Those two gate-way sycamores you see Those two gate-way sycamores you see. There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; There's the orchard where we used to climb! There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails, In the crops of buckwheat we were raising, There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. How in summer have I traced that stream, There through mead and woodland sweetly gliding, Luring simple trout with many a scheme From the nooks where I have found them hiding; All a dream! How in summer have I traced that stream. There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond, and river still serenely flowing; Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, Where the lily of my heart was blowing, MARY JANE! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain! There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable: But, alas! the morn shall no more bring That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing! I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled; Yon green meadow was our place for playing; I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled! Yon white spire--a pencil on the sky, So familiar to my dim old eye, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. There my Mary blest me with her hand, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: There my Mary blest me with her hand. I have come to see that grave once more, I have come to see that grave once more. Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade, I, all withering with years, shall perish; Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade. Angel, said he sadly, I am old! Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow,— Down it rolled; Angel, said he sadly, I am old! By the way-side, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; By the way-side, on a mossy stone. Henry William Herbert. BORN in London, England, 1807. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1858. COME BACK. [By permission of Mrs. Margaret Herbert Mather.-Poems of Frank Forester. Collected and Edited by Morgan Herbert. A Memorial Volume. 1887.] COME back and bring my life again That went with thee beyond my will! Thine absence leaves the blank of death. The light is darkness, if thine eyes I see no star in evening skies, Save thou look up and point the way. There are two paths for human feet-- The one will right and reason urge, But thou must walk beside me there, Or else I tread the dizzy verge, And thou some guilt of loss must bear. Come back, there is no cause on earth- And sunder bonds once firm and strong. That, velvet-gloved-an iron band Upon my heart-strings crushed and closed- Days seem like ages-and, ere long, On senseless ears the cry may fall; Come back! before the eyes grow dim That keep but sight to see thee come, Ere fail and falter hand and limb, Whose strength but waits to fold thee home. JUS A GOOD FEED, DULY DEFENDED. [My Shooting Box. By Frank Forester. 1846.] UST as Forester stood up, not a little nettled, Timothy threw the door open, and said, "T' dinner's upon t' teable, please sur." And thereupon Frank's face relaxed into a mild and placid smile, and drawing Tom's arm under his own, "Allow me the honor," he said, "Mistress Draw, to hand you in to dinner." "No you don't, little wax-skin-no you don't-not through that door no how, we'd git stuck there, boy,-and they'd niver pull us out; and we'd starve likely with the smell o' the dinner in our noses, and the champagne a bustin' under our eyes out o' the very bottles to be drinked, and us not there to drink it. No, no, we'll run no resks now." And with the words they passed into the dining-room, arranged as on the previous evening except that, for two covers, four were now laid on the white damask cloth, and that a pair of tall silver wine-coolers occupied the centre of the table with the long necks of hock and champagne flasks protruding. At the left of each guest stood a pint decanter of delicate strawcolored sherry; and at his right, four glasses, a long stalked beaker of, old-fashioned Venice crystal, a green German hock-glass embossed with grapes and vine leaves, a thin capacious sherry-glass with a curled lip so slender that it almost bent as you drank from it, and a slim-shanked shallow goblet for Bourdeaux or Burgundy. There was but one comestible, however, on the table, a deep silver tureen, with a most savory and game-like odor exuding from the chinks of its rich cover. "I would have given you some raw natives to begin with," said Harry, "knowing how much Tom likes them, but we can't get the crustaceous bivalves up hither with distinguished success, until the frost sets in." "I'm right glad on't, by the Etarnal!" exclaimed Tom, "nasty, cold, chillin', watery trash! jist blowin' out your innards for no good, afore you git to the grist o' dinner-what kind o' soup's that, Timothy?" "A soup of my own invention "-answered Harry-" and the best soup in the world me judice.-Strong venison soup, made as we make hare soup at home-a good rich stock to begin with, about ten pounds of the lean from the haunch brayed down into the pottage, about a dozen cloves and a pint of port, and, to conclude, the scrag of the neck eut into bits two inches square, done brown in a covered stew-pan, and thrown in with a few forced-meat balls when the soup is ready. You can add, if you please, a squeeze of a lemon and a dash of cayenne, which I think improve it. It is piping hot; and not bad I think.” "I have tasted something of the kind in the Highlands, at Blair of Athole," said Frank Forester. "I have not," replied Harry. "The Scotch venison soup is made clear, and though a capital thing, I like this purée better." "So do I, Harry," said Fred Heneage-" and I should think by the gusto with which you speak of it, that you not only invented, but made it." "You'd think just about right, then," answered Tom, as he thrust out his plate for a second ladleful. "He and I did make the first bowl of it, as iver was made. And it tuk us a week-yes, a fortnight I guess, before we got it jest right. I will say that for Harry! the darned critter is about as good at bringing game up right on the table as he is at bringing them down right in the field." "Yes! and for that very thing I have been assailed," said Harry laughing, "as lacking the true spirit of a sportsman, as not enjoying the thing in its high ennobling spirit, as not a pure worshipper in heart and intellectual love of the divine Artemis, but a mere sensualist and glutton, making my belly a god, and degrading my good gun into a mere tool for the slaves of Epicurus!" "Treason! high treason! name the rash man! hold him up bodily to our indignation!" "First let us drink!—That pale sherry is delicate and very dry. Will you have champagne, Tom ?—No-very well-Here is a health then to C. E., of the 'Buffalo Patriot."" "C. E. -Who the devil is C. E.?"-cried all three in a breath. "Alias J. B." And who then is J. B.?" "The man wot stabbed me in the tenderest part-which he, I suppose, would say is my abdomen." "I am gravely in earnest, when I say that he taxed me seriously, though sportively, with all that I have stated.-He said that, in my admiration of good things, in dwelling on the melting richness of a wood-duck, or the spicy game flavor of a grouse, in preferring a silver |