That's Sophrony Selwood in the kitchen, and she's goin' to stay there till she dies—or gets married."
She closed her eyes to hide the starting tears, but they forced their way through the interlaced lashes. Suddenly she turned to him and spoke the thought that filled her heart.
"Oh, Abra'm, it was so long! Why didn't you try to find me? Why didn't you come sooner?"
"My land, Sairy, I never once thought of the dugout! I was too busy lookin' everywhere else for you. First of all, I drove clear over to Lizy's to see if you was there. That's a good sixteen miles, you know, and took a big slice out of the first day. Then we went to all the neighbors and hunted the whole place over, but none of us ever thought of the dugout: I don't know why, but we didn't. Then that night Mis' Howard come over and told me—well, what you said to her, you know, Sairy, and she—she spoke of the crick."
"The crick?" wonderingly.
"You know, Sairy!"—he suddenly bent over and put his arms around her and drew her to him—"I—was goin' to have the crick dragged to-day, and if I'd found you there, Sairy—I couldn't ever 've stood it."
"Pshaw, Abra'm," she whispered, chokingly, and put up her bandaged hand to stroke the furrowed stubble of his sunburned face.
THE MIRROR.
My mirror tells me that my face is fair,
And can I doubt but that it tells me true?
My mirror says that I have golden hair,
And cheeks like the wild rose, and eyes of blue.
I say, "Do I indeed these charms possess,
O trusty glass?" My mirror answers, "Yes."
When lovers' tales this heart all free from care
Have surfeited with flattery's cloying sweet,
Unto my mirror do I straight repair,
And cry, "O mirror, is this all deceit?
Say, do I merit praise and fond caress?"
Then doth my trusty mirror answer, "Yes."
Deem me not vain, I pray; for well I know
That when life's skies have lost their rosy hue
I must one day unto my mirror go
And say, "O tell me, mirror, is it true
That every day my youthful charms grow less?"
Then must my trusty mirror answer, "Yes."
And O I trust that in that later day,
The time of silvered hair and fading sight,
When I unto my looking-glass shall say,
"O mirror, with my beauty's waning light
Doth honor also fail and virtue go?"
Then may mine truthful mirror answer, "No."
Editor's Note.—The above poem was written about a year ago, when the author was but thirteen years old, and other poems of hers have already appeared in print. She is described by a member of her family as "a normal, unassuming child, with an unusual love of and taste for literature;" one who "has read quite extensively, and has been putting the works of her imagination into prose and verse since she was seven years of age." A thing of special interest in the poem is the correspondence it shows, in sentiment, form, and movement, with the choice lyrics of the seventeenth century.
