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And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;

But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it !"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,

That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.

Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!

For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course;

We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;

And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see

This dear little box-and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;

And he'll put what I tell him on it-yes, every single word!

I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;

She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

Margaret Vandegrift.


THE great wide gates swung open,
The music softly sounded,

And loving hands were heaping the soldier's graves with flowers;

With pansies, pinks, and roses,

And pure, gold-hearted lilies,

The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the springtime bowers.

When down the walk came tripping
A wee, bareheaded girlie,

Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet;

Her small brown hands were crowded

With dandelions yellow,

The gallant, merry blossom that children love to


Oh, many smiled to see her,

That dimple-cheeked, wee baby,

Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound;

And, pausing oft an instant,

Let fall from out her treasures

A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.

The music died in silence,
A robin ceased its singing;

And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper


So sweet, so clear, and solemn,

That smiles gave place to tear-drops:

"Nan loves 'oo darlin' soldier; an' here's a f'ower for 'oo."


TRINITY bells with their hollow lungs,

And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, Over the roofs of the city pour

Their Easter music with joyous roar,

Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled,
As he swings along in his path of gold.
"Dearest papa," says my boy to me,
As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee,
"Why are these eggs that you see me hold
Colored so finely with blue and gold?
And what is the wonderful bird that lays
Such beautiful eggs on Easter days ?"

"You have heard, my boy, of Him who died,
Crowned with keen thorns, and crucified;
And how Joseph the wealthy-whom God reward-
Cared for the corpse of the martyred Lord,
And piously tombed it within the rock,
And closed the gate with a mighty block.

"Now, close by the tomb a fair tree grew,
With pendulous leaves and blossoms of blue;
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast
A beautiful singing-bird sat on her nest,
Which was bordered with mosses like malachite,
And held four eggs of an ivory white,

"Now, when the bird from her dim recess
Beheld the Lord in His burial dress,
And looked on the heavenly face so pale,
And the dear feet pierced with the cruel nail,
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang,
And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang.

"All night long till the moon was up,
She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup,-
A song of sorrow as wild and shrill

As the homeless wind when it roams the hill;
So full of fears, so loud and long,
That the grief of the world seemed turned to song.

"But soon there came through the weeping night
A glimmering angel clothed in white;
And he rolled the stone from the tomb away,
Where the Lord of the earth and heavens lay;
And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom,
And in living lustre came from the tomb.

"Now, the bird that sang in the heart of the tree Beheld this celestial mystery;

And its heart was filled with sweet delight,
And it poured a song on the throbbing night.
Notes climbed on notes, till higher, higher,
They shot to heaven like spears of fire.

"When the glittering, white-robed angel heard
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird,
And heard the following chant of mirth
That hailed Christ risen again on earth,
He said, 'Sweet bird, be forever blest,-
Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed nest!"

"And ever, my child, since that blessed night,
When death bowed down the Lord of light,
The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue,
And burn with red and gold and blue;
Reminding mankind in their simple way,
Of the holy marvel of Easter Day."

Fitz-James O'Brien


A SCULPTOR knelt on the hard oak floor,
With mallet and chisel he wrought;
To cut from a shapeless mass of stone
A god-like image he sought,

Hour after hour at his work he toiled,
Nor rose from the oaken floor;

Scarce heeding the presence of those who came
To look in at the open door.

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