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One sometimes sees beyond his reach,
From childhood to his journey's end.
My wife, our little boy, Aignan,
Have traveled even to Narbonne ;
My grandchild has seen Perpignan,
And I have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne.

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double bent with age. “Rise up, my friend,” said I;

66 with

I'll go upon this pilgrimage.”
We left next morning his abode,
But (Heaven forgive me!) half way on
The old man died


the road; He never gazed on Carcassonne. Each mortal has his Carcassonne.

From the French of Gustave Nadaud.


I HAVE got a new-born sister;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To Papa, his infant daughter,
How Papa's dear eyes did glisten!
She will shortly be to christen ;
And Papa has made the offer
I shall have the naming of her.

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Now I wonder what would please her, –
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ?

Ann and Mary, they ’re too common ;
Joan 's too formal for a woman;
Jane's a prettier name beside,
But we had a Jane that died.
They would

say, if ’t was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith 's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books ;
Ellen 's left off long ago ;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;
What do


think of Caroline ?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her;
I will leave Papa to name her.

Mary Lamb.


In the old days (a custom laid aside
With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent
Their wisest men to make the public laws.
And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas,
Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,
And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,
Stamford sent up to the councils of the State
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.

T was on a May-day of the far old

Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the spring,
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland

sagas tell, –
The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim
Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which

climbs The crater's sides from the red hell below. Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern

wings Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died ; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ Might look from the rent clouds, not as He looked A loving guest at Bethany, but stern As Justice and inexorable Law.

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts, Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, Trembling beneath their legislative robes. “ It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,” Some said ; and then, as if with one accord, All

eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. “ This well may

be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits ;

But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
till He come.

So at the post
Where He hath set me in his providence,
I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls ;
And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,
Let God do his work, we will see to ours :
Bring in the candles.” And they brought them in.

Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, An act to amend an act to regulate The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, Straight to the question, with no figures of speech Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without The shrewd dry humor natural to the man: His awestruck colleagues listening all the while, Between the pauses of his argument, To hear the thunder of the wrath of God Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.

And there he stands in


to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.

John Greenleaf Whittier.


SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight;

Good man! old man !
He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolled over his knee;
His periwig 's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk,
And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.


His dining-room was long and wide,

Good man ! old man !
His spaniels lay by the fireside ;

And in other parts, d'ye see
Crossbows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ;
And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turned the poor from his gate,

Good man ! old man !
But was always ready to break the pate

Of his country's enemy.
What knight could do a better thing
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king ?
And so may every

head Of an ancient family!


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