, sezee."

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story
had been told.

"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den
agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,--some
say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."

FOOTNOTE:

[42] By permission of D. Appleton & Co, N. Y.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

~1850=----.~

ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but
removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to
landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the
New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and
have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and
fancy.

WORKS.

Life And Love: Poems.

FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.

(_From Life and Love._[43])

Hail! daughter of the sun!
White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,
Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath
A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star--
Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay!
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain:
For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain--
He is the same alway.
This god in burnished tinsel, as of old,
Cares for no music save of clinking gold--
All else to him is vain:
His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead;
A crown of care he bringeth for thy head,
And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh goddess, stay!
Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree
Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee;
The jasmine's starry spray
Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies
In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise
Thy day, which fadeth not:
There--patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine,
There--hearts devoted, make thy name divine,
Their own hard fate forgot.

DEDICATION.--SONNET.

TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.

The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,
And we were plucking violets--thou and I.
A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;
Thy fad