Ballou's Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXVII, No. 1 — page 75: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Ballow's Monthly Magazine 79 BY THE SEA. BY MRS. MARY A. LAMSON LESTER. Down over the sea the sunset rays Are tinging the breakers with purple and gold, And I watch them to-night, as in other days, Ere my heart to earth's beauty grew cold; Down over the waves the seabirds flit, Or hover with drooping wing, Where out on the bay the white ships sit, And light at their moorings swing. And gazing out from my window low, I can look over the sandy shore, Whereon the gay crowds ever come and go, To list to the breakers’ roar. Some gayly dance over the silvery sands, While others walk slow from the crowd apart; And the gentle pressure of clasping hands Tells the tale of each loving heart. One group—O, why should there partings be, To wring our hearts with utterless woe?— Look sadly out o’er the darkening sea, Where the freighted ships so gayly go; They are watching the one that left the land, Just as the sun’s last ray, Sliding off from the silvery strand, Gilded the waves of the beautiful bay. Ah me! I have watched through these weary years,— As those sad ones are watching to-night: Till my dark eyes’ fire was quenched in tears, And my cheek with long vigils grew white,— For a loved one, tender, and true, and brave, Who went from me over the billowy main; The ocean’s depth is his watery grave, And I watch for his coming in vain. But surely I know, on the other side He is waiting to welcome me, And claim me there as his spirit bride, On the banks of the summer sea. Now the twilight softly gathers her veil Alike over the grave-and gay; The moon sheds forth her radiance pale, And lights up the silvery spray; While softly down through the purple skies The holy starlight falls, Until we deem they are angels’ eyes, Looking out over the crystal walls. Night foldeth her dusky mantle down, And reigneth o’er land and lea; The laughing crowds flit back to the town, And all is hushed by the sea. SS MAGGIE’S EXPERIENCE. BY RETT WINWOOD. “ TOREE trunks and a band-box, as sure as I’m alive! Why, Maggie Westmore, what on earth are you coming to?” “T hope you are not going to scold me so soon, mamma,” said Maggie, with a deprecat- ing laugh. “I shouldn't like to have you. You have no idea how glad I am to be at home once more.” She paused upon the steps, looking rather grave, and absently began to trace a profile with the tip of her parasol, in the dust that had been allowed to collect there. “What can sister Helen be thinking of,” she said to herself, “to suffer the front stoop to get in such a condition ?” “T suppose you enjoyed living in the city, Maggie?” broke in this same sister Helen, a little shortly. “You used to speak of gay times, in some of your letters. It is a real sin to waste so much money on amusements as some of those city people do.” “Yes, I enjoyed it,’ returned Maggie, sup- pressing a sigh. “ But really, Helen, I do not think there is so much money spent foolishly as you seem to imagine. Of course there is something squandered, but I believe you will find that the same is also true of people living in the country.” “Well, we will not argue that point. Only IT am rather glad, after all, that Uncle Lester took it into his head to adopt you, instead of me.” Maggie wanted to say that she was glad, too, but restrained herself. This was the first time she had been home on a visit ior more than two years, and so of course she cid not wish anything to occur to mar her pleasure. “Come in, my child,” said her mother, bustling up the steps. “ Your father is in the store yet, but will be home to tea. He is very busy to-day, or he would have stayed at home to meet you.” Maggie entered the house, concealing her comicioooks,. com