I'll tell thee everything I can:There's little to relate.I saw an aged aged man,A-sitting on a gate.'Who are you, aged man?' I said.'And how is it you live?'And his answer trickled through my head,Like water through a sieve.He said, 'I look for butterfliesThat sleep among the wheat:I make them into mutton-pies,And sell them in the street.I sell them unto men,' he said,'Who sail on stormy seas;And that's the way I get my bread,A trifle, if you please.'But I was thinking of a planTo dye one's whiskers green,And always use so large a fanThat they could not be seen.So having no reply to giveTo what the old man said, I cried'Come, tell me how you live!'And thumped him on the head.His accents mild took up the tale:He said 'I go my ways,And when I find a mountain-rill,I set it in a blaze;

George Fuller    Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth    Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair    Her shapes took color in thy homestead air!    How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth!    Magician! who from commonest elements    Called up divine ideals, clothed upon    By mystic lights soft blending into one    Womanly grace and child-like innocence.    Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain.    Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin;    Art's place is sacred: nothing foul therein    May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.    If rightly choosing is the painter's test,    Thy

 By Madison Julius Cawein Part IVLate Autumn     They who die young are blest. -        Should we not envy such?     They are Earth's happiest,        God-loved and favored much! -     They who die young are blest.1Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy - like leaves of MayIn the rills. -Still I sit