A CHILD In a meadow one summer day 

Laughingly gathered the flowers in play, 

And tossed them into the rippling tide 

That to his prattle in murmur replied. 

"Give me something, brook!" he said, 

In trustful innocence, nodding his head.

The years rolled on, the years rolled by; 

The tears of a child are quickly dry.

The child, to manhood's stature grown, 

Stood by the stream of the world alone; 

He flung to it the work of his heart; 

He said, "In thy life I shall have a part; 

Thou wilt bring me friends and fame who knows?" 

And the hurrying stream in music rose.

The years roll on, the years roll by;

In the heart of the man lies a hidden sigh.

An aged man leaned silently

O'er the stream that glides to eternity;

He thought of the honest work of years,

Of vanished dreams, of unshed tears;

"Bear me on, O stream!" said he,

"There's a world where rich reward I see."

The solemn flood moved slowly on;

The flower, the work, the life, were gone.

The years roll on, the years roll by;

In hope we live, in hope we die.

J. F. T. 

Rome Journal.