A YEAR’S WOOING.

’Twas autumn when first they stood on the bridge; Ripe pears on the pear-tree, ripe corn on the ridge; The swallows flew swiftly far up in the blue, And speeding still southward, were lost to the view. Said he: ‘Can you love me, as I can love you?’ She said, quite demurely: ‘Already I do!’ ’Twas winter when next they met on the bridge; The pear-trees were brown, and white was the ridge; The swallows were feathering their nests in Algiers. She looked in his face, and she burst into tears! His nose it was pinched, and his lips they were blue. Said she: ‘I can’t love you!’ Said he: ‘Nor I you!’ ’Twas spring-time when next they stood on the bridge, And white was the pear-tree, and green was the ridge; The swallows had thoughts of a speedy return; And the midges were dancing a-down the brown burn. He said: ‘Pretty maiden, let by-gones go by— Can you love me again?’ She said: ‘I can try.’ ’Twas summer when next they stood on the bridge; There were pears on the pear-tree, tall corn on the ridge; The swallows wheeled round them, far up in the blue, Then swooped down and snapped up a midgelet or two. Said he: ‘Lest some trifle should come in the way, And part us again, will you mention the day?’ She stood, looking down on the fast-flowing rill, Then answered, demurely: ‘As soon as you will!’ H. L. R.