The Argosy — page 321: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

300 A Drive to the Land’s E nd, and the chapel. ‘The former was, in the old days, the refectory of the monks. In the latter Divine Service is held every Sunday ; and when the tide serves many a small boat may be seen rowing across with its freight of worshippers. : The morning unfortunately was cloudy, and later on we drove into Helston in a deluge of rain. A quiet town: a stream of running water rippling through its streets, in colour red: proving that in its hidden course through the earth, it has come into contact with the old red sand- stone. It was market-day. The place was crowded with buyers and sellers ; with stalls and carts of every shape and description. Here we halted two hours for the sake of the horses. But in the excitement and - bustle of a market-day the time passed pleasantly and quickly. Long before those two hours were over the weather had unexpectedly cleared, and the sun shot forth its enlivening beams. Thus favoured, we set out on our last stage, reaching Falmouth and home about six in the even- ing. So ended one of the most charming and delightful excursions to be made in the south or west of England. C.. Wei. es I TG Te ee THREE YEARS OLD. A DAINTY rose-bud peeping From out its guardian sheath ; A tiny streamlet creeping Across some rugged heath ; The rosy flush, faint dawning Over the eastern sky, Telling of rising morning, And making night-shades fiy :— Which is the fittest type of thee, My winsome little maid of three? An earnest spirit purely Looks from those liquid eyes— A spirit kindred surely With souls beyond the skies ; Thy soft round cheeks are glowing With feeling unexpressed ; Thy free young thoughts are flowing Towards regions not yet guessed : All earth is fairy-land to thee, My trusting, wond’ring babe of three. And must the bright dreams vanish The fantoms fade away ? Will times so sternly banish All that is fresh and gay ? Ah ! life is changing ever As on and on it flows ; The thought becomes endeavour ; The bud a perfect rose. But still the bud is sweetest ; | A story just beginning ; The first scene of a play ; A game while yet the winning Is far and far away. A feathery cloudlet, winging Its silvery course to rain ; A new thought shapeless springing Up from the teeming brain :— All things of promise image thee, — TT My smiling little girl of three. Not sweeter are the spring flow’rs That rise from out the snow ; Not fresher April’s sun-show’ rs That gladden all below ; Not softer or more blameless The gently cooing dove ; Not fairer or more stainless The clear blue vault above : Less precious richest mine of gold Then thee, dear child of three years old. We love the rising thought ; Though caim to age is meetest, We count it dearly bought At price of childhood’s mirthfulness ; As, at price of childhood’s bloom, Wisdom, and wisdom’s mournfulness In the shadow of the tomb, Ah ! couldst thou ever, ever be A happy child of only three ! EMMA RHODES. Eomichbooks.com