844 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
Where all the little household pets were laid, 
We dug a grave, within the garden bed— 
Buried the ashes of the little maid, 
And set the tiny tablet at the head. 
Upon the pillow tossed the restless head— 
Taugled the golden hair so soft and line. 
I bent my ear to hear the words she said, 
And field the tiny wasted hand in mine. 
Her little treasures placed with tender care 
Within the grave the crystal urn around, 
(The gardener looking on with puzzled air), 
And then we left them peaceful 'neatli the ground. 
" Papa,” she said, “ How kind you’ve been to mo 1 
You let me have my way—I thank you so— 
About the little Roman girl. ’Tis she 
Who first will meet me when to heaven I go. 
The summer came, the Violets were in bloom; Then I will lead her to dear Grandmamma, 
But one fair Lily soon must fade away. And to Aunt Mary, who have gone before, 
Outside all brightness, but within was gloom, And she will love you, too. my own Papa, 
As that sweet blossom wasted day by day. And—when—you—come—” but site could say no more. 
Long years apart, yet side by side they rest 
Within the garden, by the Willow tree. 
And on the stone (’twas Lily's last request), 
Is “ Let the little ones come unto Me." 
M. E. B. 
AFTER THE STORM. 
"Hark ! what is that?” 
Leyton grasped the arm of his friend as he spoke, and 
both paused to listen. From the low-walled hut before 
which they were standing the sound was repeated. 
The speaker loosened his grasp with a sigh of relief. 
“Why, bless you! it’s Lita.” he said. “What music 
the little organ is making to-night! ” 
“ Poor, little, blind girl! How much comfort she 
takes with it,” remarked his companion. 
“Yes. When these miners bought that little music- 
box they made a good investment. Listen ! ” 
The music had begun again. At first it came stealing 
out with such a low, plaintive sound, one might easily 
have fancied that it was only the night wind creeping 
softly round the walls of the little cabin: then it swelled 
into something louder, deeper, and more solemn; but 
there was a subtile, yet indefinable, something in its 
nature which caused the listeners to thrill with exulta¬ 
tion and grow cold with dread. It seemed as though a 
spirit, more than mortal, had taken possession of the 
little instrument, and through its deep voice was breath¬ 
ing out a prophecy of approaching disaster. 
Leyton felt a sudden breeze against his cheek and 
noticed, with alarm, that a dark storm-cloud had arisen 
in the west. There had been one storm since his arrival 
from the East, and he dreaded to see another. A heavy 
sigh at his elbow caused both men to turn in that direc¬ 
tion. Lame Joe had come up noiselessly behind them 
and stood leaning against a rock. He, too, was listening 
and wiping an occasional tear from his eye; for the 
music had grown sad and dirge-like as a funeral hymn, 
with a lingering, a quivering anguish echoing through 
it which betokened that the soul of the musician was 
speaking through her music. 
But, even as they listened, the character of the melody 
slowly underwent a complete transformation, and from 
the depths of sorrow and despair it burst forth in a glad, 
exultant strain—a wild, free, flood of music. It was 
like the triumphant song of some captive bird which 
has beaten long its weary wings against the iron bars of 
a cruel prison-house, but, finding itself at liberty again, 
breaks forth into song as it wings its way toward heaven, 
above the clouds and storms. 
That was the end. 
Leyton and Mark Spencer passed on. The little girl’s 
present mood seemed to them too sacred for intrusion; 
but lame Joe stopped for the good-night kiss which the 
child was accustomed to bestow upon him. 
Poor, old Joe ! he was very lame. One leg had been 
left upon the battlefield of Fredricksburg, and its substi¬ 
tute was a rude, wooden stump; but, such as it was, he 
would gladly have worn it to splinters at Lita Cohen’s 
service had the child permitted it. 
In spite of his affliction Joe Minion was a genial, old 
man with a kind word and helping hand for everybody; 
yet half the miners in that little camp could have told 
of a time when there was not a more intemperate man 
or harder character among them all than he. That was 
before the death of his wife, tidings of which had been 
a terrible blow; like a thunder-bolt, it had sundered the 
barriers of pride and selfishness, and penetrated his iron 
heart. 
Lita was comforter then. It was she who took him 
in hand, and petted and talked with him until his com¬ 
panions began to notice with wonder that he was grow¬ 
ing into a very different man—for sorrow had made the 
child sympathetic, and her strong influence over old Joe 
was in a great measure due to this fact. 
When John Cohen was killed by the falling of a 
boulder, Lita, little more than a babe then, had become 
an adopted child of the camp. Later, when an accident 
shut out forever the light from her beautiful eyes, she 
seemed suddenly to have grown nearer and dearer to 
each one and to become the object of especial care; yet, 
in spite of their kindness, there were times when she 
grew sad and lonesome. She used then to fly for conso¬ 
lation to her dear friend, the little organ, and draw from 
its bosom a melodious response to her mood. 
In strong contrast with the gray and faded old woman 
who was her attendant, or the bronzed, weather-beaten 
men about her, was this child of seven years. Like a 
rare, sweet blossom she was growing up in that wild 
