ffections of many
mature as well as younger readers. Besides these books, Mr. Aldrich has
published a collection of short descriptive, reminiscent, and
half-historic papers on Portsmouth,--'An Old Town by the Sea'; with a
second volume of short stories entitled 'Two Bites at a Cherry.' The
character-drawing in his fiction is clear-cut and effective, often
sympathetic, and nearly always suffused with an agreeable coloring of
humor. There are notes of pathos, too, in some of his tales; and it is
the blending of these qualities, through the medium of a lucid and
delightful style, that defines his pleasing quality in prose.

[The following selections are copyrighted, and are reprinted by
permission of the author, and Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers.]

DESTINY

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
Drooped in a florist's window in a town.

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.

The second rose, as virginal and fair,
Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

IDENTITY

Somewhere--in desolate wind-swept space--
In Twilight-land--in No-man's land--
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" cried one, agape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
"I know not," said the second Shape,
"I only died last night!"

PRESCIENCE

The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west,
And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest--
Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over:
The light winds wandered by, and robins chirped from the nest.

And lo! in the meadow sweet was the grave of a little child,
With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild--
Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over:
Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled.

Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me,
And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see:
Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing--
Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be!

ALEC YEATON'S SON

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720

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