And her cheeks were cold, too,
Though it wasn't quite right,
So cold was the night,
And so sad was her plight,
That I--well, wouldn't you?
So cold was the night,
And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H.
_Amherst Literary Monthly._


~The Portrait.~

Pearls and patches, powder and paint,
This was her grandmother years ago.
Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,
Features just lacking the prim of the saint,
From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;
High-heeled slippers and satin bow,
Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,
Free from passion, devoid of taint--
This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall.
Ah, how he loved her, years ago!
Just so she looked at that last dim ball,
When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,
They whispered together soft and low.
She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:"