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ACROSTIC angels Baby Bob battle beautiful bees Beeswax bless blossoms and cover bosom brave breast breath Chagrin Falls choose to wear clover Scatter comrade country and lilies cover them tenderly crown darling dead dear girl death Dion Boucicault dream Droop softly endearing in heaven eyes fling flowers forever FOUR-LEAF CLOVER give golden grass grow hand heart hero Honolulu honor Kiss the green land lifted light lilies of snow lingers lips love's low o'er memory memory's Mobile Bay mother died mystic river never nevermore night Noblest of earth's o'er o'er the mounds Open the blind peace pines circle pinions pride RICHARD REALF rose San Francisco Sans Souci shadow shimmering sleep smile soft softly and low soldier song soul stars sweet blossoms fall sweet charity tears tell tender Terre Haute thee titles we claim to-day voice wait watch wing woman Zealandia Zouaves
Page 17 - I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls With vassals and serfs at my side And of all who assembled within those walls That I was the hope and the pride. I had riches too great to count, could boast Of a high ancestral name, But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, That you loved me still the same.
Page 19 - But memory is the only friend that grief can call its own.
Page 115 - From the breaths of human flowers ? Did some other winged thing tell them, When the bees, o'er drifts of snow, To her window came to perish. When she died, who loved them so ? How distinctly I remember...
Page 116 - Till the autumn sered the trees, Every twilight found my father Busy with his swarms of bees. For they loved him and caressed him With their gauzy, restless wings, Dusty with the yellow pollen, Girt about with golden rings.
Page 116 - And the angel that received him Must have told among the trees, When the dear old man, grown weary, Fell asleep among the bees. Busy...
Page 50 - No work to give him, — next thing he's dead. What did he die of, sir ? Can any one tell ? A fit did they think it was ? Last night he was well.
Page 51 - Rather late in the day, when a man's dead and still. Strikes me it don't count, to this, under my spade ; And as for the rest of him — stranger, that's played.
Page 50 - Why, he hadn't enough To pay for this hole in the sod, of the stuff. Friends, did you ask ? Oh, yes ! sometime or other ; Reckon, of course, the boy once had a mother.