l welcome her glad appearing,
And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,
When my ship comes in.

_Robert Jones Burdette._

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you,
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer,
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shirk from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,
There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisle of pain.

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

Sin of the Coppenter Man

The coppenter man said a wicked word,
When he hitted his thumb one day,
En I know what it was, because I heard,
En it's somethin' I dassent say.

He growed us a house with rooms inside it,
En the rooms is full of floors
It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it,
It was nothin' but just outdoors.

En they planted stones in a hole for seeds,
En that's how the house began,
But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds,
Except for the coppenter man.

En the coppenter man took a board and said
He'd skin it and make some curls,
En I hung 'em onto my ears en head,
En they make me look like girls.

En he squinted along one side, he did,
En he squinted the other side twice,
En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"
'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.

But the coppenter man said a wicked word,
When he hitted 'his thumb that day;
He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard,
En it's something I dassent say.

En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad,
When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!
En there'd be no coppenter men to be had,
If it wasn't for words like that.

_Edmund Vance Cooke_.

The Bells of Ostend

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!
The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,
And rung as it passed through each murm