POETRY.

TO MY CAT. Wawa sprays of roses fall, Hiding the old moat wall, 'Neath the white lilies tall.

Stretched out he lies. Purring in utter bliss, Who is so staunch as this Friend from Persepolis With golden eyes?. Stately as Kings should be, Prince of rare courtesy, Still in adversity, Ever a friend.

Vision of mystic grace, Pride of the feline race,

Leave your warm sunny place,

Come and unbend.

Where did we meet of yore On what unearthly shore?

When have I seen before Those wondrous eyes?

Art thou some friend that palmed O'er the dark stream aghast, Finding his rest at last 'Neath Summer skies?

With beryl eyes agleam,

Watching the still moonbeam, Through painted windows stream, What dolt thou see?

Is it the fairy folk,

Flitting o'er beech and oak, Beady at morning stroke,

Traceless to flee?

Is it some knight a? old, Riding in mail and gold,

Over the moonlit wold,

On to his love?

Or a pale friar gray, Pausing a prayer bo say, Wending his silent way, To God above?

When the dark momenta oeme,

And I sit gray and dumb,

Casting the weary sum Of sorrows borne, I hear not your velvet tread,

But feel a soft brown bead,

A. if you gently said " A happier morn." EVELYN GaANt-DUPT.