A VACATION MEMORY.

DOWN a spring-scented bridle-path,

The fresh woods hanging over,

And out into the light again,

Across bee-haunted clover,

Our weary horses, side by side,

Drooping their heads together,

Crushed the sweet Mayflower, trailing wide, -

Trampled the fern's green feather.

The April sunlight through the trees,

Across our pathway shining,

Turns dew-drops diamonds on the vines

Among the boughs entwining.

A prettier picture never has

Pencil or pen depicted;

That homeward heartless I should ride

Small wisdom had predicted!

Ah! could we thus forever stay,

I riding by your bridle, -

Why can't we always be at play,

And I be always idle?

J. K. M.