Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed
By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar,
The few may deem as worthy to be named,
(As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!
THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END.
BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO.
Last from the church came the organist, Daniel Summerman. He was less
hurried than others; to him it was not, as to people in general, a day of
increased social responsibility. His great duty was now performed. Done,
whether well or ill. He descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so
light you might have taken it for a child's. No need for him to haste; the
precious moments would go fast enough--he wished not to lose one.
In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his woollen gloves, and button
his great coat, and for something besides. Perhaps the person who laid the
wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was somewhere about, and had
some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.
But he descended the church steps without having met even the sexton;
somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger
standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of
a child who died in October, five years old.
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