POETRY.
HOLIDAYS.
IN the hot and dusty streets of London, 'Mid the rush and roar of toil and traffic, I can hear the voices of the sea, the mountain, And the far, wide-stretching moorland.
Child of Nature," so they cry, " come hither, Bring the flagging body, and the spirit Worn and chafed with petty troubles, mean dis- tractions, Disappointment, disillusion.
" Here the great, wise mot her has her dwelling. Let her lay her hand upon by forehead, There is healing in her tu .ch, and benediction In the smile that speaks 'ier welcome."
I will go and take my fill of sit .nce Broken only by the brattling sti 'amlet, By the plashing of the waves u, 'on the shingle, By the wind among the bran. es.
I will go and leave my cares behind :ae, I will be a child again and nestle On the bosom of my mother; she shall lull me With her ancient song to slumber.
But the hours of sleep will pass, and, waking, I shall hear the voices of the men and women Whom I love, the brothers and the sisters calling From the far-off, crowded city.
Then the quiet will begin to weary, Then the beauty it will pall upon me, And the mother's voice will whisper very gently, " Go, my child, thy Father calls thee."
B. PAUL NEUMAN.
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