A NICE CORRESPONDENT.

Many may praise thee — praise mine as thine,
Many may love thee - I'll love them too:
But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true,
Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.

Mine! God, I thank thee that thou hast given
Something all mine on this side heaven;

Something as much myself to be
As this my soul which I lift to thee:
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,

Life of my life, whom thou dost make

Two to the world for the world's work's sake

But each unto each, as in thy sight, one.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

37

A Nice Correspondent.

'HE glow and the glory are plighted

THE

To darkness, for evening is come;

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted;
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy

Is summoned to dinner at Kew:

I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy, -
I'm thinking of you.

I wish you were here.

Were I duller

-Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color, –

Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!

I am wearing my lazuli necklace,

The necklace you fastened askew ! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,
The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true;
The master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.

To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning
The beacon; its magic still lures,
For up there you discoursed about Browning,
That stupid old Browning of yours.
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due ;
But, Fred, he 's not nearly so charming
A poet as you.

I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,

I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.

There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,—

I envy their owners, I do!

Small marvel that Fortune is making

Her idol of you.

Alas for the world, and its dearly

Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss!
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless miss;

But perhaps one is best with a measure
Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My dearest, to you.

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,

Your taste is for letters and art;

HER LETTER.

This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart.
Lay it by in a dainty deposit

Love, some day they 'll print it, because it

Was written to you.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

I

Her Letter.

'M sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance,

In a robe even you would admire,—
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue :
In short, sir, "the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs — for me yet.

They say he'll be rich, when he grows up,-
And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"

"And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And is n't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And are n't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

39

Well yes,

if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand;
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand, -
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soirée of the year,"

In the mists of a gaze de chambéry

-

And the hum of the smallest of talk, Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork";

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster

Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ;
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bed-clothes of snow; Of that ride, that to me was the rarest; Of the something you said at the gate: Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress

-

To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare

HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER."

Of fashion and beauty and money,

That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted highwater,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,
Whatever's the meaning of that, -
O, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night, here's the end of my paper;

Good-night, if the longitude please,

For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know, if you have n't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,

And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat.

4I

BRET HARTE.

His Answer to "Her Letter."

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES.

BEING asked by an intimate party,

Which the same I would term as a friend,

Which his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,

And has something gone wrong with his lung, –

Which is why it is proper and decent

I should write what he runs off his tongue :