LITMIR.BIZ

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path, and seeing all the old sights! Things haven't changed a bit, Arthur; the woods look exactly the same, and the bridge hasn't altered a mite since the days we used to sit on the edge and let our feet hang in. Do you remember that, Arthur?”

      “Perfectly,” was the answer.

      “And that was over a dozen years ago! How old are you now, Arthur—twenty-one—no, twenty-two; and I am just nineteen. To-day is my birthday, you know!”

      “I had not forgotten it, Helen.”

      “You came to welcome me! And so did everything else. Do you know, I don't think I'd ever been so happy in my life as I was just now. For I thought the old trees greeted me, and the bridge, and the stream! And I'm sure that was the same bobolink! They don't have any bobolinks in Germany, and so that one was the first I have heard in three years. You heard him, didn't you, Arthur?”

      “I did—at first,” said Arthur.

      “And then you heard me, you wicked boy! You heard me come in here singing and talking to myself like a mad creature! I don't think I ever felt so like singing before; they make hard work out of singing and everything else in Germany, you know, so I never sang out of business hours; but I believe I could sing all day now, because I'm so happy.”

      “Go on,” said the other, seriously; “I could listen.”

      “No; I want to talk to you just now,” said Helen. “You should have kept yourself hidden and then you'd have heard all sorts of wonderful things that you'll never have another chance to hear. For I was just going to make a speech to the forest, and I think I should have kissed each one of the flowers. You might have put it all into a poem—for oh, father tells me you're going to be a great poet!”

      “I'm going to try,” said Arthur, blushing.

      “Just think how romantic that would be!” the girl laughed; “and I could write your memoir and tell all I knew about you. Tell me about yourself, Arthur—I don't mean for the memoir, but because I want to know the news.”

      “There isn't any, Helen, except that I finished college last spring, as I wrote you, and I'm teaching school at Hilltown.”

      “And you like it?”

      “I hate it; but I have to keep alive, to try to be a poet. And that is the news about myself.”

      “Except,” added Helen, “that you walked twelve miles this glorious Saturday morning to welcome me home, which was beautiful. And of course you'll stay over Sunday, now you're here; I can invite you myself, you know, for I've come home to take the reins of government. You never saw such a sight in your life as my poor father has made of our house; he's got the parlor all full of those horrible theological works of his, just as if God had never made anything beautiful! And since I've been away that dreadful Mrs. Dale has gotten complete charge of the church, and she's one of those creatures that wouldn't allow you to burn a candle in the organ loft; and father never was of any use for quarreling about things.” (Helen's father, the Reverend Austin Davis, was the rector of the little Episcopal church in the town of Oakdale just across the fields.) “I only arrived last night,” the girl prattled on, venting her happiness in that way instead of singing; “but I hunted up two tallow candles in the attic, and you shall see them in church to-morrow. If there's any complaint about the smell, I'll tell Mrs. Dale we ought to have incense, and she'll get so excited about that that I'll carry the candles by default. I'm going to institute other reforms also—I'm going to make the choir sing in tune!”

      “If you will only sing as you were singing just now, nobody will hear the rest of the choir,” vowed the young man, who during her remarks had never taken his eyes off the girl's radiant face.

      Helen seemed not to notice it, for she had been arranging the marigolds; now she was drying them with her handkerchief before fastening them upon her dress.

      “You ought to learn to sing yourself,” she said while she bent her head down at that task. “Do you care for music any more than you used to?”

      “I think I shall care for it just as I did then,” was the answer, “whenever you sing it.”

      “Pooh!” said Helen, looking up from her marigolds; “the idea of a dumb poet anyway, a man who cannot sing his own songs! Don't you know that if you could sing and make yourself gloriously happy as I was just now, and as I mean to be some more, you could write poetry whenever you wish.”

      “I can believe that,” said Arthur.

      “Then why haven't you ever learned? Our English poets have all been ridiculous creatures about music, any how; I don't believe there was one in this century, except Browning, that really knew anything about it, and all their groaning and pining for inspiration was nothing in the world but a need of some music; I was reading the 'Palace of Art' only the other day, and there was that 'lordly pleasure house' with all its modern improvements, and without a sound of music. Of course the poor soul had to go back to the suffering world, if it were only to hear a hand-organ again.”

      “That is certainly a novel theory,” admitted the young poet. “I shall come to you when I need inspiration.”

      “Come and bring me your songs,” added the girl, “and I will sing them to you. You can write me a poem about that brook, for one thing. I was thinking just as I came down the road that if I were a poet I should have beautiful things to say to that brook. Will you do it for me?”

      “I have already tried to write one,” said the young man, hesitatingly.

      “A song?” asked Helen.

      “Yes.”

      “Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to me?”

      “When?”

      “Now, if you can remember it,” said Helen. “Can you?”

      “If you wish it,” said Arthur, simply; “I wrote it two or three months ago, when the country was different from now.”

      He fumbled in his pocket for some papers, and then in a low tone he read these words to the girl:

AT MIDNIGHT

       Table of Contents

      The burden of the winter

       The year haa borne too long,

       And oh, my heart is weary

       For a springtime song!

       The moonbeams shrink unwelcomed

       From the frozen lake;

       Of all the forest voices

       There is but one awake

       I seek thee, happy streamlet

       That murmurest on thy way,

       As a child in troubled slumber

       Still dreaming of its play;

       I ask thee where in thy journey

       Thou seeest so fair a sight,

       That thou hast joy and singing

       All through the winter night.

      Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said, “I think that is beautiful, Arthur; but it is not what I want.”

      “Why not?” he asked.

      “I should have liked it when you wrote it, but now the spring has come, and we must be happy. You have heard the springtime song.”

      “Yes,” said Arthur, “and the streamlet has led me to the beautiful sight.”

      “It is beautiful,” said Helen, gazing about her with that naive unconsciousness which “every wise man's son doth know” is one thing he may never trust in a woman. “It could not be more beautiful,” she added,

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