And, following where the teamsters
led,

The wise old Doctor went his round,
Just pausing at our door to say,
In the brief autocratic way
Of one who, prompt at Duty's call,
Was free to urge her claim on all,

That some poor neighbor sick abed At night our mother's aid would need. For, one in generous thought and deed, What mattered in the sufferer's sight The Quaker matron's inward light, The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? All hearts confess the saints elect

Who, twain in faith, in love agree, And melt not in an acid sect

The Christian pearl of charity !

So days went on a week had passed Since the great world was heard from last.

The Almanac we studied o'er,
Read and reread our little store,
Of books and pamphlets, scarce a

Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine The wars of David and the Jews. At last the floundering carrier bore The village paper to our door. Lo! broadening outward as we read, To warmer zones the horizon spread; In panoramic length unrolled We saw the marvels that it told. Before us passed the painted Creeks, And daft McGregor on his raids In Costa Rica's everglades. And up Taygetos winding slow Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, A Turk's head at each saddle-bow ! Welcome to us its week-old news, Its corner for the rustic Muse,

Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, Its record, mingling in a breath The wedding knell and dirge of death; Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, The latest culprit sent to jail; Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, Its vendue sales and goods at cost,

And traffic calling loud for gain. We felt the stir of hall and street, The pulse of life that round us beat; The chill embargo of the snow Was melted in the genial glow; Wide swung again our ice-locked door, And all the world was ours once more!

Clasp, Angel of the backward look

And folded wings of ashen gray And voice of echoes far away, The brazen covers of thy book; The weird palimpsest old and vast, Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; Where, closely mingling, pale and glow The characters of joy and woe: The monographs of outlived years, Or smile-illumed or dim with tears,

Green hills of life that slope to death, And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees Shade off to mournful cypresses

With the white amaranths under

neath.

Even while I look, I can but heed

The restless sands' incessant fall, Importunate hours that hours succeed, Each clamorous with its own sharp need,

And duty keeping pace with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; I hear again the voice that bids