THE APPLE - TREE IN THE LANE. 187
dashed at them and kissed them both, laughing and crying, and repeating.
“I did it! I did it! I told old Hugh I would if he'd only mind me! And you thought he liked me, and was badly treated; and so you got acquainted with him. Oh! you panther princess, you!"
She went so crazy that she made them both laugh, and brought them down a little from their lofty romance, which was good for them.
"You'll miss the train, " she said.
"I shall not go till night," Mr. Wellesley declared; and he would not, in spite of Cora’s attempt at expostulation, when May vowed that the business was of the utmost importance.
Then May danced about them again, and laughed and cried more; and aunt Agatha and Wentworth came in, and I doubt if a happier set of people were gathered together in this old world that has such a trick of sometimes turning into heaven when we least expect it. Thanks be to a merciful Father, who helps us and guides us, in spite of our blind struggles and erring wills—so I leave them.
ΤHΕ APPLE-TREE IN THE LANE.
BY MRS. S. P. MESERVE HAYES.
It stood close by where, on leathern-hinge,
The gate swung back from the grassy lane;
Where the cows come home when the dusky eve
Its mantle threw over hill and plain.
Its branches, knotty and gnarled by time,
Waved to and fro in the idle breeze,
When the Spring days brought a blushing crown
Of blossoms bright to the apple-trees.
Its shadow fell o'er the crystal stream,
That all the long, bright Summer days,
Like a silver thread, 'mid the waving grass,
Reflected back the golden rays
Of the noonday sun, that madly strove
To drink the fount of the brooklet dry;
But the rain-clouds showered tear-drops down,
And the glad brook laughed as it glided by.
Never were apples half so sweet
Golden russet, striped with redAs those that fell on the yielding turf,
As we shook the branches overhead.
A trysting-place for youthful friends
Was the apple-tree, in the days of yore ;
And oft we've sat beneath its shade,
And talked bright dreams of the future o'er.
And when the warm October sun,
Shone on the maple's scarlet robe,
We gathered apples smooth and fair,
And round as our own mystic globe.
The stately hemlock crowns the hill,
And dark pines rise above the plain;
But one we prize far more than they
The apple-tree in the pasture-lane.
Long years have passed, and cows no more
Come home at night through the grassy lane,
Where the gate swung back on leathern-hinge,
I stand and gaze on the far-off plain.
No more we list to the music low
Of the crystal stream as it ripples on;
And the apple-tree in the pasture-lane,
Is but a dream of the days by-gone.
MEMORY'S HALL.
BY HENRY C. PARK.
On! a strange old castle is Memory's Hall,
With its towers and turrets sublime;
For its portals are guarded by spectres tall
The spectres of years, that come at the call
Of echoes that live in that clime.
It stands in the country of " Long Ago,"
By the side of the river of Time,
Whose waters surge on with an endless flow,
And sing a song as they gently go,
As soft as the vesper chime.
To the door of this castle we often go,
For we've buried our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty, and hands of snow,
And forms we have clasped long years ago,
And tresses of golden hair
There's a lute unswept, and a harp unstrung,
And a part of a dying prayer;
And fragments of song no longer sung,
For the lips that warbled them now are dumb,
And slumber in silence there.
Smiles that have faded, and joys now dead,
And faces we once thought fair,
And wreaths that encircled some loved one's head,
Words of tenderness once been said,
And garments that she used to wear.
Echoes of voices that used to call,
Fall on the tremulous air;
And pictures dim on its sombered walls,
Scenes from the shadowy past recall,
While we stand enchanted there.
The present departs, and the past returns,
As we tread o'er its dusty floor;
And our hearts, overflowing with sadness, burn,
And our souls within us with wildness yearn,
For the things we loved of yore
