The Kingdom of Love | Page 5

Meg saw it all.
"HIS child--my God! HIS child!"
She cried aloud, as she rushed
through the crowd
Like one grown suddenly wild.
There, almost under the iron feet,
Hemmed in by a passing cart,
Stood the baby boy--the pride and joy
Of the man who had broken her heart.
Past swooning women and
shouting men
She fled like a flash of light;
With her slender arm she gathered from
harm
The form of the laughing sprite.
The death-shod feet of the mad horse beat
Her down on the pavings grey;
But the baby laughed out with a merry
shout,
And thought it splendid play.
He pulled her gown and called to her:
"Say,
Dit up and do dat some more,
Das jus' ze way my papa play
Wiz me on ze nursery floor."
When the frightened father reached the scene,

His boy looked up and smiled
From the stiffening fold of the arm,
death-cold,
Of Meg, who had died for his child.
Oh! idle words are a woman's
curse
Who loves as woman can;
For put to the test, she will bare her breast
And die for the sake of the man.
SOLITUDE
Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough
of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want
your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must
drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;

But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of
pain.
THE GOSSIPS
A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
Was hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one
morning I saw her tears falling,
And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.
The yellow Nasturtium,
a spinster all faded,
Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
"That wild roving Bee
who was hanging about her,
Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.
"I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
His airs and his speeches so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would end;
but no one would believe me,
For all were quite ready to fall at his feet."
"Indeed, you are wrong,"
said the Lily-belle proudly,
"I cared nothing for him; he called on me once,
And would have
come often, no doubt, if I'd asked him,
But though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce."
"Now, now, that's not true," cried the tall Oleander.
"He has travelled and seen every flower that grows;
And one who has
supped in the garden of princes,
We all might have known would not we with the Rose."
"But wasn't
she proud when he showed her attention?

And she let him caress her," said sly Mignonette;
"And I used to see
it and blush for her folly.
The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet."
"I thought he was splendid," said pretty pert Larkspur,
"So dark, and so grand with that gay cloak of gold;
But he tried once
to kiss me, the impudent fellow!
And I got offended; I thought him too bold."
"Oh, fie!" laughed the
Almond, "that does for a story.
Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes;
And I saw you
reach out trying hard to detain him,
But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose.
"He cared nothing for her; he only was flirting
To while away time, as I very well knew;
So I turned a cold shoulder
on all his advances,
Because I was certain his heart was untrue."
"The Rose is served right
for her folly in trusting
An oily-tongued stranger," quoth proud Columbine.
"I knew what he
was, and thought once I would warn her,
But of course the affair was no business of mine."
"Oh, well," cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders,
"I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt;
But the Rose has been always
so praised and so petted,
I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt."
Just then came the
sound of a love-song sung sweetly,

I saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head;
And the talk of the
gossips was hushed in a moment,
And the flowers all listened to hear what was said.
And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o'er his shoulder,
Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose, And
whispered: "My darling,