THE WHIPPOORWILL1

Do you remember, father,
It seems so long ago,
The day we fished together
Along the Pocono?

At dusk I waited for you

Beside the lumber mill,

And there I heard a hidden bird
That chanted "whip-poor-will."

The place was all deserted;
The mill wheel hung at rest;
The lonely star of evening

Was quivering in the west;
The veil of night was falling;
The winds were folded still;
And everywhere the trembling air
Reëchoed "whip-poor-will."

You seemed so long in coming,

I felt so much alone;

The wide, dark world was round me,
And life was all unknown;

The hand of sorrow touched me,

And made my senses thrill

With all the pain that haunts the strain

Of mournful "whip-poor-will."

1By Henry van Dyke, an American poet and prose writer.

What did I know of trouble?
An idle little lad,

I had not learned the lessons

That make men wise and sad.
I dreamed of grief and parting,
And something seemed to fill
My heart with tears, while in my ears
Resounded "whip-poor-will."

'Twas but a shadowy sadness,
That lightly passed away;

But I have known the substance
Of sorrow since that day.
For nevermore at twilight,
Beside the silent mill,

I'll wait for you in the falling dew,
And hear the whippoorwill.

But if you still remember,

In that fair land of light,

The pains and fears that touch us

Along this edge of night,

I think all earthly grieving,

And all our mortal ill,

To you must seem like a boy's sad dream,

Who hears the whippoorwill.

HIDDEN TREASURE1

Once upon a time there was an old farmer that had heard or read about treasures being found in odd places,

a potful of gold pieces, or something of the sort, and it took root in his heart till nothing would satisfy him but he must find a potful of gold pieces, too. He spent all of his time hunting in this place and in that for buried treasures. He poked about all the old ruins in the neighborhood, and even wished to take up the floor of the church.

One morning he arose with a bright face and said to his wife, "It's all right, Mary. I've found the treasure."

"No! Have you though?" said she.

"Yes!" he answered; "at least it's as good as found. It's only waiting till I've had my breakfast, and then I'll go out and fetch it in."

"Oh, John! How did you find it?”

"It was revealed to me in a dream," said he, as grave

"Oh, how long you are at your breakfast, John! Let's hurry out and get it."

They went out together into the orchard.

1 By Charles Reade, an English novelist (1814-1884).

"Now which tree is it under?" asked the wife.

John scratched his head and looked very sheepish. "I'm blessed if I know!"

"Oh, you foolish fellow!" said the wife. "Why didn't you take the trouble to notice?"

"I did notice," said he. "I saw the exact tree in my dream, but now, there's so many of them, they muddle it all."

"Well, I think you're stupid," said the wife, angrily. "You ought to have cut a nick in the right one while you were there."

"That may be," answered John; "but now I see that I'll have to begin with the first tree and keep on digging till I come to the one with the treasure under it."

This made the wife lose all hope; for there were eighty apple trees and a score of cherry trees. She heaved a sigh, and said: "Well, I guess if you must, you must. But mind you don't cut any of the roots." John was in no good humor.

He abused the trees with all the bad words he could think of.

"What difference does it make if I cut all the roots? The old fagots aren't worth a penny apiece. The whole lot of them don't bear a bushel of good apples. In father's time they used to bear wagonloads of choice fruit. I wish they were every one dead!"

"Well, John," said the woman, trying to soothe his anger, "you know that father always gave them a good deal of attention."