People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 52, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 June 1894 — A CORNER OF VERSE. [ARTICLE]

A CORNER OF VERSE.

If I Knew. If I knew the box where the smiles were kept, No matter how large the key Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard, "Twould open, I know, for me. Then over the land and the sea, broadcast, . I'd scatter the smiles to play. That the children's faces might hold them fast For many and many a day. If I knew a box that was large enough ■ To hold all the frowns I meet, I would like to gather them every one, From nursery, school and street. Then, folding and holding. I'd pack them in. And. turning the monster key, I'd hire a giant to drop the box To the depth of the deepest sen. —Maud Wyman, in Worthington’s Magazine. Won't Do. It won't do to give in, While still we're a-livln' An' sunshine is bright on the slope; When troubles are pressin', Jest think o’ some blessin'. An' hold down the pathway with Hopei It won't do to double The measure o’ trouble By givln’ in under the rod, While sweet birds are slngtn* An' sunrise is bringin' A smile from the Heavens o' God! —Atlanta Constitution. My Sweetheart. Her eyes are made for loving, her lips are made for kissing, Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide-and-seek; Her form is like a seraph's, no angel grace is missing, To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek. She loves me to distraction, her very action shows it, She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee, Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it. Because she calls me “papa,” this little maid of three! —Detroit Free Press. My Ideal and I. We did not meet in glittering hall, At birth and beauty's court, Nor yet a banquet, play or ball, The scenes of fashion’s sport; Nor anywhere among the throng Of gilded folly's slaves, Whose queen makes wealth the cloak of wrong. Whose kings are secret knaves. We did not meet among the flowers All in a garden fair, Where birds and bess beguile the hours, And love is in the air; Where nature dons her richest robe. To charm all eyes that see, And groups the graces of the globe In bowers of Arcady. We did not meet in foreign climes, 'Neath cold or sunny skies. Mid Scottish hills or Spanish limes, Or where sweet Como lies; We did not meet in summer, spring, In winter or in fall: ’deals are aye evanishing— We did not meet at all I —Arthur Grljeom, in Truth.