SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY: ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Three days she wandered forth from me, Then sought me as of old.

"I did not know how dark 'twould be,"

She sobbed, "nor yet how cold.

"And it is chill for me to fare Who have not long been dead.

If thou wouldst give away thy cloak I might go comforted."

I would have soothed her on my breast But that she needs must go.

The dead must journey without rest Whether they will or no.

But I had kept for love of her The cloak she wore, the shoes, And every day I touched the things She had been wont to use.

All night the dead must hurry on, They may not ever sleep.

And so I gave away her cloak That I was fain to keep.

The second time she sought me out Her eyes were full of need.

"If thou wouldst give away my shoes Perchance I would not bleed."

I cried to her aloud, "My child, They are all I have to keep, To lay my hand upon and touch At night before I sleep.

"The earth shall keep the body I bore, And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose.

Let be--I ask a little thing, That I should keep thy shoes.

"But I will give away my own.

Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see?

Let Thou her road to Paradise This way be eased by me."

All night alone by brier and stone I ran that road unshod, So I might know instead of her The pains that lead to G.o.d.

When next she came for a brief s.p.a.ce She tarried at my side, So happy was she in that place, So glad that she had died.

"The last night that I roamed," she said, "Some one had gone before.

I followed where those feet had led, And found it rough no more.

"And then I came to a good place, So kind, so dear are they I may not come again," and so She smiled and went away.

Dear Christ, Who died to save us all, Who trod the ways so cold and wild, The love of Mary in thy heart Did let me ease my child.

She may not leave the place of bliss, I may not touch her hands and hair, But every night I touch and kiss The shoes she used to wear.

THE OPEN DOOR: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks, When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks.

While bare black night through empty cas.e.m.e.nts staring Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead, Fast along the s...o...b..und waste little feet are faring-- Hush and listen--listen--but never turn your head.

Leave the door upon the latch--she could never reach it-- You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day, Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it, Weeping as once in the long years past away.

Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you-- Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay: Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you?

There all her toys were kept, there she used to play.

Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays: Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter, Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways.

Falls as it once fell on a tide past over, Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone; And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone.

Far or near no one knew--none would now remember Where she wandered no one knew--none will ever know; Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.

MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS: MARGUERITE ELIZABETH EASTER

They are my laddie's hounds That rin the wood at brak o' day.

Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds At brak o' day?

They cleek aff thegither, And then fa' back, wi' room atween For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen The baith cleek aff thegither Wi' ane atween!

And when toward the pines Up yonder lane they loup alang I see ae laddie brent and strang, I see ae laddie loup alang Toward the pines.

I follow them in mind Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,-- They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae An' skir the field; I follow them, I ken the way.

They daddle at the creek, Whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs, An' drink o' springs that spait the creek Maist to the logs.

He's but a bairn, atho'

He hunts the mountain's lonely bree, His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee He ties; he's but a bairn, atho'

He hunts the bree.

Fu' length they a' stretch out Upon ae bink that green trees hap In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out Whaur green trees hap.

And noo he fades awa'

Frae 'tween the twa--into the blue.

My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true That he has gane for aye awa Into the blue!

They are my laddie's hounds That mak the hill at fa' o' day Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say _Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_ _Till fa' o day?_

THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN

The boys who used to come and go In the grey kindly house are flown.

They have taken the way the young feet know; Not alone, not alone!

Thronged is the road the young feet go.

Yet in the quiet evening hour What comes, oh, lighter than a bird?

Touches her cheek, soft as a flower.

What moved, what stirred?

What was the joyous whisper heard?

What flitted in the corridor Like a boy's shape so dear and slight?

What was the laughter ran before?