Brighter skies will bend above her,
And the flowers-they will love her,
Birds the secret will discover,

When she comes;

Time will fly on wings of pleasure,
When she comes;

Joy will be a golden treasure,
When she comes;

Life will give its gentlest graces,

Home seem dearest place of places,

Love shall be where her sweet face is,
When she comes.

GRANDMA'S SLIPPERS

By MRS. B. W. HUNT

[These lines by Mrs. Hunt, of Eatonton, Georgia, appeared first in Judge but have been frequently reproduced.]

Ah, little shoes, with huge rosette,
And heel, "La Marie Antoinette";
So you have danced the minuet
With courtly Marquis La Fayette!
A hundred years you've lain so still
(The thought comes with a sudden thrill),
I wonder if you could forget

Again to dance the minuet!

For I tonight, in old brocade
And petticoat with silver braid,
With patches, powder, and pomade,
Shall wear you to the masquerade.
My grandma's slippers! And I muse
When you last danced, oh, dainty shoes,
'Twas with bright sword and epaulet;
Your partner, Marquis La Fayette!

A hundred years! What interlude
Since that far time! And I intrude
Upon your garret solitude

That you may dance with modern dude!

No! Back within your ancient case
With by-gone gowns and yellow lace,
I reverent lay each little shoe,
No modern man shall dance with you.
Small slippers, you shall not disgrace
The memory of that time and place
When last, with flashing jewels set,
You led the reel with La Fayette!

EL DORADO

A. D. 1540

By JOHN S. KENDALL

The golden glory of the morn
Fast fades to dewy night;
Then swift the darkling hours march
Into the hurrying light.

Still burns the desert under foot,

Still lures the magic West,

To where the wealth of India
Shall crown our weary quest.

A thousand leagues of battle,
A thousand days of pain,
The cry of stricken comrades,

The parched bones of the slain

All these we leave behind us,
Forgotten by the way:
Somewhere beyond the desert lies
The Land of Holiday!

Dark forests pressed upon us,

Strange rivers barred the path:

In vain the bitter tempest broke
In impotence of wrath.

Through want and danger, toil and gloom,
We struggle on and on,

So only is the Lavish Land
Of peace and plenty won!

But sometimes, when I lie awake,
My rusty mail unbraced,

My dinted sword and battered shield
Beside my pillow placed,

I question-what if baleful chance
To our undoing move?

What if that distant Land of Gold
A ghastly phantom prove?

And then my inmost soul responds
With valiant words and true,
And bids me follow to the end
These roads forever new;
For whether at their end we find
Or gold or worthless dross,
We've dared a great adventure,
And the issue is not loss!

We've known the joy of battle;

We've borne the flag of Spain
Where never man has been before,
Nor man may come again;

We've drained the utmost wine of life,
Yea, to the last strong lees-
What guerdon hath the East to give
Comparable with these?

Each seeks the thing he values most,
To garner or to spend.

Some call it El Dorado,

And some The Journey's End;
Some call it silken robes and gems
To sparkle in the sun;

But I-the Quest alone I seek,
The joy of brave deeds done!

'LONE WITH GOD

By JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS

[Originally published in The Houston Daily Post prior to 1905.]

When mamma tucks the covers in an' leaves me comfy there,
An' I lissen to 'er footsteps softly goin' down the stair,
Then th' chair I put my clothes on looks so blurry in th' night
That I crawl beneath th' cover an' I almost die of fright;
An' I shiver 'neath th' cover an' I all squinch up an' hark!
I gits lonesome when I'm all alone with God an' in th' dark.

She leans down an' she kisses me an' then she says: "Good night."

She says brave tads like I am doesn't need to have no light;
An' then th' house gits silent an' still, 'ist like a grave,
An' when th' darkness guthers round I wish I wa'n't so brave,
Fer th' wind outside my winder groans an' whimpers like a

snark;

You 'ist know 'at I gits lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark!

Seems like mamma oughter sense it, that I git 'most skeered tu death,

An' I squinch up an' I huddle down an' try tu hold my breath; When I hear th' wind go: "Whoo-ee!" an' th' stairs begin tu squeak,

Then th' goose-flesh sticks out on me an' th' tears is on my cheek!

An' I know th' ghosts are ha'ntin', for I hear the watch-dog bark;

Gee! I sure do git crawly 'lone with God an' in th' dark!

Bet yu need God, too, at nighttime! Yu don't need Him in

th' day

When th' sun's a-shinin' gorgeous an' yu wanter run an' play; But yu need Him right close to yu when you're almos' dead o' fright

An' th' Goggle-eyes are grinnin' an' a-blinkin' in th' night--

When th' watchdog is a-whinin' an' yu 'ist lays still an' hark— My! I sure am skeered an' lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark.

Funny how things looks so diffrunt! Playin' hooky seems a sin,

An' yu swear 'f yu live till mornin' that yu'll never go ag'in When th' other fellers coax yu, an' yu wont sneak off tu swim, An' yu whisper: "Now I lay me " an' yu promise things tu Him,

An' yu say yu'll keep yer soul white, an' with nary smudge ner mark,

Fer a feller feels plum lonesome 'lone with God an' in th' dark.

LONGING FOR TEXAS

By JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS

[Published in The Houston Daily Post about the year 1903.]

No, it isn't hot in Texas; and the cool night dews are falling, And the katydids are chirping in the grass beside the pool; And from out the moonlit distances the mocking-birds are

calling,

And I know the days are hazy and the nights perfumed and cool.

And I know the jasmine's blooming as it bloomed in all its whiteness,

And my heart is heavy in me-for I'm far away today, And my spirit lags forever, and my tread has lost its lightness,. And I'm humming "Down in Dixie," and my heart throbs:

"Look away!"

Oh, it isn't hot in Texas, for the cool gulf breeze is blowing, And the cattle all are standing underneath the wide oak

trees,

Or are wending slowly homeward from the pasture, lowing, lowing;

And a drone comes softly to me from the honey-laden bees.