Whistling in his casement,

And the rain drip thro'.

[Pg 6]

He thinks of his old Bettie,

How she'd shake her head and say,

'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue

Could scold—some day,'

But as in pale high autumn skies

The swallows float and play,

His restless thoughts pass to and fro,

But nowhere stay.

Soft, on the morrow, they are gone;

His garden then will be

Denser and shadier and greener,

Greener the moss-grown tree.

[Pg 7]

[Pg 7]

MISS LOO

When thin-strewn memory I look through,

I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,

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