OSEPH JEFFERSON

_May 4th_, 1898.--_To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I
found Joseph Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook,
casting the fly for trout. He said he had fished this very stream
three-and-forty years ago; and near by, in the Paradise Valley,
he wrote his famous play._--Leaf from my Diary.

We met on Nature's stage,
And May had set the scene,
With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks,
And violets blossoming over the banks,
While the brook ran full between.

The waters rang your call,
With frolicsome waves a-twinkle,--
They knew you as boy, and they knew you as man,
And every wave, as it merrily ran,
Cried, "Enter Rip van Winkle!"

THE MOCKING-BIRD

In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love,--
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.

THE EMPTY QUATRAIN

A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
The flowing curve of every jewelled line!
Look, turn it up or down, 'tis perfect still,--
But holds no drop of life's heart-warming wine.

PAN LEARNS MUSIC

FOR A SCULPTURE BY SARA GREENE

Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock,
Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock?
What are you making here? "Listen," said Pan,--
"Out of a river-reed music for man!"

THE SHEPHERD OF NYMPHS

The nymphs a shepherd took
To guard their snowy sheep;
He led them down along the brook,
And guided them with pipe and crook,
Until he fell asleep.

But when the piping stayed,
Across the flowery mead
The milk-white nymphs ran out afraid:
O Thyrsis, wake! Your flock has strayed,--
The nymphs a shepherd need.

ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY

I

STARLIGHT

With two bright eyes, my star, my love,
Thou lookest on the stars above:
Ah, would that I the heaven might be
With a million eyes to look on thee.

_Plato._

II

ROSELEAF

A little while the rose,
And after that the thorn;
An hour of dewy morn,
And then the glamour goes.
Ah, love in beauty born,
A little while the rose!

_Unknown._

III

PHOSPHOR--HESPER

O morning star, farewell!
My love I now must leave;
The hours of day I slowly tell,
And turn to her with the twilight bell,--
O welcome, star of eve!

_Meleager._

IV

SEASONS

Sweet in summer, cups