And when we came at last to meet,
I spoke a simple word to her,
“Where are you going, Marie ?”

She answered and she did not smile, But oh, her voice, - her voice so sweet,

“ Down to St. Irénée,"

And so passed on to walk her mile, And left the lonely road to me.

A LITTLE SONG

CITY about whose brow the north winds

blow, Girdled with woods and shod with river

foam, Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, Be great as they but pure as thine own

snow; Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, The Lamia city of the northern star, Than be so hard with craft or wild with

war, Peopled with deeds remembered for their Thou art too bright for guile, too young for

tears, And thou wilt live to be too strong for

Time; For he may mock thee with his furrowed

frowns, But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the

years, Cinctured with peace and crowned with

power sublime, The maiden queen of all the towered towns.

woe.

THE sunset in the rosy west

Burned soft and high ; A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest

In the waving rye.

A wind came over the garden beds

From the dreamy lawn,
The pansies nodded their purple heads,

The poppies began to yawn.
One pansy said : It is only sleep,

Only his gentle breath :
But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap,

For the rose it was only death.
Heigho, we've only one life to live,

And only one death to die : Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing

to give ? Good-bye, old world, good-bye.

AT THE CEDARS

You had two girls - Baptiste -
One is Virginie
Hold hard — Baptiste !
Listen to me.

AT LES ÉBOULEMENTS

The whole drive was jammed,
In that bend at the Cedars ;
The rapids were dammed
With the logs tight rammed
And crammed; you might know
The Devil had clinched them below.

THE bay is set with ashy sails,

With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales

The tide is straining from the sea. The grassy points are slowly drowned,

The water laps and overrolls The wicker pêche ; with shallow sound

A light wave labors on the shoals.

We worked three days — not a budge! “She's as tight as a wedge On the ledge,” Says our foreman : “Mon Dieu ! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear.”