He plucked a blossom from the treeThe Judas-tree-and cast

Its purple fragrance towards the bride,
A message from the past.

The signal came, the horses plunged-
Once more she smiled around:
The purple blossom in the dust

Lay trampled on the ground.

Again the slow years fleeted,
Their passage only known
By the height the passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveler
Paused at the old inn-door,

But the bride, so fair and blooming,
The bride returned no more.
One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the branches bare,
Rustling and waving dimly

In the gray and misty air,
Saw blazoned on a carriage

Once more the well-known shield,
The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Upon a silver field.

He looked-was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad,

The child, once young and smiling,
The bride, once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes' radiance,

And paled those trembling lips?

What memory

of past sorrow,

What stab of present pain,

Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the dismal rain,
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks, yet does not see)
The dead and leafless branches
Upon the Judas-tree?

The slow dark months crept onward

Upon their icy way,

Till April broke in showers,

And spring smiled forth in May;

Upon the apple blossoms

The sun shone bright again,
When slowly up the highway
Came a long funeral train.

The bells tolled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled;
Slowly, in pomp and honor
They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger
One rode, who held a shield,
Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Shone on a silver field.

'Mid all that homage given

To a fluttering heart at rest,

Perhaps an honest sorrow

Dwelt only in one breast.

One by the inn-door standing

Watched, with fast-dropping tears,

The long procession passing,

And thought of bygone years.

The boyish, silent homage

To child and bride unknown,
The pitying tender sorrow

Kept in his heart alone,

Now laid upon the coffin

With a purple flower, might be
Told to the cold dead sleeper;

The rest could only see

A fragrant purple blossom,
Plucked from a Judas-tree.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

THE TRUE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE.

LITTLE boy blue, so the story goes,

One morning while reading fell fast asleep, When he should have been, as every one knows, Watching the cows and sheep.

All of you children remember what

Came of the nap on that summer morn;
How the sheep got into the meadow-lot,
The cows got into the corn.

Neglecting a duty is wrong, of course,

But I've always felt, if we could but know,
That the matter was made a great deal worse
Than it should have been; and so

I find, in my sifting, that there was one
More to blame than Little Boy Blue.
I'm anxious to have full justice done,
And so I know are you.

The one to blame I have found to be,
I'm sorry to say it, Little Bo-Peep;
But you will remember, perhaps, that she
Had trouble about her sheep.

ell, Little Bo-Peep came tripping along,
The sheep she tended were running at large;
Little Boy Blue sat singing a song,

Faithfully minding his charge.

Said Little Bo-Peep, "It's a burning shame
That you should sit here from week to week;
Just leave your work, and we'll play a game
Oh!-well, of hide and seek.

It was dull work, and he liked to play
Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep;
He liked the bloom of the summer day;
He liked he liked Bo-Peep.

And so, with many a laugh and shout,

They hid from each other-now here, now there; And whether the cows were in or out

Bo-Peep had never a care.

"I will hide once more," said the little maid,
"You shall not find me this time, I say—
Shut your eyes up tight" (Boy Blue obeyed)-
"Under this stack of hay."

66

Now, wait till I call," said Miss Bo-Peep,
And over the meadows she slipped away,

With never a thought for cows or sheep-
Alas! alas! the day.

And long and patiently waited he

For the blithesome call from her rosy lip.
He waited in vain—quite like, you see,
The boy on the burning ship.

She let down the bars, did Miss Bo Peep-
Such trifles as bars she held in scorn-
And into the meadows went the sheep,
And the cows went into the corn.

By and by, when they found Boy Blue
In the merest doze, he took the blame.
It was very fine, I think, don't you,
Not to mention Bo-Peep's name?

Thus it has happened that all these years

He has borne the blame she ought to share.
Since I know the truth of it, it appears
To me to be only fair

To tell the story from shore to shore,
'From sea to sea, and from sun to sun,
Because, as I think I said before,

I like to see justice done.

And whatever you've read or seen or heard,
Believe me, children, I tell the true,
And only genuine (take my word)

Story of Little Boy Blue.

CARLOTTA PERRY.