To music of The raindrops on the pane, and wind that softly shrilled About the eaves, the treasure box was opened wide And its contents exposed to the rude gaze of one Too young, too worldly-wise to know their value great. I thought to see pearls, corals, quaint, old-fashioned gems, Or lace like gossamer creamed by the hand of time— Real treasures worthy of the hoarding.
Lo! I saw A leather-covered book, a worn and musty thing With ragged leaves and many marks. "What is it?" I asked; "To me it looks the school-book that some stupid child Has learned its lesson from." "And so it is," she smiled. "My father's testament, And at his knee I conned the Golden Rule, and all The wondrous truths that teach us how to live. 'Tis dear To me, you may suppose."
A knot of ribbon that Had once been blue, a braid of dark brown hair, a spray Of lily o' the valley, withered, sere, yet holding still a breath Of sweetness indescribable; some letters tied With silk, a broken fan, some verses scribbled on A yellow page, a baby's shoe, more letters, and, What think you, friend? A string of amber beads, without A trace of value—beads of glass strung on a bit Of twine. Aunt Persis took them in her hand and let The firelight play on them. "My grandmother's first gift," She said, and slipped them round her neck. "I love them best Of all my ornaments—each amber bead holds fast A joy caught in the childhood days of pleasantness, And when I sit here with the sparkling things held close The joys they gathered long ago slip from them to My heart, and ere I know, I am a child once more.
"Treasures! Nay, dear one, in your clear young eyes I see The disappointment grow—no treasures these, you say; These faded things, and poor, these musty, ragged things— But some day in the gloaming of your life you'll ope Your treasure box, and find a hoard of just such things As these—a few rare trifles wrapped in memories.
THE MESSAGE.
My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands A spray of lilies plucked below the brook Where the old ruin of a chapel stands— A ruin tenanted by many a nook, And all the grayness of it hid from sight By gracious draping of the ivy green. Sweet lilies, 'tis your glorious fate to-night To lie upon her breast, to send between Her silken bodice and the heart beneath The fragrance given you by sun and shower. Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath Till, 'mid the dance and music of the hour, She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face, With: "Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!"