ind came out of the sweet-breathed South,
And said: "I carry her call to thee;
She waits with songs in her mellow mouth,--
She waits, and her lips like the corals be!
She waits with embraces of long delights,
And eyes that utter a language fine,--
There, there, in the aisles of the romping nights,
She waits for the call of her Valentine."
O, call of this world to the world that dreams,--
Sweet call of the Near to the Soul Afar,--
Beyond the shadows of earth's cold themes,
There's one that waits where the love lights are!
There's one that waits with her cheeks aglow,
And eyes earth-round with a fearless shine,
And Near and Far with their linked hands go
To mate with the fate of their Valentine!
Little Sermons.
There is more religion in a home full of bread and butter than a hotel
full of canvas-back and terrapin.
If the Lord sends a tin-cup full of happiness, don't spend your time
upbraiding Him for not supplying a ship-load.
Some people are so unreasonable that if the Lord sent them a turkey they
would raise a row because he didn't furnish a barrel of cranberries,
too.
A Valentine.
Don't you dare to tell me
Love is old and gray!
He's as young and rosy
As the blooms of May!
Don't you dare to tell me
Love is wed with wrong!
All his deeds are holy
With the smiles of song!
Don't you dare to tell me
Love is only strife!
Hands of his shall lead us
To the perfect life!
Love and hope with happy
Feet shall scale the sky,
Through the dismal shadows
To the bye and bye!
Its Principal Work.
"Has the Legislature done much?" inquired one anxious citizen of
another.
"No, not much," was the answer. "Its principal act was to pass a bill
repealing Ground Hog day, but they fear the Governor will veto it."
Life's Way.
When the heart grows weary
Of the storm and strife,
Don't you worry, dearie,
'Tis the way of life!
'Tis the way we wander
Through the world of wrong;
Sorrow makes us fonder
Of the smile and song.
Don't you weep or weary
At the storm and strife:
Love shall lead us, dearie,
Through this tangled life!
Caught on the Fly.
Some one's contrariness is responsible for nine-tenths of life's
tragedies.
Popularity is an ice-box where men are preserved in cold storag
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