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UNDER THE ELM.

GIVING AND WITHHOLDING.

" I dunno," says Squire Moss, kinder soft, "unless you take me instid of him. I've been thinking about coming over to see you for quite a spell ; but I've had so much to do I hain't got at it. Things is mighty bad this year, so much wet weather it starts the weeds rite ahead. What do you say, Mrs. March ? Will you marry me?" " Lawful heart, Squire Moss ! how you talk!" says I ; and then the squire he put his arm round

UNDER

me, and give me a real old-fashioned smack, andWall, we are a going to be married next month, when the sign is in the heart, for good luck. I sot my boarders all adrift the next day after the wedding of Cliffe and the widder, and I don't calkilate to keep any more never. The squire says he'll buy some ottermans, and things for our parlor, that'll take the shine off from Mrs. Brown's in no time at all.

THE

EL M.

BY MATTIE WINFIELD TORREY. UNDER the elm, in the eventide, How we heard the night-bird calling, As we watched the trailing shadows glide, When the twilight dews were falling, Drooping its trailing branches low, Down to the blush-red clover, Swaying and eddying to and fro, As the breeze of night swept over. Under the elm, when the day was done, And the quiet night was darkling, How we watched the stars come, one by one, In the jeweled sky-vault sparkling. How we laughed and sung as the moon rode high, In the depth of ether sailing; And she seemed to pierce, with her shining eye, 'Neath the pliant branches trailing. No longer now, as the years flow by, We lie on the blush-red clover, And listen and watch for the thrilling sigh Of the night-wind sailing over.

GIVING

AND

No longer we sing, ' neath the silver moon, As the night-shades gather round us, But, ah! there's a spell in the olden time That close to the past has bound us. And struggle and strive, as we ofttimes may, To break from the secret thralling. Our heart goes back to the olden tinie, When we watched the shadows falling ; When, under the branching elm-tree high, In the beautiful Summer weather, There fell a word, a blush, and a sigh, That bound two young hearts together. Under the elm, you remember, sweet, How you bent to my wild caresses ; You must have heard how my proud heart beat At the sweep of those queenly tresses. But you never, never could have known How our love-dream must be broken; And that I should be keeping our tryst alone, With thewraith of a grief unspoken.

WITHHOLDING.

BY N. F. CARTER. DENY not to the needy world thy mite, However small the offering may be; Give it a tribute of the love and light Charming thy life as balm the Summer sea. Denying, Is dying; Giving, Living! The fountain, hoarding all its treasures up, At best is but a dark and stagnant pool ; But in the heat, still pouring from its cup, Gives fresher life with waters clear and cool. Denying, Is dying ; Giving, Living! In vain seem morning-glories of the Spring, With blue-bird and the robin ever mute; The tree is but a poor and worthless thing, Barren of singing leaves, and flowers, and fruit.

Denying,

Is dying; Giving,

Living! The air, to life-blood more than bread and wine, Without a constant giving, is a blight; The sun, so glowing, should it cea e to shine, Would be an orb of blackness black as uht. Denying, Is dying; Giving, Living! Then give, be ever giving, give to live; Upon the world bestow thy wealth of love, Of gold, of strength, of service ; live to ging Till dawns the morning of the life above. Denying, Is dying; Giving, Living!

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