Just they two and no others. The next day they were wed! The people were astonished-as the monks were. Then

'twas said

She was the deepest woman since the days of mother Eve; That she went a very subtle way about it to deceive.

And then the crop had sprouted! The little green leaves sprang,

Till 'twas like notes writ for music, whose tune the cuckoo sang.

The monks they came inspecting. How strange!-'twas very plain

The pair had sown not wheat, nor rye, nor any other grain. But yet 'twas sure to ripen, so what was it to them?

They grinned and drank delicious wine which no one could condemn.

They waited and they waited; the crop it grew and grew, And yet it would not ripen,-such a crop they never knew. They waited and they waited; the crop grew on, you see, And the Burgomaster's daughter had three children at her knee.

They waited and they waited; Friar Albrecht died in need, But the crop it never ripened, though the cuckoo sang its Lied. They waited and they waited; the Graf Schlebüsch grew old, And the Burgomaster's daughter had a grandson, I am told. They waited and they waited; but the crop was never ripe, It grew high as the cloister, and the cuckoo high did pipe. They waited and they waited; Graf Schlebüsch died of age, And the Burgomaster's daughter slept beside him. In a rage The monk who had been youngest now waited, old, alone; But the crop it never ripened, its bloom was never done.

The cloister it has crumbled down to dust and memory, There are no monks where many were, and all is sad to see, Yet two blades of the crop still rise, not ripe, though weak with rime,

And the cuckoo sings the song's last notes,

slow time.

Do, La, Do, La.

Would you ask me what the seed was which the lovers sowed that morn,

Which the Burgomaster's daughter had suggested in her scorn?

Can you not guess? This strange crop, which to ripen took so long,

Was a grove of oaks, the last two soon to fall and end the song.

ON THE BEACH.-WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

Written Expressly for this Collection.

The sun is low, as ocean's flow Heaves to the strand in breakers white; And sea-birds seek their wild retreat Where cliffs reflect the fading light.

The billow gleams in parting beams, And sighs upon the lonely shore;

Whilst childhood stands upon the sands To greet the coming fisher's oar.

Swift to my heart the waves impart Another dream of restless life;

As some proud mind the fierce fates bind,

Or doom to vain and endless strife.

The moon is up; from her silvery cup She pours libations o'er the deep;

And stars relight the wastes of night, Where'er careering waters sweep.

The waves are bright with peace to-night, And gladly bound 'neath summer's reign; I tread the verge of the shelving surge, To muse upon its wild refrain.

O deep! thy winds, in murmuring chimes Sweet to my ear, my love implore;

Thou dost enthral with siren call, And tempt me from thy peaceful shore!

Yes, o'er thy graves, thy heaving waves,

A stern delight with danger dwells;

There's buoyant life amid thy strife,

And rapture in thy lonely dells.

E'en in thy wrath, thy surging path

Hath peril's joy beyond thy shores!
Amid the glare of thy despair,

The soul above thy terror soars.

But 'neath thy smile there's death and wile,

The dark abyss, the waiting grave!

Thy surges close o'er human woes

On distant strand, in secret cave!

Insatiate sea! oh, where is she
Who trod in love thy gathered sands?

Thou gavest her back as wreck and wrack,
Pallid, to sad, imploring hands!

And where is he, O sea! O sea!
Who dared thy treacherous crests to ride?
The quick command, the hastening hand,
Were vain to rescue from thy tide!

Yet not in woe the plaint should go
Against thee for the storm's behest;

Thou'rt but the slave when wild winds rave

And tyrant tempests lash thy breast.

Doomed in thy keep the fates to meet,

Thou dost obey a mightier wrath!

Imperious sway commands thy way,

And riots in its reckless path.

Shall time's swift flight e'er stay thy might
That dooms us to thy caves unblest?

Or God's right arm thy tides disarm,
And soothe to peace thy long unrest?

No! still thy waves with moaning staves
Shall heave thy gray sands to the shore,
And thou shalt roll o'er depth and shoal
Forever and forevermore!

THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT. A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book, the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then taking it under his arm he started for the train, which takes him to his office in the city.

Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning.

When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said: "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope." 'Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."

"It wasn't a "she" at all; it was a gentleman,—a book-agent."

"A what?"

"A book-agent, and, to get rid of his importuning I bought his book, the Early Christian Martyrs,' see, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing towards her husband. "I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly. "Why, husband?" asked his wife.

"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book-two copies of the Early Christian Martyrs' and

I could kill the fellow. I "

Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.

"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.

66

Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!" "All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.

Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted "All aboard!"

"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped

on the train." Book-agent! hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants; he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"

"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent as he reached for the money and passed the book out the car-window.

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.

"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens; "just got it and that's all."

"Got what?" yelled Watson.

"Why, I got the book-Early Christian Martyrs,' and paid

"By-the-great-guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hand to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.

THE SMACK "OUT" OF SCHOOL.

The sun shone in through waving boughs
Of elm-trees by the door,

Across the row of feet that toed

The chalk-mark on the floor.
Down at the foot of that long line
Of spellers, standing there,
Was Allan Deane, with quiet face
Framed round with stiff tow-hair.

The fair young teacher called this boy
"The dunce of Wheaton school;"

But Allan's wits, though slow, were keen,
And since to Lawyer Poole

This same fair teacher gave a kiss,

So slyly, as she thought,