In my country we say, "Where the hea

, Miss, he's read through your letter To
the end,--and "the end came too soon;" That a "slight illness kept him
your debtor,"
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon); That "his spirits are buoyant
as yours is;" That with you,
Miss, he "challenges Fate,"

(Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to
relate). And he says "that the mountains are fairer For once being
held in your thought;" That each
rock "holds
a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought." (Which are
words he would put in these pages, By a party not
given to guile; Though the claim not, at date, paying
wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile.) He remembers the ball at
the

Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose
that you gave him,--that very Same rose he is "treasuring now." (Which
his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And
insists on his legs being free And his language to me from his bunk,
Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.) He hopes you are wearing no
willows, But are happy and gay all the while; That he knows--(which
this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the
same you will pardon)--he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a
mile, Yet, were HE lying under
the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile. And "you'll
still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of
the past; In this green laurel spray that he treasures,-- It was
plucked where your
parting was last; In this specimen,--but a small trifle,-- It will do
for a pin for your shawl." (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle,
Was his last week's "clean up,"--and HIS ALL.) He's asleep, which the
same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not

that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
In view that his
fever was high; But he lies there quite peaceful

and