In splendor glows the fragrant rose of June;
And in the odorous silence of the wood
The stream is luminous with lilies, sweet
As a young maiden's bosom, chaste and fair.
No sound of human life as yet; but Earth
In thousand flutters of coy waking, seems
Aware from mountain-top to far recess

Of her lord's coming; and to his grand brow

And beaming eye she yields well pleased her

charms

Of dew and song, and breath of balmy blooms, The first, fresh, tender grace of early morn.

DOLLS.

On shelves and in crevices of the wall,-
In every conceivable pose and plight,
Wherever a doll could be placed at all,
Wherever the flashes of firelight fall,
Now sunk in shadow, now forth in light,
Are dolls-beyond the power of counting,
Dolls to be sought for by dizzy mounting,
And dolls so huddled all over the floor,
It is tip-toe passing from stool to door;
Dolls that are sane and dolls that are crazy,
Industrious dolls and dolls that are lazy,
Dolls that are troubled and dolls that are glad,
That is, they would be, if life they had,—
Dolls that are crippled and dolls that are sound,
Angular dolls and dolls that are round,
Dolls that are merry and dolls that are sad,
Dolls that are good and, alas, that are bad,
Dolls that are old and dolls that are young,
Taciturn dolls and dolls with a tongue!
Dolls that are big and dolls that are small,
Dolls that are short and dolls that are tall,
Dolls that are dressed and dolls that are nude,
The belle and the beau, the prig and the prude,
Dolls in the height of the latest fashion,
Dolls with never a bow or sash on,

-

Dolls that are paupers and dolls that are rich,-
And marvels of ruffle and starch and stitch,–
Dolls that are foolish and dolls that are wise,
Dolls in difficulties up to their eyes,
Dolls that are plain and dolls that are pretty,
Dolls-like the people of Grownup city!
For Dolldom's creator of dolls, is one,
Who ponders on all things under the sun,-
On the true and the false, the good and the ill,
The wayward conceits of the Human will,
The noble faiths and the shams and the whims
Of the city of Grownup's hers and hims;
And ever, the face of the doll he makes
The stamp of his meditation takes.

-A Ditty of Dolldom.

F'

THERON BROWN.

EW poets have done so much really inspired, excellent and popular work for periodicals, without its being collected into a permanent volume, as Rev. Theron Brown. A poet should not publish a volume, as a rule, until the public call for it, and there is a public call for a collection of Mr. Brown's poems, especially of his old war ballads, his home poems and hymns. There is a large and growing respect for the inspiring and conscientious work of his pen, and the public need the volume.

Mr. Brown was born at Willimantic, Conn., April 19, 1832. He was educated at the Connecticut Literary Institute at Suffield, at Yale College and Newton Theological Seminary. He entered upon the ministry with flattering prospects, but his voice failed, owing to a chronic bronchial affection, and in 1870 he became an assistant editor of the Youth's Companion, a position which he still holds.

Mr. Brown has written some excellent books for boys, which have enjoyed a wide popularity. "The Red Shanty Boys," "Nick Hardy," "The Blount Family" and "Walter Neal's Example," are wellknown titles. He has contributed prose and verse to the leading papers, and done valuable historical work. But he will be longest known by his poems which have entered into many valuable collections from their own worth. "The Battle Above the Clouds" was one of the most popular ballads of the war time. His hymns, written chiefly for the musical Ruggles Street Church, Boston, are held in high esteem, and will one day find a large mission, in the world.

Mr. Brown is a kindly mannered man, with a heart full of sympathy for all that is good and helpful in life. He belongs to one of the old and most honored Puritan families, and maintains the sterling principles of his ancestry. H. B.

THE WILD STRAWBERRY.

KISSES for your red cheek, rare-ripe of midsummer, Daisy's pulpy cousin down among the dew; Butterfly (no wonder), bird and brown-winged hummer,

Honeying through the clover, all make love to you. ¦

Then how coy and cosy, plum at once and posy,

Up from meadow green you peep and blush at me! Blame your cunning sweet that woos and tempts so rosy,

If I stop and stoop, and cannot let you be.

Fair from faded childhood still the picture lingers Of the school-road knoll it took so long to pass Where we, barefoot truants, stained on lips and fingers,

Loitered for you, red rogue berry in the grass.

Ah, twice fair come back the holiday that freed us To the fields with honest baskets for our spoil, Hunting lot and lane with bobolink to lead usHow the harvest sparkled, dotting all the soil!

Newly waked Pomona spread a feast unstinted And we plucked and ate by the woodside and the

stream,

Till the long June day, itself grown crimson-tinted, Called us to the farmhouse for strawberries and

cream.

Kisses on your red cheek, matchless meadow-dainty,
Summer's earliest tidbit, wilding of the hill!
Still as sweet as ever tempts your ruby plenty,

Lips of little field-nymph redden with you still.

Might I claim your season! berry brightest, newest Of the fruitful year, so heartlike hue and form; Life begun and ripened while the skies are bluest, Prime and harvest under moon without a storm!

Musing thus I mark you, with the dew-drop mated, Hiding on the brook bank, sunning on the plain. Envy you? O never, fav'rite fair but fated;

I that praise must eat you, or my praise is vain.

THE OLD WIFE.

By the bed the old man, waiting, sat in vigil sad and tender,

Where his aged wife lay dying, and the twilight shadows brown

Slowly from the wall and window chased the sunset's golden splendor

Going down.

"Is it night?" she whispered, waking, for her spirit seemed to hover,

Lost between the next world's sunrise and the bedtime cares of this.

And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling bending over

Answered "Yes."

"Are the children in?" she asked him. Could he tell her? All the treasures