ray,
Its silvery kiss imprinting,
All dew-bedecked each flower and spray
Like myriad jewels glinting.

III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound
Of music sweet--entrancing--
'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound,
Where love-lit eyes were glancing.

IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin
There dulcet notes were blending,
And strains divine from a violin
In harmony ascending.

V.

Enraptured by the magic spell,
I lingering stood, and listening,
It seemed to me that I could tell
What love to her was whispering.

* * * * *

VI.

I looked above and chanced to see
The man in the moon was scowling,
For they had struck up "Sweet Marie,"
And the old watch-dog was howling!

"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew,
And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,
If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew,
Who greets you with the chestnut phrase--
"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top--
The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop--
I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too,
If it wasn't for the cuss who says--
"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass--
The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass--
The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew--
If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks
"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

THE TOKEN.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
Tied with a ribbon blue,
Laid by the hand of a mother there--
Cherished with love so true!

II.

Only a soft and silken curl,
Bound with a knotted bow;
Worn on the head of a little girl
Lost in the long-ago.

III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept
From the grave's decay and mold,
Over which her eyes have wept
With anguish all untold!

IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
By Death's cold hand unbroken,
Which leads to where she'll meet again
The wearer of this token.

V.

Only a relic undefiled,
Enshrined in a broken heart--
Rent in twain when a darling child
And a loving mother part!

VI.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
Tied with a ribbon blue,
Clipped from the head of an angel fair,
Whose hands are beckoning you!

T