The lilies shone

Touched the baby and said, "Ah! plaze,
If it wudn't do them flowers no harm,
Childhren, will yiz give him wan

For the love o' God?"

The children started, an awe-struck band,
At the stranger pair.

Then the youngest ran, and with one bold twist

Of his firm little wrist

He wrenched a thick lily stem in two,

And put it, with all its blossoms fair,

In the beggar baby's hand.

"Ah! acushla," the woman said, "there's few

In this hard world like you.

I've a long, long way to thravel yet,
Beyond them high threes over there,
But I'll not forget

To pray for you and yours everywhere,
Never fear.

Good-evenin' an' God love ye, dear."

"She's gone," said Cissy; "how queer she spoke!" Whispered Dickie: "O Tom, you've broke The best lily: whatever shall you do

When gardener sees the empty space

There where it grew,

And father has to be told?"

"It was for the love of God, you see,

I did it,'

" said Tom: "so maybe He

Won't let them scold."

"We know now," said Will,

"There's world the other side of that hill."

T

EN ATTENDANT

HIS morning there were dazzling drifts of daisies in the meadow,

On sunny slopes the celandines were glittering like gold,

Across the bright and breezy world ran shifting shine

and shadow,

The wind blew warmly from the west.

changed and cold.

He's half an hour late,

While here I wait and wait.

Well, it is just my fate

Too plainly I can see,
He never cared for me.

How cruel men can be!

Now all is

I wish those daffodils out there would cease their

foolish flutter,

And keep their bobbing yellow heads for just a second

still.

My eyes ache so! Would some one please to partly close the shutter,

And move those hateful hyacinths from off the window-sill?

He's half an hour late,

No longer I shall wait.
Hark, there's the garden gate!

Love is this you at last?

Ah, do not be downcast·

I knew the clocks were fast.

There are more flowers I'm sure on the gorse than

there were

When last I came this way.

I think, perhaps, it is true

That as long as the flower's on the gorse,

Love is in season too.

But it must be true, of course;

And if not, why should I care?

The sky is shining blue;

The sparrows twitter anew

Of beginning to pair,

And we've passed the shortest day.

How the gorse will blaze

'Neath the flitting, rushing brightness of April days! In a glowing mass 'twill sweep down the bare hillside,

The golden overflow round the bank will glide

Where the dear blue violets hide,

And the careless sunshine strays.

Shall I be all alone?

Or will some one come to love me
When the white clouds race above me,
And the buttercups have grown?

Perhaps-ah! who can tell?

When the meadows flush with clover,

Perhaps I'll have a lover,

Perhaps he'll love me well.

All too surely the year

will wane,

And the fair gorse-gold will tarnish and dim,
But lonely eyes shall ne'er seek in vain
A fugitive flower 'twixt the thorns so grim
While love and hope remain.

Perhaps if I had-him,

And he was kind,

And called me gently by my name,
Perhaps I should not mind

Even when winter came,

And the dreary, dreary rain.

WHISPER!

YOU saucy south wind, setting all the budded beech boughs swinging

γου

Above the wood anemones that flutter, flushed and white,

When far across the wide salt waves your quick way you were winging,

Oh! tell me, tell me, did you pass my sweetheart's

ship last night?

Ah! let the daisies be,

South wind, and answer me:

Did you my sailor see?

Wind, whisper very low,

For none but you must know

I love my lover so.

You've come by many a gorsy hill, your breath has

sweetness in it,

You've ruffled up the high white clouds that fleck the shining blue;

You've rushed and danced and whirled, so now perhaps you'll spare a minute

To tell me whether you have seen my lover brave and true?

Wind, answer me, I pray,

I'm lonelier every day,

My love is far away;

And, sweet wind, whisper low,
For none but you must know
I love my lover so.