With hidden meaning fraught.

Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,
Challenge if I dare,
Vie with amorous sunbeams burning
O'er her face and hair.

But a truce to idle musing--
That was long ago.
Was she gracious or refusing?
You may never know.

Winter's snows those fields are hiding
'Neath a robe of white,
For another she is biding
Tryst of love to-night.

I was only glancing over
A book beloved of yore,
When a sprig of mountain clover
Fluttered to the floor.

IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.


[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]


~The Soul's Kiss.~