The Mourner BY T. A. DALY. Out o' bed of a mornin' was Mary McCroal 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, Ye might canvass the parish; not wan on the list- Under roses o' June or in snows o' December 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 Poe From "The Man and the Rose." BY ALANSON TUCKER SCHUMANN He is the poet of the weird and drear: He walks where foul shapes hover hugely near, Slim serpents their hot hissing crests uprear. In visions vague, disconsolate, and grim, He roams lone lands where wailing winds blow shrill, O little boy, my little boy, Why do you stay so long? The night is here, with shadows drear, The cheering crowds have gone away, A great, great day this day has been, Your name, my boy-O little boy- Could God have meant the brow I've kissed O little boy-my little boy, They tell me you have grown; How could those tender, clinging hands You were too tired to march, I know, 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, Wake up-wake up!-the hour is late, And still you sleep and sleep—and sleep, The Christmas Fire In Woman's Home Companion. BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. The tree grew green in the forest, 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 And he swept with the earth companion His boughs brushed low on your forehead, He hid the hermit thrush. Low have they laid the giant, And they hale him home with mirth, For his flames give the spicy fragrance The blossom, the bird-song, the breezes, And the message of peace and blessing Ere the Christmas bells come chiming And widely on pane and ceiling And the children dance with their shadows While the great log roars and blazes, |