The Chap-book; semi-monthly . , and twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad; *—the rainbow hues of sunset did not tint the curtains ofnight for the little fete; but shadows crept softly over thehills, and settled down upon the verdant slopes. It wasthe month of roses, and the sun had poured itself intothe blossoms and into the berries, until they fairly filledthe air with their sweetness. My guests swarmed through the rooms and out uponthe loggia; and some strayed to the place where the littlechickens said peep! peep! and some went down by thepools where the frogs sang ditto. And
The Chap-book; semi-monthly . , and twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad; *—the rainbow hues of sunset did not tint the curtains ofnight for the little fete; but shadows crept softly over thehills, and settled down upon the verdant slopes. It wasthe month of roses, and the sun had poured itself intothe blossoms and into the berries, until they fairly filledthe air with their sweetness. My guests swarmed through the rooms and out uponthe loggia; and some strayed to the place where the littlechickens said peep! peep! and some went down by thepools where the frogs sang ditto. And then, as the dark-ness gathered, they all settled upon the veranda rail andupon the steps and upon the floor in groups which broughtsunlight into the shadows of night, and merry laughteralternated with vibrating strings and choral song. AndI am sure that the scribe was not the only one whoregretted it when the curfew sounded, and in a ramblingline these bright-hued birds of passage disappeared in thedarkness. William B-CORSON-DAY- IMANGI LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 259 A DEAD POET HE was the brightest thing beneath the sun—I Joy had of her his will ; And now her singing life is spent and world seems strange and chill. Louise Chandler Moulton. MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE is an Irish-man, and on occasion not averse to talkingabout himself. He was in a capitally confi-dential mood one day as we walked together up North-umberland Avenue, and from a chaos of jest and anec-dote I disentangled a few of the facts of his life. I canset them down as he told them to me ; but the mannerof the man — the perpetual twinkle in his eye, the mag-nificent laugh that sprang from his midriff, ran over hisface and finally shook hands at the back of his neck —you must imagine for yourselves. ** Do nt you think you are producing too quickly ?I chanced to ask him. * Popularity brings temptation,I know. But you seem to be writing two or three novelsa year, besides
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