To sleep with her dead forefathers

In their stone crypt, dark and cold.

At midnight the Countess lay weeping
'Neath her gorgeous canopy,
She heard as it were a rustling,
And little feet come nigh.

She started up in the darkness,
And with yearning gesture wild,
She cried, "Has the Father heard me?
Art thou come back, my child ?"’

Then a child's voice, soft and pleading,
Said, "I've come, O mother dear,

To ask if you will not lay me

Where the little birds I can hear;

"The little birds in their singing,

And the children in their play,

Where the sun shines bright on the flowers All the long summer day.

"In the stone crypt I lie weeping,

For I cannot choose but fear,

Such wailings dire and ceaseless

From the dead Counts' coffins I hear

"And I'm all alone, dear mother,

No other child is there;

Oh, lay me to sleep in the sunshine,
Where all is bright and fair.

"I cannot stay, dear mother,

I must back to the moans and gloom; I must lie there, fearing and weeping, Till you take me from my tomb.'

Then the Countess roused her husband,
Saying, "Give to me, I pray,
That spot of green by the deep fosse,
Where the children love to play.

"For our little one lies weeping,
And asks, for Christ's dear sake,
That 'mid song and sunlight and flowers,
Near children her grave we make."

And the green spot was made a garden,
Blessed by priests with book and prayer,
And they laid the Count's little daughter
'Mid flowers and sunlight there.

And to the children forever

The Count and Countess gave

As a playground, that smiling garden
By their little daughter's grave.

-Mrs. R. S. Greenough.

HIS OLD YELLOW ALMANAC.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

I left the farm when mother died, and changed my

place of dwellin'

To daughter Susie's stylish house, right in the city

street.

And there was them, before I came, that sort of scared

me, tellin'

How I would find the town folks' ways so difficult

to meet.

They said I'd have no comfort in the rustlin', fixed-up

throng,

And I'd have to wear stiff collars every week-day

right along.

I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water,
I like the racket and the noise, and never tire of

shows;

And there's no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,

And every thing is right at hand, and money freely flows,

And hired help is all about, just listenin' for my call, But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.

The house is full of calendars, from attic to the cellar, They're painted in all colors, and are fancy-like to

see;

But just in this particular I'm not a modern feller, And the yellow-covered almanac is good enough

for me.

I'm used to it, I've seen it round from boyhood to old age, And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of each page. I like the way the "S" stood out to show the week's beginnin'

(In these new-fangled calendars the days seemed sort of mixed),

And the man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin',

With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed;

And the letters and credentials that were writ to Mr.

Ayer

I've often, on a rainy day, found readin' very fair.

I tried to find one recently; there wa'n't one in the

city,

They toted out great calendars in every sort of

style;

I looked at 'em in cold disdain, and answered 'em in

pity;

"I'd rather have my almanac than all that costly pile."

And, though I take to city life, I'm lonesome after all, For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.

MARCH THE RAM.

BY MARGARET JOHNSON.

"His golden horns and fleece of gold Shone dazzling in the sunset light. With Helle and her brother bold

He skimmed the air in dizzy flight.' The raindrops down the window slide, The hoarse wind moans in muffled rage; Within, two fair heads, side by side,

Bend low above the enchanted page.

All heedless of the storm, they stray

In sunny fields of ancient Greece, And with the fabled children play,

And see the Ram with golden fleece. "Hark, Amy?" "Swift they flew and far, Till "Farewell, Phrixos!" Helle cried;

And falling like a falling star

She sank forever in the tide.'

"I would have held you, Amy dear!" "Oh, how could Phrixos lose her so? Please read the rest. I want to hear

What happened to the Ram, you know."
And all unheeded moans the gale,
While still they walk in Fairyland,
And ponder o'er the ancient tale
They can but dimly understand.

"So lived the Ram and so he died
Within the palace-walls at peace;
And people flocked from far and wide
To seek and win the Golden Fleece.'"

A charmed silence fills the room,

The firelight flickers on the floor,