STRAY VERSE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3229, 27 May 1911, Page 4

STRAY VERSE.

THE BALM OF PEACE. The westering sun sinks slowly ’neaxn the hill, And evening shadows gather all too soon; The pointed crescent of the silver moon Hangs in the heavens motionless and still; The hoarse cries of the strident nighthawk fill The brooding silence; and adown the vale The lamplight glimmers through the windows pale; As the dusk deepens sings the whippoorwill ; The holy vespers of the weed-thrush cease; No longer from tire elm tiie robin calls;. The shadow of the night more darkly falls. I sit beneath the sheltering maple tree, While fancy wanders unrestrained and free, And o’er my spirit comes the balm of peace. Frederic E. Snow, in the “Outlook.” LOVE’S KNITTING. She was he was watching, As her busy fingers flew. And he thought she looked so pretty In her simple gown of blue.. “I should like to learn some knitting. If you‘d teach me, then I .might! And she handed him the worsted, Laughed, and set the needles right. He was knitting, she was smiling— At his blunders, I suppose; But I know his tender glances Made her color like a rose. “There! You've knitted two together!”' “Never mind ; now dear, confess. Love has knit our hearts together?” And she shyly whispered “Yes.”

She is knitting, he is thinking In his cosy fireside chair, And he takes the long grey stocking— Just the color of his hair. “Wife, these stitches, though fine knitted, Wearing out, leave holes to fill; But our hearts, as we grow older, Love knits only closer still.” —Grace Maber-v-Jcrdan.

OPPORTUNITY. They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake and rise to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane: Each night I burn the records of the day, At sunrise every soul is born again. Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgment seal the dead past with its dead. But never bind a moment yet to come. Art thou a mourner ? Then rouse thee from thy spell! Art tliou a sinner ? Sins may be forgiven ; Each morning gives the wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to Heaven. R. B. Malone. THE PERFECT GIRL. When Lucy was an infant small iShe was a model child. She never, never cried at all. But only slept and smiled. And then when Lucy older grew, And tried to talk and toddlle, She did no thing she oughtn't to, But still behaved! a model. When Lucy was, twelve years old. And growing tall and slightly, She did whatever she was told And curtseyed most politely. At sixteen, Lucy was a dear; At eighteen, quite a beauty. She lived without a care or fear, And! always did her duty. She was Perfection’s Perfect Pink—--4 character unflawed. Unworthy thoughts she could not think; Her mind was fair and broad.. She said the things she ought to say, She acted as she should; She Lived her life the noblest way— Oh, my, but she was good! “What happened next?” you ask of me. Well, I can't answer you. I just made: Lucy up, you see — She’s too good to be true.