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THE CHILDREN-(Continued)

O, God! From this crime of the ages,
We know as we never have known,
Thine infinite measure of mercy;

For still Thy forbearance is shown
To those who've offended Thy little ones,
And defied Thy commandments and Thee;
While Gomorrah makes laws for the nations,
And Sodom sits throned by the sea.

-CHARLES M. DICKINSON.

FROM "MANHATTAN”

HEY tear them down-the little homes

THE They

They cannot leave them long;

It is as if they robbed the world

Of every little song.

Turrets and towers leap in their places
When frantic Commerce calls;
And underneath Trade's ruthless hand
Each little homestead falls.

Too soon we lose them-little friends-
Too soon their faces go;

Not Time, but Man has crushed them all,
And laid their beauty low.

-CHARLES HANSON TOWNE.

CONTENTMENT

HAD my dream and so I lived content

A dream beneath the wide, kind sky of old— Out in the orchard where the soft winds bent The swaying branches, and strange stories told Of life within the far-off town of menMad music on the highway-and the gleam Of glory on life's firing line-and then I lived content because of such a dream.

I have my dream and so I live content-
A dream within the gray walls of the town
Of old-time orchard lanes-the fragrant scent
Of mignonette and roses-fields of brown
And golden harvest-the remembered glow
Of God's lost sunshine waning to the gleam
Of star-lit dusk, back home again—and so
I live content because of such a dream.

-GRANTLAND RICE.

D

AN ANGLER'S EPISTLE

EAR BROTHER Angler:

Not a fin

Appears enliquidate within

These local depths,—whether of trout
(False phantoms I begin to scout)
Or of the lordly land-locked salmon
Of whom they prate the merest gammon.
So, like my line, intransitive—

Fixed to no object-here I live,
Pent in hall bed-room nine by four

Or

vagrant on a vacuous shore.

If such delights your soul may stir You're not the man I thought you were. Though they are just as well for meArrear of tranquillity

As haling monsters to the pan

Or snarking old Leviathan.

And so I shall not play the lyre

Strung with mendacious telegraph wire
That you may cheer my solitude
While vainly questing finny food.

Ah, but I can't forbear a dream

Of Shinn Pond and of Hobart Stream,

AN ANGLER'S EPISTLE-(Continued)

And how if we were luring out
At every cast a lusty trout,

With partridge clucking in the bushes
And bull moose snorting in the rushes.

Alors, let's have some fishing yet!
Meanwhile do not your friend forget;
And may you ne'er slit letter awf'ler
Than this, from

-ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER.

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