And challenged time with its measured stroke. But Phoebe's mind was on none of these:        The bread in the oven, her good aunt's frown, And the scene before her faded away, And blended with thoughts of Reuben Brown:       How they walked together on summer days, Or bravely faced the winter's chill, And chatted merrily all the way To the little school-house on Sligo Hill. How both grew older, and school-days passed, When he was a youth, and a maiden she; How often she went with Reuben Brown To the rustic dance or the social bee. The warm flush deepened on Phoebe's cheek, And she breathed a low, half-conscious sigh;      "Ah, well-a-day! they were happy times, But he has forgotten, and so must I."       So Phoebe gathered her knitting up, Which, while she was thinking, had fallen down, When her quick ear caught a strange footfall, And there in the doorway stood Reuben Brown, With the same frank, handsome face she knew, A smile as bright, and an eye as black—      "Phoebe," he said, "I have wandered far; Are you glad to see your playmate back?"       The kitten still purred on the kitchen hearth, And the ancient clock, with its frame of oak, In the corner stood, like a sentinel, And challenged time with its measured stroke. A pleased light shone in the maiden's eyes; Ah, love, young love, it is very sweet! Reuben had gone, but she sat quite still, And the knitting lay untouched at her feet. Just then the dame came bustling in, And went to the oven without ado.      "Why, Phoebe, child, what have you done? The bread is baked as black as my shoe!"       And Phoebe started, and blushed for shame, Took up her knitting and dropped it down; And when her aunt said, "What ails you, child?"        She hastily answered, "Reuben Brown."       Ah, love! young love! it is very sweet, In field, or hamlet, or crowded mart; But it burns with the brightest, purest flame In the hidden depths of a young maid's heart. 

  

       THE LOST HEART.     

        One golden summer day, Along the forest-way, Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert. His locks with careless grace Rimmed round his handsome face And drifted outward on the airy surge. So blithe of heart was he, He hummed a melody, And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing. Across his shoulders flung His bow and baldric hung:      So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the 

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