too 



RE( HON. 



A.s I sit at ■; desk writing and look up 

 at the mallard drake and the little spar- 

 the cabinet, fehe vis 



of that spring ng conies before me. 



and again I see the quiet lake, the nodding 

 willows and wooded hills: but above all 

 there Roats a clear, -wee: song, no^ hushed 

 in the sadness of a little tragedy. 



THE SICK MAN'S RKOUEST 



A. I. YEKMU.YA. 



Take me back toward the sunset, to the 



mountains of the West, 

 Where all nature, sweetly smiling, 'eve... es 



of quietude and res: 

 Let me see again the foothills, lee me hear 



the coyote call. 

 When the Western day s dying and the 



shades of evening fall. 



Then 1 see a line of wagons crawling 

 slow '.;■■ e'er the plain. 

 ... the shouting of the drivers, hear the 



maidens' songs again; 

 jnd the camp beside the river, when the 

 sun was going down. 

 Wakens fond and pleasant mem'ries long 

 forgotten in the town. 



For the e ay's clamor hurts me. and the 



thick air of the street 

 Sweeping in my open window chokes me 



with its dust and h< 

 And I think and dream of summers in the 



days : long ag 

 Till my heart is torn with longing for the 



scenes I used tc know. 



- v the journey o'er the prairie, with the 

 hot sun overhead. 



toward the land of promise hour by 

 hour the pathway U 



Every day fresh wonders ened. e 

 mile brought something new, 

 our wea ness quick vanished when 

 the ■ untains came in view. 



Take me back toward the sunset, to the 

 mountains >f the West, 



Where all nature, sweetly smiling, breathes 



of quietude and . - 

 Let me see again tie f let me hear 



the c '; tc cal 

 W "a en the western is dying and the 



shades oi ei ening h 



'"Beg pardon." said the long haired 

 visit is there a literarj club around 



here anywhere?" 



"Yes.'' replied the 

 as he reached under his desk. Are you a 

 literary man? — Catholic Standard. 





