And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.”
Bret Harte.
——:o:——
What is in a Name.
(From “Ravings,” by E. A. Poe—t.)
The autumn upon us was rushing,
The parks were deserted and lone—
The streets were unpeopled and lone;
My foot through the sere leaves was brushing,
That over the pathway were strown—
By the wind in its wanderings strown.