I feel to-day as if I'd give it all, 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, But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise (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 she had shown-perhaps half unawares— But when at noon my lunch I came to eat, 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, I went home over-early on that eve, Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, 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. 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. And haven't help'd you as I ought to do, 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: And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm, My dog, who'd skirmish'd round me all the day, I press'd his quivering muzzle to a shawl,– I follow'd him, as faithful as I could. No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame 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,- 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, Not far from where I kill'd her with my tongue. The rain-drops glitter'd 'mid her hair's long strands, And 'midst the tears-brave tears-that one could trace 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; 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. Thoughts unexpress'd may sometimes fall back dead, You have my life-grief: do not think a minute 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. Men may charge the Puritan with sternness, and with |