eside me here, if I can
reach them, I will drench the coverlet in them; it shall be white and
sweet as a little child's. I wish they were the great rich lilies of
that day; it is too late for the baby May-flowers. You do not like
amber? There the thread breaks again! the little cruel gods go tumbling
down the floor! Come, lay my head on your breast! kiss my life off my
lips! I am your Yone! I forgot a little while,--but I love you, Rose!
Rose!

* * * * *

Why! I thought arms held me. How clear the space is! The wind from
out-doors, rising again, must have rushed in. There is the quarter
striking. How free I am! No one here? No swarm of souls about me? Oh,
those two faces looked from a great mist, a moment since; I scarcely see
them now. Drop, mask! I will not pick you up! Out, out into the gale!
back to my elements!

So I passed out of the room, down the staircase. The servants below did
not see me, but the hounds crouched and whined. I paused before the
great ebony clock; again the fountain broke, and it chimed the
half-hour; it was half-past one; another quarter, and the next time its
ponderous silver hammers woke the house it would be two. Half-past one?
Why, then, did not the hands move? Why cling fixed on a point five
minutes before the first quarter struck? To and fro, soundless and
purposeless, swung the long pendulum. And, ah! what was this thing I had
become? I had done with time. Not for me the hands moved on their
recurrent circle any more.

I must have died at ten minutes past one.

THE POET'S FRIENDS.

The Robin sings in the elm;
The cattle stand beneath,
Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes,
And fragrant meadow-breath.

They listen to the flattered bird,
The wise-looking, stupid things!
And they never understand a word
Of all the Robin sings.

THE MEMORIAL OF A. B., OR MATILDA MUFFIN.

THE MEMORIAL OF A. B.

_Humbly Showeth_:--

Ladies and gentlemen,--enlightened public,--kind audience,--dear
readers,--or whatever else you may be styled,--whose eyes, from remote
regions of east, west, or next door, solace themselves between the brown
covers of this magazine, making of themselves flowers to its lunar
brilliancy,--I wish to state, with all humility and self-disgust, that I
am what is popularly called a literary woman.

In the present state of society, I should feel less shame in declaring
myself the