While I was goidg on with "tra la lala la," codgratulatig bysel bedtally upod by success, a yug fellow livig id the house adjoining by sweetheart threw up widdow ad shouted, "Blow your doze, you fool! blow your doze! Ad all the bad of busiciads laughed log ad udfeeligly. Fadcy by feligs! Shakig by cledched fist at the yug scoudrel id the widdow, I adathebatized hib with the bost awful ibbecatiods I could thidk of, udmidful who bight hear or who bight dot. Of the iddecedt ad udfeelig busiciads, I took no further dotice thad to hurl theb their pay upod the groud. Theb barched hobe, ad retired to my apartbedt, frob which I did dot eberge for budths.

HARRY AND I.

WE stood where the snake-like ivy
Climbed over the meadow bars,
And watched as the young night sprinkled
The sky with her cream-white stars.

The clover was red beneath us;

The air had the smell of June;
The cricket chirped in the grasses;
And the soft rays of the moon

Drew our shadows on the meadow,
Distorted and lank and tall;
His shadow was kissing my shadow
That was the best of all.

“My heart will break with its fulness, Like a cloud o'ercharged with rain; Oh tell me, Margery, darling!

How long must I love in vain ?"
With blushes and smiles I answered-
(I will not tell what) —just then
I saw that his saucy shadow
Was kissing my own again.

He promised to love me only;
I promised to love but him,

Till the moon fell out of the heavens,
And the stars with age grew dim.
Oh the strength of man's devotion !
Oh the vows a woman speaks!
'Tis years since that blush of rapture
Broke redly over my cheeks.

He found a gold that was brighter
Than that of my floating curls,
And married a cross-eyed widow
With a dozen grown-up girls.
And I did I pine and languish?
Did I weep my blue eyes sore?
Or break my heart do you fancy,
For love that was mine no more?

I stand to-night in the meadows
Where Harry and I stood then,
And the moon has drawn two shadows
Out over the grass again.

And a low voice keeps repeating, —
So close to my startled ear

That the shadows melt together,

“I love you, Margery, dear.

""Tis not for your cheeks' rich crimson,
And not for your eyes' soft blue,
But because your heart is tender,
And noble and pure and true."
The voice is dearer than Harry's;
And so I am glad, you see,
He married the cross-eyed widow,
Instead of Margery Lee.

THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.

My home a stately dwelling is,
With lofty arching doors;

There is carving on the ceiling high,

And velvet on the floors:

A rich and costly building,

Where noiseless servants wait.
And 'neath the escutcheon's gilding,
None enter but the great.

But a happier home is near it, a humble cottage small,
And I envy its sweet mistress the shadows on her wall.
My pictures are the pride of Art,
And drawn by cunning hands,
But painted figures never move,
Nor change the painted lands;
Before the poorest window

More gorgeous pageants glide,
Within the lowliest household,
More lifelike groups abide;

And I turn from soulless symbols, that crowd my gloomy hall,
To watch the shifting shadows upon the cottage wall.

My stately husband never bends,
To kiss me on the lips;

His heart is in his iron safe,

His thoughts are with his ships;
But when the twilight gathers
Adown the dusky street,

The little housewife listens
For sounds of coming feet;

And by the gleaming firelight I see a figure tall

Bend down to kiss a shadow,

a shadow on the wall.

My garden palings, broad and high,

Shut in its costly spoils,

And through the ordered paths all day

The silent gardener toils;

My neighbor's is a grass-plat,

With a hardy buttercup,

Where the children's dimpled fingers

Pull dandelions up.

Where on a baby's silken head, all day the sunbeams fall, Till evening throws its shadows upon the cottage wall.

My petted lapdog, warm and soft,
Nestles upon my knee;

My birds have shut their diamond eyes
That love to look at me;
Lonely, I watch my neighbor,
And watching can but weep
To see her rock her darlings
Upon her breast asleep.

Alas! my doves are gentle, my dogs come at my call,
But there is no childish shadow upon my chamber wall.

My beauty is the talk of fools;
And by the gaslight's glare,

In glittering dress and gleaming gems,
I know that I am fair;

But there is something fairer,
Whose charm in loving lies,
And there is something dearer,

The light of happy eyes.

So I return triumphant queen of the brilliant ball,
To envy the sweet shadow of the housewife on the wall.

My earthly lot is rich and high,
And hers is poor and low;
Yet I would give my heritage
Her deeper joys to know;
For husbands that are lovers
Are rare in all the lands,
And hearts grow fit for heaven,
Moulded by childish hands;

And while I go up lonely, before the Judge of all,
A cherub troop will usher the shadow on the wall.

THE LITTLE PUZZLER.

"Do angels wear white dresses, say?
Always, or only in the summer? Do
Their birthdays have to come like mine, in May?
Do they have scarlet sashes then, or blue?

"When little Jessie died last night,

How could she walk to heaven - it is so far? How did she find the way without a light? There wasn't even any moon or star.

"Will she have red, or golden wings?
Then will she have to be a bird, and fly?
Do they take men like presidents and kings
In hearses with black plumes, clear to the sky?

"How old is God? Can he see yet?

Has he gray hair?
Where did he have to stay
Before you know he had made - anywhere?
Whom does he pray to, and what does he say?

"How many drops are in the sea?

How many stars? — well, then, you ought to know. How many flowers are on an apple-tree?

How does the wind look when it doesn't blow?

"Where does the rainbow end? And why

Did Captain Kidd - bury the gold there? When
Will this world burn? And will the firemen try
To put the fire out with the engines then?

"If you should ever die, may we

Have pumpkins growing in the garden, so

My fairy godmother can come for me

When there's a princes' ball, and let me go?

"Read Cinderella just once more

What makes men's other wives so mean?" I know That I was tired, it may be cross, before

I shut the painted book for her to go.

Hours later, from a child's white bed

I heard the timid, last queer question start:

"Mamma, are you

my stepmother? it said.

The innocent reproof crept to my heart.

SARAH M. B. PIATT.