portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side. Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave. The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door; We heed them not, for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more. We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought, We shall never hear them more! We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers; We will think of him in his heavenly home,—        In his heavenly home so fair; And we will trust with a hopeful trust        That we shall meet him there. 

  

       THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I.     

      IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still, I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill, Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill, Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."       And why should I whip him? Strange visitant, Has he been playing truant this long summer day? I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."       But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more; I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for. I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."       Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day, And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away? I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."       Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears, I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears. The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."       But what HAS poor Will done? I 

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