DISCONTENT-(Continued)

He'd like a fifty-cent cigar,

A butler and a private car,

Champagne, and a soft bed, at night.
-It seems to me that Hadj is right.

-JULIAN STREET.

BEYOND

A DARKENING sky and a whitening sea

And the winds in the pine trees tall!

Soon or late comes the call for me

Then let me lie where I fall.

And a friend may write, for friends there be,
On a rock from the black sea wall,

"Jungle and town and reef and sea,

I have loved God's earth and God's earth loved

me,

Take it for all in all."

-DAVID STARR JORDAN.

SING

DESTINY

INCE Bethlehem's Child was born
And angels sang their song,

There is no manger so forlorn
Men dare to say, "It holds a wrong.'

From out that manger came our God.
From ooze of swamp the lily springs.
There is no high nor lowly sod,
"Tis sacred soil where love begins.

Let us beware how we pass by
That which we think is evil fate.
Within the vision of His Eye

That child may be the future State.

-THOMAS R. MARSHALL.

(Vice-President.)

Lines suggested during the Reunion of the Veterans at Gettysburg, 1912, when standing in the barn that had served as a hospital, at which the author attended the wounded of both armies.

THE GETTYSBURG REUNION

THE

What love of Country bids us heed, That from this strife shall spring the seed Of Reunion in thought and deed.

East, West and North shall stand as shield,
With Southern men on Battlefield,
When called upon their arms to wield,
No Alien Foe shall make them yield.

-SIMON BARUCH, M.D.

PRAIRIE MEMORIES

MEMORY, what conjury is thine!

Once more the sun shines on the wheat,
Once more I drink the wind like wine,
When bursts the lark's song wildly sweet-
From out the rain-wet, new-mown grass;
I hear the sickle's clattering sweep-
And peals of laughter lightly pass
From lip to lip; again heap

The odorous windrows rank by rank.
Silent the tumult of the street

From granite pavements ceaseless clank,
From grinding hooves and jar of car
I flee and lave my boyish feet
Where bee-lodged clover blossoms are!

-HAMLIN GARLAND.

I

SWEET SAINT CHARITY

cannot do what you propose: because e'en what I write in prose they say could scarce be worse. Did I essay a lyre to use, I'm very sure my limping muse would make no limpid

verse.

I'm not averse, you understand, to give the bairns a helping hand for needed milk and nurses; but by experience I've learned that love, so far as I'm concerned, can't be expressed in

verses.

You may, however, in due time, expect a check not writ in rhyme, for "Sweet Saint Charity"; and with it this enheartening word, "Who helps my bairnies, saith the Lord, hath done it unto me.".

-REV. DAVID J. BURRELL.