Ah! well I love these books of mine,

That stand so trimly on their shelves,

With here and there a broken line

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(Fat" quartos" jostling modest "twelves "),— A curious company, I own;

The poorest ranking with their betters;
In brief,-a thing almost unknown,-
A pure Democracy of Letters.

Some fairly worth their weight in gold;
Some just too good to throw away;

Some scarcely worth the place they hold.
Yet well I love them, one and all,-

These friends so meek and unobtrusive,
Who never fail to come at call,

Nor (if I scold them) turn abusive!

If I have favorites here and there,

And, like a monarch, pick and choose,

I never meet an angry stare

That this I take and that refuse;

No discords rise my soul to vex

Among these peaceful book-relations,
Nor envious strife of age or sex
To mar my quiet lucubrations.

And they have still another merit,

Which other where one vainly seeks,
Whate'er may be an author's spirit,
He never uninvited speaks;

And should he prove a fool or clown,

66

Unworth the precious time you're spending,
How quickly you can put him down,"
Or "shut him up," without offending!

Here-pleasing sight!—the touchy brood
Of critics from dissension cease;
And stranger still!-no more at feud,
Polemics smile, and keep the peace.

For Memorizing

See! side by side, all free from strife

(Save what the heavy page may smother), The gentle "Christians" who in life,

For conscience' sake, had burned each other!

I call them friends, these quiet books;
And well the title they may claim,
Who always gives me cheerful looks;
(What living friend has done the same?)
And, for companionship, how few,

As these, my cronies ever present,

Of all the friends I ever knew

Have been so useful and so pleasant?

-John G. Saxe.

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66

THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.

A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stairway timidly.
Oh, mother! Take my hand," said she
And then the dark will all be light."

We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.

For Memorizing

Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee!

-Whittier,

DECORATION DAY.

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest

On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,

Nor sentry's shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet

At the cannon's sudden roar,

Or the drum's redoubling beat.

But in this camp of death
No sound your slumber breaks:
Here is no fevered breath,
No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace,
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease,
It is the truce of God!