and pitiless will weave a tale for eyes more pitiless to read. Back, Stygian ghoul! Death's on me now. I feel his rattle in my throat! My limbs are blocks of ice! My heart has tuned it with the muffled dead-march drum! A jar of crashing worlds is in my ears! A drowsy faintness creeps upon—— 

    The seal is broken, the mystery tell; You have read the letters, what do they tell? Do they tell you the story they told that day To me, in the Mission old and gray—         The Mission Carmel at Monterey? 

 

     WASTED HOURS. 

If that thy hand with heart-will sought, To work with Christ-love underlying, But ere thou hadst accomplished aught Time passed thee by while vainly trying, The wasted hour, the vain endeavor, Will wait thee in the far forever. 

If thou hadst toiled from dawn till eve, But felt no thrill of joy in giving No heart made glad, no want relieved, Lived but for selfish love of living, Though idle hours went by thee never, The hours are lost to thee forever. 

 

     ROCKING THE BABY. 

I hear her rocking the baby—   Her room is just next to mine— And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms That round her neck entwine, As she rocks, and rocks the baby, In the room just next to mine. I hear her rocking the baby Each day when the twilight comes, And I know there's a world of blessing and love In the "baby bye" she hums. I can see the restless fingers Playing with "mamma's rings," And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth, That to hers in kissing clings, As she rocks and sings to the baby, And dreams as she rocks and sings. 

I hear her rocking the baby, Slower and slower now, And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss   On its eyes, and cheek, and brow From her rocking, rocking, rocking, I wonder would she start, Could she know, through the wall between us, She is rocking on a heart. While my empty arms are aching For a form they may not press And my emptier heart is breaking In its desolate loneliness I list to the rocking, rocking, In the room just next to mine, And breathe a prayer in silence, At a mother's broken shrine, For the woman who rocks her baby In the room just next to mine. 

 

     "I DON'T CARE." 

"I don't care," we hear it oft And 

 Prev. P 13/38 next