Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid,
For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid
The flowers that blossom her pallet above,
Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love;
And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies
My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.

And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here
Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear
I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree
Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee,
While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,
To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.

DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.

I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,
Where the moonbeams love to loiter;
Watching the ripples come and go
And the willow trees their shadows throw
On the mystic, murm'ring water.

As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,
Where the pale rays glint and quiver
Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze
So softly swayed the willow trees,
And dappled the laughing river.

The waters murmured so low and sweet,
Then an echo, soft and clear,--
Not the sound of lute or song of bird,
But the sweetest music ever heard,
Fell on my enchanted ear.

The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!
And over the waters glancing
I saw, in the light, a pretty sight;
In an ecstasy of glad delight,
The ripples all were dancing.

 Prev. P 11/11