duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

_John G. Whittier._

Sister and I

We were hunting for wintergreen berries,
One May-day, long gone by,
Out on the rocky cliff's edge,
Little sister and I.
Sister had hair like the sunbeams;
Black as a crow's wing, mine;
Sister had blue, dove's eyes;
Wicked, black eyes are mine.
Why, see how my eyes are faded--
And my hair, it is white as snow!
And thin, too! don't you see it is?
I tear it sometimes; so!
There, don't hold my hands, Maggie,
I don't feel like tearing it now;
But--where was I in my story?
Oh, I was telling you how
We were looking for wintergreen berries;
'Twas one bright morning in May,
And the moss-grown rocks were slippery
With the rains of yesterday.
But I was cross that morning,
Though the sun shone ever so bright--
And when sister found the most berries,
I was angry enough to fight!
And when she laughed at my pouting--
We were little things, you know--
I clinched my little fist up tight,
And struck her the biggest blow!
I struck her--I tell you--I struck her,
And she fell right over below--
There, there, Maggie, I won't rave now;
You needn't hold me so--
She went right over, I tell you,
Down, down to the depths below!
'Tis deep and dark and horrid
There where the waters flow!
She fell right over, moaning,
"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad,
That, when I looked down affrighted,
It drove me _mad--mad_!
Only her golden hair streaming
Out on the rippling wave,
Only her little hand reaching
Up, for someone to save;
And she sank down in the darkness,
I never saw her again,
And this is a chaos of blackness
And darkness and grief since then.
No more playing together
Down on the pebbly strand;
Nor building our dolls stone castles
With halls and parlors grand;
No more fishing with bent pins,
In the little brook's clear waves;
No more holding funerals
O'er dead canaries' graves;
No more walking together
To the log schoolhouse each m