Five O'Clock.

A score of whistles wail in differentkeys,
And soon the traffic in the roaring street
Grows thicker, more impatient, home-going feet
Make rapid rhythm as the people pass
In streaming crowds that surge their separate ways,
Unheeding now the artful, bright dis-plays
That breathe their subtle lure through plated glass.
Within the milk-bars globes of warm light glow,
And rosy neon signs begin to flare
More richly in the smoke-blue evening air.
Like sleek black beetles that have golden eyes,
Cars weave and glide and scurry to and fro;
The mournful bleating of the paper boys
Cuts sharp and thin across the throbbing noise
The traffic makes; trams rattle on their way,
Grind over intersections, clang and sway,
Packed close with people who have left behind
Warehouses, workshops, factories and mills,
And carefree now, elate of heart and mind,
Jostle and cling to straps, their faces turned
Towards the home-lights spattered onthe hills.

—Katherine O'Brien.

* * *

To Elizabeth M—,
On Her Twelfth Birthday.

My dear Elizabeth. It irks me sore
To think that on the eleventh you should be
All unremembered of those days of yore
When friendship played a part 'twixt thee and me,
Therefore by virtue of that bond of friendship, I,
This gift now send to keep me in your memory.
Too soon, I fear, you have to twelve years grown,
So swiftly run the years,—frail sighs of Time,
Faint breathings of Time's weariness outblown
Athwart Man's destiny, like frosty rime.
Seems only yesterday this mischief-loving elf
Sat on my knee a tale to hear, forgetful of herself.
And I would watch your face change as the tale
Zig-zagged a course from shade to sunshine, shift
To the unexpected, never growing stale,
But ever dancing on with upward lift.
And as each story dealt with things both weird and strange,
So your face, close to mine, suffered a constant change.
Those tales of cats and dogs, of frogs and mice,
Of rabbits, worms and flies—are gone the way
Of many things quite valueless, but nice,
That entertain one's fancy for a day.
Well, let them go! They served a purpose of their own.
And now your clock strikes twelve and you a school-girl grown!
This little birthday gift I haste to send
With many a loving wish for all that's fine
And worthy to adorn my one-time friend,
Whose baby-heart once beat in tune with mine.
May Love's seed grow into a widely spreading tree,
An emblem of some happy hours 'twixt thee and me.

—H. E. Gunter.

* * *

Laughter.

Glimpses of glowing loveliness
Through the dim green girdle of hedge;
Flashes of flaunting wonder
Piled high to the window-ledge.
Glorious gold and mystic blue
Flowing over with gleaming fun;
Perfumed petals of every hue,
Laughing children of the sun.

—G. Harrison.

Nightfall.

The moth-hour of eve is no time to be roaming,
When the hills are all blue and remote in the gloaming,
So I bade him be home ere the set of the sun,
O where are you playing, my littlest one?
Is it keeping a tryst with the fairies you be,
Or reaping the riches of someone's fruit tree?
Ah! woe to the mother who has for a son,
Such a reckless and mischievous littlest one.
Come home, lad, come home, for the shadows are thick,
And the darkness is deep—sure, it is a stout stick,
I'll be needing to teach ye a lesson my son,
(Is it you that is calling, my littlest one?)

—Patrice Morant.

* * *

Tar-Sealing.

They have sealed the road through Kelso bush
And up the mounting grade;
The speeding cars with thunder-rush
Flash through the forest shade.
Where once the old mail-coaches with their gallant teams toiled by,
The roar of open exhausts goes shrieking to the sky.
But still of a night, I have heard them say,
When the wind is from the west,
You may hear a whistle ringing gay
All down the Kelso crest.
And where the eerie shadows pass across the moonless sky,
You may hear the gallant hoof-beats of the old coach-teams go by.

—Joyce West.

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