GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BRET HARte.

Two low whistles, quaint and clear,
That was the signal the engineer—

That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said
Gave to his wife at Providence,

As through the sleeping town, and thence,
Out in the night,

On to the light,

Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,
Yet to the woman looking out,

Watching and waiting, no serenade,
Love song or midnight roundelay,
Said what that whistle seemed to say:
"To my trust true,

So, love, to you!

Working or waiting, Good night!” it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,

Old commuters along the line,

Brakemen and porters, glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,

Pierced through the shadows of Providence — "Nothing amiss —

Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and Winter, the old refrain

Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain,

Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead,
Flew down the track when the red leaves burned
Like living coals from the engine spurned;
Sang as it flew :

"To our trust true,

First of all Duty -Good night," it said.

And then, one night, it was heard no more,
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore,

And the folk in Providence smiled and said,
As they turned in their beds, "The engineer
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."
One only knew

To his trust true

Guild lay under his engine, dead.

JAFFAR: AN EASTERN TRADITION.

LEIGH HUNT.

JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good vizier,

The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust!
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
Ordained that no man living, from that day,
Should dare to speak his name, on pain of death: -
All Araby and Persia held their breath.

All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,

And facing death for very scorn and grief

(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad daily in the square,
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar

On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

66

Bring me the man!" the caliph cried.

The man

Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began

To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords!" cried he;

"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;

From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self- How can I pay Jaffar?"

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great,
And said: "Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go; and, since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."

"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took; and, holding it High toward the heaven, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"

THE HERMIT.

GEORGE ELIOT.

THERE was a holy hermit
Who counted all things loss
For Christ his Master's glory:
He made an ivory cross,
And as he knelt before it,
And wept his murdered Lord,

The ivory turned to iron,

The cross became a sword.

The tears that fell upon it,

They turned to red, red rust,
The tears that fell from off it
Made writing in the dust.
The holy hermit, gazing,

Saw words upon the ground:

"The sword be red forever

With the blood of false Mahound."

TIRED MOTHERS.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee, that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing over much, You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft, and tenderly,

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee;
This restless, curling head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging at their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor;

If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more;