AUTUMN SONG.

IN Spring the Poet is glad,
And in Summer the Poet is gay;
But in Autumn the Poet is sad,
And has something sad to say:

For the Wind moans in the Wood,

And the Leaf drops from the Tree;

And the cold Rain falls on the graves of the Good,
And the Mist comes up from the Sea:

And the Autumn Songs of the Poet's soul
Are set to the passionate grief

Of Winds that sough and Bells that toll
The Dirge of the Falling Leaf.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
Born in Ohio 1837—

BEFORE THE GATE.

THEY gave the whole long day to idle laughter,
To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,

And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning,

Taciturn, late, and loath,

Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reach'd the gate, one sweet spell hinder'd them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtil anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,
And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Till he said,-man-like nothing comprehending
Of all the wondrous guile

That women won win themselves with, and bending
Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united
Our steps as far as death,

And I might open it!"-His voice, affrighted
At its own daring, falter'd under his breath.

Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted
Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking, "Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking; Yes, thanks! your arm! And will you-open the gate?

THE POET'S FRIENDS.

THE Robin sings in the elm;
The cattle stand beneath,

Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes,
And fragrant meadow-breath.

They listen to the flatter'd bird,
The wise-looking, stupid things!
And they never understand a word
Of all the Robin sings.

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
Born at Albany, New York, 1837-

THE HEATHEN CHINEE.

WHICH I wish to remark—
And my language is plain-
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,

The Heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah-Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny
In regard to the same

What that name might imply:
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remark'd to Bill Nye.

It was August the third;

And quite soft was the skies: Which it might be inferr'd

That Ah-Sin was likewise;

Yet he play'd it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah-Sin took a hand:
It was euchre. The same
He did not understand;

But he smiled as he sat by the table,

With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stock'd

In a way that I grieve;

And my feelings were shock'd

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

Which was stuff'd full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were play'd

By that Heathen Chinee, And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to see,

Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I look'd up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me;

And he rose with a sigh,

And said "Can this be?

We are ruin'd by Chinese cheap labour,"
And he went for that Heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strew'd

Like the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah-Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four packs, Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts;

And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers-that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The Heathen Chinee is peculiar :

Which the same I am free to maintain.