Part 8 (2/2)

But the thoughts of the master were drifting far To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar; To the time when another had danced as well, And listened with tenderness in her eyes, To the burning words his lips might tell, With kisses freighting her soft replies.

And he had thought that her smile would bless His roving life, in the land afar, And cheer him in hours of loneliness, In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar.

But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, And the flattered woman had turned and fled From the pleading voice of a stricken man; Then out of the desert the lover sped, To become a great lord of Ispahan.

And now this child, with the subtle grace Of the mother that bore her, had come to him With the desert's breath upon her face, Rousing within him a purpose grim.

”By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be The light and the joy of my life to me!

As your mother was, you are to-day.

Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span; You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay As the wife of the lord of Ispahan.”

That night, when the dusky shadows crept Across the tiles of the banquet-room, They found the form of a man who slept On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom.

The window screens were wide to the air, And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where A frightened fugitive might pa.s.s through.

And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, Wakened not at the prancing tread Of the milk-white steed and made no sign, As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled.

And the indolent lord of Ispahan Seemed resting still, on the silk divan; But his heart was beating with love no more, In his eyes no light of pa.s.sion gleamed; His listless fingers touched the floor, Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep; For the end had come to life's brief span; And his jewelled dagger was handle deep, In the heart of the lord of Ispahan.

HORNETS.

BY BILL NYE.

Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory, with a red place all around it.

Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud.

When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to sc.r.a.pe them off, because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct toward a hornet.

I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is forever new.

SINCE SHE WENT HOME.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

Since she went home-- The evening shadows linger longer here, The winter days fill so much of the year, And even summer winds are chill and drear, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The robin's note has touched a minor strain, The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- How still the empty room her presence blessed; Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest, Since she went home.

Since she went home-- The long, long days have crept away like years, The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, Since she went home.

THE CHILDREN WE KEEP.

The children kept coming, one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three, And the big brown house was alive with fun From the bas.e.m.e.nt floor to the old roof-tree.

Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care; Warmed by love's suns.h.i.+ne, bathed in its dew, They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, ”I'm tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest.”

She cradled him close in her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lighted his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the ”brook and the river meet,”

Stole softly away into paradise Ere ”the river” had reached her slender feet.

While the father's eyes on the grave are bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies; ”Our treasures,” she whispered, ”were only lent, Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise.”

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