Shall thrill with summer-thrushes' hymns,

While summer breezes blow apace,

If you will but forgive me, dear,

And let me find a moment's grace,

In your sweet eyes and your dear face.

R. W. C.

THE END.

CORRECTIONS

pageoriginal textcorrection
[ix][missing from contents]The Key to Grief 185
[13]BannelecBannalec
[23]BritonsBretons
[29]doxensdozens
[93]dateddarted
[103]
[104]
[180]
[181]		beachbeech
[135]SacréSacrée
[167]JaquesJacques
[181]theirthere