（"The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers. . . . The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt's inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget- covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china …… and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything."

    HOW many are the scenes he limned¹, With artist strokes, clear-cut and free- Our Dickens； time shall not efface² Their charm, and they will ever grace The halls of memory.

    Oft and again we turn to them, To contemplate³ in pleased review； And like some picture on the screen Comes now to mind a favorite scene His master-pencil drew：

    Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, I see a small lad, spent and worn, And by the window, stern and grim, A silent figure watching him, So dusty, ragged⁴, torn.

    Ah, now she rises from behind The round green fan beside her chair； "Poor fellow！" croons-and pity lends Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair.

    Then in his sleep he softly stirs. Was that a dream, these murmured words？ He wakes！ There by the casement⁵ sat Miss Trotwood still； close by, her cat And her canary birds.

    The peaceful calm of that quaint⁶ room, Its marks of comfort everywhere—— Old china and mahogany And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air.

    Poor little pilgrim so bereft⁷, So weary at his journey's end！ What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal- To find——oh, such a friend！ . . .

    And then night came, and from his bed He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, And dreamed there came, to bless her son, His mother, with her little one, Adown that path of light.

    Ah, greater blessing⁸ I'd not crave⁹, When my life's pilgrimage is o'er, Than such repose¹⁰, content, and love； Some shining path that leads above To dear ones gone before！