[MILADY'S CAST-OFFS.]
I found a garment yesterday
A-lying on the hills;
'Twas rare with radiant coloring
And rich with gleaming frills:
A skirt of crinkled golden-rod
And purple-aster sleeves,
A belt of burning cardinals,
A mantle of brown leaves,
And a bodice of the laces
That the dandelion weaves.
A bonnet trimmed with thistle-blooms
Was lying not far off,
And sandals made of birchen bark
Were satin—brown and buff;
And dainty, dainty mittens
Were lying here and there,
Grown by the loving sumach-tree
For hands both small and fair,
With other witching trinkets that
A woodsy nymph might wear.
I touched the garments tenderly
As they were lying there,
And longed to see the maiden who
Such finery did wear;
So roaming through the woodland dale,
And searching every nook,
I paused at last to listen
To the prattle of the brook,
And all the pretty tale he knew
Just like a little book:
These were the gorgeous autumn robes
Of Nature not long since,
But now she'll dress in gems and white,
For she's to wed a prince—
The wondrous, jolly Winter Prince,
Fast coming from the north,
His heralds speeding on the wind,
Their trumpets shouting mirth;
And soon a snow-white wedding-feast
Will spread all o'er the earth.
Sarah Stirling McEnery.
[GORGONZOLA, THE AUTHOR.]
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
It was upon the occasion of my second visit to Schnitzelhammerstein on the Zugvitz that my friend Hans Pumpernickel, who, as some of you may remember, is the Mayor of the queer old city, let me into the secret of poor old Gorgonzola's embarrassing situation. We were taking one of our usual summer-evening walks on the banks of the Zugvitz, and on our way back to Hans's residence we passed a gloomy-looking old house on the right-hand side of the Hochstrasse, near the public gardens. With the exception of a dim light which struggled through a window on the top floor, the mansion was in utter darkness, and was, in fact, in such strong contrast to the general air of cheerfulness which is one of the strongest attributes of this broad avenue that I remarked it.
"Dear me!" I cried, as I stood before it. "What a place of gloom! It reminds me of a small black cloud on an otherwise perfect sky. Who lives there?"
"It is the home of poor old Gorgonzola, the author," said Hans, shaking his head sadly. "The light you see is from his study—his den. It is there that he is at work."
I did not like to confess my ignorance by telling Hans that I had never heard of Gorgonzola, the author. For all I knew, Gorgonzola, the author, might be one of the features of the town, and so, wishing neither to betray my ignorance nor to offend my kindly host, I said: