Apart he sat, content to wait

And beautifully live;

Unsaddened by long, lonely years

Of want, neglect, and wrong,

His soul to him a kingdom was,

Steadfast, serene, and strong.

Magnanimous and pure his life,

Tranquil its happy end;

Patience and peace his handmaids were,

Death an immortal friend.

For him no monuments need rise,

No laurels make his pall;

The mem'ry of the good and wise

Outshines, outlives them all.

The explanation of the following poem seems to give added color to it. Mr. Alcott had a habit of cutting his own hair—a feat that can certainly be called unusual!—and it was after one of these occasions that Miss Alcott picked up the curl and pasted it on the corner of the paper upon which the poem is written.

 Lines Written by Louisa M. Alcott

A LITTLE GREY CURL

A little grey curl from my father's head

I find unburned on the hearth,

And give it a place in my diary here,

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