Amid them all my slow feet wander lone,--
My heart cries hopeless for its perfect mate;
The fancies murmur and the longings moan
For thee whose absence leaves me desolate.

III.

Yet, somewhere, somehow, in the years that shine
With God's perfected wisdom throned above,
I know thou wait'st my coming, with divine
Enraptured welcomes of supremest love.

IV.

The Vision beckons, and I fix my gaze
Unchanging to the promise of the skies:
The full fruition of these lonely days
Dwells in the heaven of thine angel eyes!

V.

What matter, Dear, though dullard thousands throng
And jostle rudely at Life's holy feast?
The dull ears hear no tender strains of Song,
And they that know Love best know Love the least.

VI.

And still with yearning hands that longing grope
And straining eyes that search to pierce the doom,
I creep the path-ways of my only Hope,
And seek the Loved One passed beyond the Gloom!

When the Dollar Pounds the Door.

It's no matter how exclusive
Men may be in social ways,
And how uppishly their manners
Every one of them displays:
Born to home-spun or the purple,
Very rich or very poor,
They're at home to every caller
When the Dollar pounds the door!

They may dwell in stately mansions
With extensive yards and grounds;
They may run their automobiles
And play golf through all the rounds;
But within their mountain villas
Or resorts by ocean shore,
They're at home to every caller
When the Dollar pounds the door.

Whether in the humble station
Or the mighty seats of state,
Eating crusts to banish hunger
Or a-feast on fruits of fate,--
There's no one who's found forgetting
That great lesson taught of yore,
For they're home to every caller
When the Dollar pounds the door.

Mister Dollar, Mister Dollar!
You have such a winning way,
That I'd like you in the fam'ly
Every hour of every day!
And no matter where I'm staying,
Please break in with rush and roar
For I'm always glad to see you,
Mr. Dollar, at the door?

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"I've wunder'd through this vale of sunshine for about sev'nty years,"
said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he filled his Missouri meerschaum for the
twentieth time, "an' I never yit seen a feller thet amounted to shucks
who wuz