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I feel to-day as if I'd give it all,
Provided I through fifty years might reach
And kill and bury that half-minute speech.

She handed back no words, as I could hear; She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear;

Half proud, half crush'd, she stood and look'd me o'er,
Like some one she had never seen before!

But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise
I never view'd before in human eyes.

(I've seen it oft enough since in a dream;

It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.)

Next morning, when, stone-faced but heavy-hearted, With dinner-pail and sharpen'd axe I started Away for my day's work, she watch'd the door,

And follow'd me half-way to it or more;

And I was just a-turning round at this,
And asking for my usual good-by kiss;
But on her lip I saw a proudish curve,
And in her eye a shadow of reserve;

And she had shown-perhaps half unawares—
Some little independent breakfast airs;
And so the usual parting didn't occur,
Although her eyes invited me to her;
Or rather half invited me, for she
Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free:
You always had-that is, I had to pay
Full market price, and go more'n half the way;
So, with a short "Good-by" I shut the door,
And left her as I never had before.

But when at noon my lunch I came to eat,
Put up by her so delicately neat,-

Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been,

And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in,

"Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant,

It seem'd as if with me her kiss she'd sent;

Then I became once more her humble lover,
And said, “To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her."

I went home over-early on that eve,
Having contrived to make myself believe,
By various signs I kind o' knew and guess'd,
A thunder-storm was coming from the west.
('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart,
How many honest ones will take its part:
A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right
That I should strike home early on that night.)

Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung,
With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue;
But all within look'd desolate and bare:

My house had lost its soul: she was not there!

A pencil'd note was on the table spread,

And these are something like the words it said:

66

'The cows have stray'd away again, I fear;

I watch'd them pretty close; don't scold me, dear.
And where they are I think I nearly know;

I heard the bell not very long ago.

I've hunted for them all the afternoon;

I'll try once more, -I think I'll find them soon.
Dear, if a burden I have been to you,

And haven't help'd you as I ought to do,
Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead;
I've tried to do my best,—I have, indeed.
Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack,
And have kind words for me when I get back.

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Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue,Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded: My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed,

I rush'd out-door.

The air was stain'd with black:
Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back:
And everything kept dimming to the sight,
Save when the clouds threw their electric light;
When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view,
I'd think I saw her, --knowing 'twas not true.
Through my small clearing dash'd wide sheets of spray,
As if the ocean waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made,
In the bold clamor of its cannonade.

And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm,
Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm!
She who, when storm-frights found her at her best,
Had always hid her white face on my breast!

My dog, who'd skirmish'd round me all the day,
Now crouch'd and whimpering, in a corner lay.
I dragg'd him by the collar to the wall,

I press'd his quivering muzzle to a shawl,–
"Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined,
Match'd eyes with me, as if to read my mind,
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood.

I follow'd him, as faithful as I could.

No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame
We raced with death; we hunted noble game.

All night we dragg'd the woods without avail;

The ground got drench'd,-we could not keep the trail. Three times again my cabin home I found,

Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound;

But each time 'twas an unavailing care:

My house had lost its soul: she was not there!

When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun Laugh'd at the ruin that the night had done, Bleeding and drench'd, by toil and sorrow bent, Back to what used to be my home I went.

But, as I near❜d our little clearing-ground,-
Listen!—I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound.
The cabin door was just a bit ajar;

It gleam'd upon my glad eyes like a star.

"Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form!

She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" Such pangs of joy I never felt before.

"You've come!

I shouted, and rush'd through the door.

Yes, she had come,--and gone again.

She lay

With all her young life crush'd and wrench'd away,
Lay, the heart-ruins of our home among,

Not far from where I kill'd her with my tongue.

The rain-drops glitter'd 'mid her hair's long strands,
The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands,

And 'midst the tears-brave tears-that one could trace
Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face,

I once again the mournful words could read, "I've tried to do my best,—I have, indeed.'

And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er;
Part of it never breathed the air before.
'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allow'd,
To volunteer heart-story to a crowd,
And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears,
But you'll protect an old man with his years;
And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach,
This is the sermon I would have it preach:

Boys flying kites haul in their white-wing'd birds: You can't do that way when you're flying words. "Careful with fire," is good advice we know; "Careful with words, is ten times doubly so.

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Thoughts unexpress'd may sometimes fall back dead,
But God Himself can't kill them when they're said!

You have my life-grief: do not think a minute
'Twas told to take up time. There's business in it.
It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it

Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it.

THE PURITAN SPIRIT

By RICHARD SALTER STORRS, Preacher, Author, Lecturer; Pastor Church of the Pilgrims, Brooklyn, 1846-99. Born at Braintree, Mass., 1821; died in Brooklyn, 1900.

From an address before the Congregational Club, Boston, Mass., December 22, 1889. By permission of the publishers, The Pilgrim Press, Boston and Chicago.

Not for the Puritan, in his reserved and haughty consciousness of supernal relations, is the dainty sumptuousness of color, the symmetric grace of molded marbles, the rhythmic reach and stately height of noble architecture, the pathos and the mystery of music.

He has not remembered that to some minds a relish for what is lovely in fancy and in art is as native as color to the violet, fragrance to the rose, or song to the bird; that God's own mind must eternally teem with beauty, since He lines with it the tiny sea-shell, and tints the fish, and tones the hidden fibers of trees, and flashes it on breast and crest of flying birds, and breaks the tumbling avalanche into myriads of feathery crystals, and builds the skies in a splendor, to a rhythm, which no thought can match.

It is obvious, too, that with this disesteem of things esthetic has been often associated a foolish contempt for the minor elegancies of life, of letters, of personal manners, and of social equipment, with sometimes a positively dangerous disdain of the common innocent pleasures of life.

But if such are its deficiencies, which we may not hide, let us not forget that it has also certain magnificent qualities and superlative traits, which surely we ought, as well, to recognize. . . . It has, for one thing, a masterful sincerity.

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Men may charge the Puritan with sternness, and with

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