"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,— "Your little lad, your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip,— "What little lad? what ship?" "What little lad! as if there could be Another such a one as he! What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee! It was just the other day The Gray Swan sailed away." "The other day?" the sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise,— "The other day? the Swan?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone?" "Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her,— A sight to remember, sir." "But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, as it might be, so, The kerchief from your neck." "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" "And did the little lawless lad That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" "Lawless! the man is going mad! The best boy ever mother had,— Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?" "And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign To say he was alive?" "Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine, And could he write from the grave? Tut, man, what would you have?" "Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise, 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?"—"Miserable man, You're mad as the sea,—you rave,— What have I to forgive?" The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. "My God! my Father! is it true My little lad, My Elihu? My blessed boy, my child! My dead,—my living child!"

Alice Cary.

The Circling Year

SPRING

The joys of living wreathe my face, My heart keeps time to freshet's race; Of balmy airs I drink my fill— Why, there's a yellow daffodil! Along the stream a soft green tinge Gives hint of feathery willow fringe; Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"— I'm glad Spring's here!

SUMMER

An afternoon of buzzing flies. Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise; The long white road, the plodding team, The deep, cool grass in which to dream; The distant cawing of the crows, Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows; The peaceful cattle in the stream— Midsummer's dream!

AUTUMN

A cold, gray day, a lowering sky, A lonesome pigeon wheeling by; The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades, The shivering crane that flaps and wades; Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree, The peace the river sings to me; The chill aloofness of the Fall— I love it all!

WINTER

A sheet of ice, the ring of steel, The crunch of snow beneath the heel; Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh, A restless pair that prance and neigh; The early coming of the night, Red glowing logs, a shaded light; The firelit realm of books is mine— Oh, Winter's fine!

Ramona Graham.