out its meaning, as you will perceive when the
arm you hold begins to tremble,--a circumstance like to occur, if you
happen to be a good-looking young fellow, and you two have the "stoop"
to yourselves.

We had it to ourselves that evening. The Koh-i-noor, as we called him,
was in a corner with our landlady's daughter. The young fellow John was
smoking out in the yard. The _gendarme_ was afraid of the evening air,
and kept inside. The young Marylander came to the door, looked out and
saw us walking together, gave his hat a pull over his forehead and
stalked off. I felt a slight spasm, as it were, in the arm I held, and
saw the girl's head turn over her shoulder for a second. What a kind
creature this is! She has no special interest in this youth, but she
does not like to see a young fellow going off because he feels as if he
were not wanted.

She had her locked drawing-book under her arm.--Let me take it,--I said.

She gave it to me to carry.

This is full of caricatures of all of us, I am sure,--said I.

She laughed, and said,--No,--not all of you.

I was there, of course?

Why, no,--she had never taken so much pains with me.

Then she would let me see the inside of it?

She would think of it.

Just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it
to me.--This unlocks my naughty book,--she said,--you shall see it. I am
not afraid of you.

I don't know whether the last words exactly pleased me. At any rate, I
took the book and hurried with it to my room. I opened it, and saw, in a
few glances, that I held the heart of Iris in my hand.

* * * * *

--I have no verses for you this month, except these few lines suggested
by the season.

MIDSUMMER.

Here! sweep these foolish leaves away,--
I will not crush my brains to-day!--
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!

Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef!
Its breath is heated;--I would swing
The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.

I hate these roses' feverish blood!--
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.

Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

--Who knows it not,--this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,--
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's see