops in the blue,
And happy the air about him
Wherever his balsams flew!

Drenched with the rains of the summer, Fine from his stems spun the showers, Soft dropped the snow on his mantle, Dream-work of silver and flowers,

And over him white light trailing

The stars swam through darkling hours.

Groping where great rock-pillars
Stand shouldering rank on rank,
His roots at the cold sweet sources
The ancient juices drank,

And he swept with the earth companion
As the vast skies rose and sank.

His boughs brushed low on your forehead,
As a passing wing might brush
When night-winds made shrill music
In the heavens; and hush, oh, hush!
For deep in his deepest covert

He hid the hermit thrush.

Low have they laid the giant,

And they hale him home with mirth,
And they fan the fires that twinkle,
And sing round his mossy girth,
And make with a mighty magic
The life of the Christmas hearth.

For his flames give the spicy fragrance
Of the summer atmosphere,
While the breath of the woody hollows,
The luster and light of the year,
The blossom, the bird-song, the breezes,
He sheds through the Christmas cheer.

And the message of peace and blessing
In the great fire's glow they mark,
With the lad from the war, and the sailor
Home from his tossing bark,

Ere the Christmas bells come chiming

Like the touch of the frost on the dark.

And widely on pane and ceiling

Sparkles a fiery foam;

And the children dance with their shadows
Like the forest sprite with the gnome,

While the great log roars and blazes,
The heart of the joy of home.