THE FARMER'S PIPE.

Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey room; From the fading past evoke Forms that breathe of summer's bloom. Bashful Will and rosy Nell— Ah, I watch them now at play By the mossy wayside well As I did twelve years to-day. We were younger then, my pipe: You are dingy now and worn; And my fruit is more than ripe, And my fields are brown and shorn. Nell has merry eyes of blue, And is timid, pure, and mild; Will is fair and brave and true, And a neighboring farmer's child. Little maid is busy, too, Making rare, fictitious pies, Just as any wife would do, Looking, meanwhile, wondrous wise. Drawing water from the well, Delving sand upon the hill, Going here and there for Nell,— That's her helpmate, willing Will. Yonder, in the waning light, Hand in hand the truants come, Nell so fearful lest the night Should fall around her far from home. Fading, fading, skyward flies This joy-picture you have limned; Pipe of mine, the quiet skies Of my life you leave undimmed. Nell and Will are lovers now; There they stray in dying light. That's a kiss! Ah, well, somehow Nell's no more afraid at night!