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"Will you walk with me always?" I said, and as she

Said not "Nay," I took it for granted—

For "silence is yea," so the old adage says;
And silence was just what I wanted.

WHEN THIS OLD RING WAS NEW.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife. Ah! summers not a few,

Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you.

And, love, what changes we have seen, what cares, and pleasures, too,

Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new!

Oh, blessings on that happy day-the happiest of my life

When first your low, sweet, loving "Yes" made you my own dear wife.

Your heart will say the same, I know; the day's as dear to you

The day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new!

How well do I remember now your young, sweet face that day!

How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say.

WHEN THIS OLD RING WAS NEW. 15

Nor how I doted on you! Ah, how proud I was of you!

But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

O partner of my gladness!-wife-what care, what grief is there

For me you would not bravely face, with me, you would not share?

Oh, what a weary want was that, if I were wanting you

Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new!

The past is dear! Its sweetness still our memories treasure yet.

The griefs we've borne-together borne-we could not now forget.

Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart, still true,

We'll share, as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And oh, when Death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,

May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast.

Oh, may my passing gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you—

Of those fond eyes-fond as they were when this old ring was new!

JULIE.

"For tricks that are vain,"

Do not talk of your heathen Chinee, Mr. Harte!
I would like to see one of the race get the start
Of a widow, that's all-

A pretty young widow, deceitful and vain,
Counting hearts like the links of a chain.

"Twas my sister Julie;

Had not long worn her weeds, it is true, but alas! With her smiles and her wiles, she could work like a glass

Of sparkling champagne

On these men, poor fools! For her voice it was

low,

And soft as the coo of a dove. Ah, you know!

And the way of it was,

I had promised to marry, to marry, some day
Bert Limon, a very good man in his way;

But he hurried me so,

And worried and begged that I'd bless him at

once

With my lily-white hand. Yes, call me a dunce!

Did I love him? Oh no!

Indeed, there was scarcely the ghost of a beau That I did not prefer, but he'd money, you know, The genuine cash

JULIE.

And money is better than love, any day;
My tastes are expensive, they say.

I told him at last

17

That I had no trousseau. That very same day Came boxes with garments distinguished and gay; And oh, such a love

Of a dress, trimmed with point so rich and fine, In which I looked really divine!

So I wrote to Julie

For advice, and a plausible cause for delay;
She answered my letter that very same day:
She was coming, she said,

To make it all smooth and delightful; she knew
How to manage such things. It was true!

She came, did Julie,

And, credulous dupe that I was, I received
Her with kisses and smiles, and fondly believed
Her, the minx!

Oh, it's scandalous! What did she do, Emma
Hayes?

Why she married my lover herself in three days!

And took my trousseau?

I should say so! Indeed, the seraph-eyed thief Stole man, jewels, dresses, beyond all relief. She knew! Yes, oh yes!

Say no more, Mr. Harte, of your heathen Chinee, He's a baby compared to Julie.

THREE AND ONE.

They stray through the sunlit summery weather,
Two maids and a youth, 'neath skies of blue;
And each of the three, as they walk together,
Is secretly wishing there were but two.

Yet the maidens love each other dearly,
And both love the youth, if he only knew;
But he loves one as a sweet friend merely,
And the other he loves as lovers do.

She who had won his heart's best passion
Gives back a fancy, a passing whim;

She loves him only coquette fashion,

While the other maid-she would die for him.

And while they wander across the meadows, Their three hearts brimming with love's sweet pain,

Fate is sitting within the shadows,

Weaving for them a tangled skein.

And she shall weave till the autumn weather, When th' threads shall unravel and all come

straight;

But well she loveth to knot them together,
And tangle the ends for a time, doth Fate!

She at whose feet is cast that treasure,

A man's heart strong with love's full tide,

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