_JULES' LETTER._

MA CHERE,

Since the morning we parted
On the slippery docks of Rochelle,
I have wandered, well nigh broken-hearted,
Through many a tree-shadowed dell:
I've hunted the otter and beaver,
Have tracked the brown bear and the deer,
And have lain almost dying with fever,
While not a companion was near.

I've toiled in the fierce heat of summer
Under skies like a great dome of gold,
And have tramped, growing number and number,
In winter through snowstorm and cold.
Yet the love in my heart was far hotter,
The fear of my soul far more chill,
As my thoughts crossed the wild waste of water
To your little home on the hill.

But now Father Time in a measure
Has reconciled me to my fate,
For I know he will bring my dear treasure
Back into my arms soon or late.
And, besides, every evening, when, weary,
I lie on my soft couch of pine,