cy^ce WeliiM,ton^^itNs 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 in 2010 witii funding from 
 Tine Library of Congress 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/littlepagefernotOOroll 
 
The illustration of "The Rubber Plant and the Palm" is given with 
 the kind permission of The Centi'ry Co. 
 
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 ^fice nOJeffington (Roffine 
 
 NEW YORK 
 1895 
 
 ^^X>- 
 
7§273f 
 
 3 L 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by 
 ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS 
 
 Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
 Astor Place, New York 
 
QXote. 
 
 Many of the verses are new, but the larger part have 
 appeared already in the St. Nicholas, Century, Harper's 
 Young People, Wide-Awake, The Outlook, and The 
 Independent. . . . 
 
to 
 
 nQ?6o rememBereb me, 
 anb io 
 
 O2?6o twiff nof forgef. 
 
Beside me at the luncheon-table sat 
 A little lad of nine. The gay talk flew 
 
 From lip to lip, of gossip and light chat, 
 Till from his forehead back he gently drew, 
 
 With roguish glance, a wandering soft curl, 
 And laughing, said, "Oh, I remember you! 
 
 I knew you when you were a little girl! " 
 
 We laughed, but he insisted, long ago, 
 
 Somewhere, he knew together we had played. 
 
 He had forgotten what the plays were, though; 
 Whether through some fairgardenwehad strayed, 
 
 Or romped at games in a delirious whirl 
 Of frolic; but one memory had staid. 
 
 He knew me when I was a little girl. 
 
 And the bright eyes that smiled up into mine 
 Assured me we had been in those old days 
 
 Great cronies! Ah, dear little lad of nine, 
 I doubt if ever any sweeter praise 
 
 From wiser lips out in the gay world's whirl 
 Will come to me than that your young heart pays, 
 
 Remembering when I was a little girl ! 
 
BttiPe ^age ;^et*n» 
 
 Little Page Fern stood in doublet of green, 
 With his message wrapped up in a scroll; 
 
 He kept his head bowed before Summer the Queen, 
 While the birds overhead called the roll. 
 
 When his turn came, he loyally lifted his head. 
 
 And undid his doublet of green; 
 On the scroll he unfurled could distinctly be read 
 
 The message that none had yet seen. 
 
 It was neatly set up, in tiny, clear rows 
 
 Of small type, like raised type for the blind; 
 
 Turn over a leaf of the Page, and who knows 
 But the secret of Fern Seed you'll find. 
 
(^ (Jlon6en0e (gerse. 
 
 The firefly lighted his bicycle lamp, 
 
 And ran down the road for a spin; 
 The toadstools pitched their white tents for a camp, 
 
 And tucked their young toads nicely in. 
 
 The beautiful stars came out just to see, 
 
 The lovely moon just to be seen; 
 But by morning, pray tell me, O where could they be? 
 
 For the world was quite buried in green. 
 
 Wifb (goee. 
 
 The Wild Rose cable cars stand here and there 
 
 across the lawn. 
 With rose-red danger signals floating just above 
 
 the thorn. 
 The vine-root cable joining them is just below the 
 
 ground; 
 But the cable does the running, while the cars 
 
 stand still, I 've found. 
 
Z^t Circus in t^e (Bdtben. 
 
 The Woodbine climbs a slender pole, 
 
 And waves his arms in air; 
 While Honeysuckle Harlequins 
 
 Their motley jackets wear. 
 The squirrel swings his light trapeze, 
 
 And springs from bough to bough; 
 As Morning Glory tendrils leap 
 
 And catch, to show him how. 
 Heliotrope plays cup and ball. 
 
 Juggles like Japanese; 
 Tossing his perfume here and there, 
 
 Catching it back with ease. 
 Sweet Peas, on tiptoe in a line, 
 
 In pink and white array, 
 Stand waiting for a signal, bent 
 
 On dancing their ballet. 
 The Wind is Circus Master; he 
 
 Comes striding with a will; 
 Lashes his whip among the trees, 
 
 To show how he can drill. 
 Nasturtiums come in cap and bells, 
 
 And gay, fantastic gowns; 
 
You never 'd think such pretty things 
 
 Could possibly be clowns. 
 No elephant walks through the ring, 
 
 Jocund; but truth to tell, 
 A kitten, stalking through the grass, 
 
 Suits flowers just as well. 
 Aristocrats in velvet, set 
 
 Closely against the wall. 
 The matron Pansies sit and watch 
 
 With placid face through all. 
 But pretty Buds, well chaperoned, 
 
 By full-blown Blossom Mere, 
 Bend, smile, coquette, clap little leaves, 
 
 And toss their heads in air. 
 White Balsams, from proscenium box, 
 
 That is, a window box, 
 Lean over, looking calmly down 
 
 On humbler garden Phlox. 
 They dare not laugh, but when the Wind 
 
 Says funny things, faint whiffs 
 Of scent they send down through the air, 
 
 Waving white handkerchiefs. 
 "Standing room only," heard when late 
 
 The tardy hollyhocks; 
 
But tall and strong, they did not mind, 
 
 Nor did the Four o'Clocks. 
 Gay butterflies and birds and bees 
 
 Hover between the acts, 
 Around the belles, (Harebells and Blue,) 
 
 To give Society facts. 
 All eye me with distrust, as one 
 
 Who may have come to pick 
 Their dainty blossoms here and there. 
 
 And wire them to a stick. 
 Yet it was I who hired their tent. 
 
 Paid all their entrance fees. 
 Furnished a gardener usher, just 
 
 To give them seats that please. 
 Fear not, sweet things! I only wish 
 
 You well, I love you so; — 
 Jack Frost will be here by-and-by;— 
 
 Then you may wish to go. 
 
tU (gaffdb of t^e (8u66er;gf)fcint 
 
 A Rubber-plant and a small Palm stood 
 
 Upon a parlor floor. 
 From either side the fire-place 
 
 They scanned each other o'er. 
 
 " What do you rub ? " the small Palm asked 
 
 His statelier neighbor tall. 
 " Alas! " the Rubber-plant replied, 
 " I can not rub at all. 
 
 " If I had hands, like yours," he said, 
 As wistfully he eyed 
 His smaller neighbor's pretty palms 
 With fingers opened wide, 
 
 *' Then I could rub! " — ''And yet," replied 
 The little Palm, "you see. 
 Though I have hands, I can not rub. 
 And that 's the rub, with me. 
 
*' I wonder why it 's always so: 
 That something we have got 
 Seems never quite complete to be, 
 Without what we have not. 
 
 "I 've often longed to rub my hands 
 With glee, here in my tub; 
 And you, no doubt, have often wished 
 You had some hands to rub. 
 
 *' Now, if you were I, or I were you, — 
 No, that 's not right, I see, — 
 But if you and I, were you <?r I, 
 What a fine plant we should be! " 
 
 Still, they did as all good plants should- 
 Kept green all winter long; 
 
 So no one ever knew or guessed 
 That anything was wrong. 
 
" What d(? you suppose he ca?2 be at ? " 
 
 The little bird hopped and hopped 
 
 Around the spot where the artist sat 
 
 At his work, and never stopped. 
 Straight to the easel at last he flew; 
 Perched on the top without more ado, 
 With his quizzical little head on one side, 
 He asked (though of fright he nearly died), 
 " What a/r you trying to do ? " 
 
 *' I am trying," the artist politely said, 
 "To catch your lineaments, sir." — 
 Catch! 't was enough; the little bird fled, 
 
 Fast as he could, with a whiz and a whir. 
 Far up to the highest blue. 
 And his little laugh floated down as he flew, 
 For he cried in derision, " Ha, ha! catch me! " 
 But, nevertheless, he was caught, you see; — 
 Here he is, on this page, for you. 
 
(^noi^tx (gle. 
 
 [An answer to Grace Denio Litchfield's poem, " My Other 
 Me," in tlie St. Nicholas for November.] 
 
 children in the valley, 
 
 Do you ever chance to meet 
 A little maid I used to know, 
 With lightly tripping feet? 
 
 Her name is Alice; and her heart 
 Is happy as the day; 
 
 1 pray you, greet her kindly, 
 
 If she should cross your way. 
 
 But you need n't bring her back to me; 
 
 To tell the truth, you know, 
 I have no wish to be again 
 
 That child of long ago. 
 
 Of course, it 's lovely to be young. 
 
 Sheltered from heat and cold; 
 But let me whisper in your ear: 
 " It 's nice, too, to be old." 
 
You see, my lessons all are learned; 
 
 Avoir and etre I know 
 Clear through, subjunctive, que and ail, 
 
 That used to bother so. 
 
 Geometry I touch no more; 
 
 And history I read 
 Instead of learning it by heart 
 
 As I had to once, indeed. 
 
 It 's true, I don't read fairy tales 
 With quite the zest of yore; 
 
 But then I write them with a zest 
 I never felt before. 
 
 Of course, I'm very old; but then, 
 
 If I wish to play, you see, 
 There is up here upon the heights 
 
 Another little me. 
 
 He 's ten years old and he 's a boy; 
 
 A mischievous young elf; 
 But I like him every bit as well 
 
 As I used to like myself. 
 
You need n't send that little girl, 
 Whose heart was full of joy, 
 
 Back to me now; I 'd rather keep, 
 Instead of her, my boy! 
 
 Don't fear to climb, dear children, 
 
 So slowly day by day, 
 Out of the happy valley 
 
 Up to the heights away. 
 
 I know it 's lovely to be young, 
 Sheltered from heat and cold; 
 
 But let me whisper in your ear: 
 " // 's nicer to be old" 
 
 j^ei^aticd. 
 
 So cold it is, the violet ne'er ventures out or stirs; 
 But hepaticas come fearlessly, wrapped in their 
 dainty furs. 
 
tU Carefuf C(Xcim. 
 
 The Cactus wisely stores his ample bins 
 With choicest juice to last the summer through; 
 
 That when July and August drouth begins, 
 He can live still on his own store of dew. 
 
 But lest with all his care he be bereft, 
 Burglar alarms he sets with careful zeal; 
 
 Small prickly points, in case of idle theft, 
 
 Placed where the careless burglar sets his heel. 
 
 They make no noise, it 's true; but there 's no 
 need ; 
 
 For should the burglar step upon them there, 
 He will himself give an alarm indeed. 
 
 And tell you he has found a Prickly Pear. 
 
^ QKattBae QturBCrg. 
 
 ** The baby? " we asked, as with mop and broom, 
 Its mother came to the ranch one day; 
 " O! she 's picketed out across the way! 
 I dare not leave her alone in the room ! " 
 
 And the busy mother looked for a tub. 
 
 While we saddled our horses, and rode to see 
 How the lonely baby fared, while we 
 
 Had borrowed its mother to sweep and scrub. 
 
 For the babies we were accustomed to 
 Could never have kept their silk and lace, 
 And little be-ribboned hats in place. 
 
 With only a tree for their nurse, we knew. 
 
 But this Kansas baby had no hat; 
 
 And it looked as if it thought silk and lace 
 
 Would be entirely out of place, 
 On a prairie; or, for the matter of that, 
 
Anywhere else. It could only go 
 
 The length of the rope; but its little feet 
 Pattered about where the grass was sweet, 
 
 Just as it pleased; and that, you know, 
 
 Is more than the city babies do ; 
 For, trundled under the city trees, 
 They go wherever the nurses please. 
 
 Which I should n't like at all; should you ? 
 
 As I thought it over, it seemed to me 
 That a city darling has less to hope, 
 Picketed out with invisible rope 
 
 To a somewhat less reliable tree. 
 
 " You will reap what you sow," said the wise papa; 
 And the wise little boy who heard. 
 Said at once, '* Then I '11 plant some canary 
 seed. 
 And perhaps I shall raise a bird." 
 
a^mmt'b. 
 
 Now is the time for yachting, and the milkweed 
 
 sets afloat, 
 On the blue air flecked with flower foam, its brown 
 
 and tiny boat. 
 It sets its white and silken sails, when presto! on 
 
 the wind 
 The pretty sails float off themselves and leave the 
 
 boat behind. 
 
 But they take with them an anchor, a brown and 
 
 tiny seed; 
 And where they light, they find themselves 
 
 anchored like any weed. 
 The brown seed grows and grows, and with another 
 
 summer's gales 
 New boats float lightly on the air, laden with silken 
 
 sails. 
 
Over the Park they run and shout; 
 
 I can see them all from my window here, 
 And hear the noise as they rush about, 
 
 And shriek with delight from far and near. 
 
 But something I hear above it all — 
 A still small voice that is simply dumb. 
 
 Above the clamor of gay base-ball 
 
 Pleads the voice of the boy who could n't come. 
 
 I don't know why; perhaps he had meant 
 To come and join in the headlong play, 
 
 But was naughty or tore his best new clothes, 
 And was sternly informed, '' No Park to-day." 
 
 Or perhaps he was ill — a little cold 
 
 Or a feverish pulse; and the whole bright day 
 Must be spent in the house with grief untold, 
 
 Instead of out in the Park at play. 
 
 Or perhaps he lived 'way, 'way down town. 
 Four or five miles from the lovely Park, 
 
 Too poor to ride to it, up and down, 
 While the uptown boys were out for a lark. 
 
Or perhaps there is n't any such boy; 
 
 Perhaps in that crowd so free from care, 
 Rollicking, rushing, shrieking with joy, 
 
 Is every boy who meant to be there. 
 
 I hope so. It 's nice to hear them shout; 
 
 It does n't seem as if one were dumb; 
 And yet my wondering heart goes out 
 
 To the possible boy who could not come. 
 
 Wifb Carrot. 
 
 Of all Queen Summer's ladies, she 
 
 Has daintiest parasol; 
 You could not buy in Paris 
 
 One prettier for a doll. 
 A dozen little silken ribs 
 
 Hold everything in place; 
 Covered, as for a princess. 
 
 With loveliest white lace. 
 
ip Sree. 
 
 The Tulip Tree is cup-bearer, and holds most 
 
 proudly up 
 To summer skies and wandering bee its beautiful 
 
 gold cup; 
 And when the leaves have fallen, upon the bough 
 
 you'll see 
 The small brown hands that held them up still 
 
 reaching: from the tree. 
 
 tk J^umBfeet. 
 
 " I am so small, you know," said low 
 
 The dainty violet; 
 But she said it wrapped in purple robes 
 
 Like Marie Antoinette. 
 " Mignomie, of course; but it is clear," 
 
 Answered one humbler yet, 
 "■ That I am lowlier still, my dear; 
 
 For I am Misno7iette" 
 
CofutnBtne. 
 
 The Columbine hung down her beautiful head: 
 *< You see, 1 can't blow my own trumpet," she 
 
 said. 
 "Why, I'll blow it for you," a bee passing by 
 Said kindly, and entered her parlor to try. 
 There he buzzed, blew, and hummed, such a 
 
 beautiful air! 
 And honey for money she gave to him there. 
 To get what you want, and be generous, too : — 
 That 's a message the bee has, for me and for 
 you. 
 
 «^e Cfue. 
 
 I 'm not a boy, to know their tastes — 
 
 That certainly is true; 
 But I have a boy, and that, I think, 
 
 Should give to me a clue. 
 And what a boy likes, if I know, 
 
 Is a horse, a dog, and fun; 
 A school where discipline is strict, 
 
 And vacation just begun. 
 
 25 
 
® (Jlofife ^corn. 
 
 ** I hate pretence! " with a straightforward blink, 
 Said a stuffed owl. *' Those fellows over there, 
 Though hammered out of brass, I 've no doubt 
 think, 
 Perched on the andirons that they guard with 
 care. 
 
 That they are Owls I " 
 
 *' I hate pretence ! " with two most knowing winks, 
 Said a caged owl. " That fellow over there. 
 With a glass eye and wire claws, no doubt 
 thinks, 
 Though from his perch he cannot stir a hair, 
 That he 's an Owl!" 
 
 " I hate pretence! " past the bright window slinks 
 A wild owl. '' Now that fellow caged in there. 
 With three feet square to move in, no doubt 
 thinks, 
 Though he has never tasted outdoor air. 
 That he 's an Owl!" 
 26 
 
(3.6 Ot^era ^ee (U0. 
 
 In a choice vase of cloissotmi 
 Two peacock feathers tall 
 
 Stirred gently in the summer breeze. 
 Above them on the wall, 
 
 Two mimic peacock feathers, 
 Embroidered with fine care 
 
 In softest silks on velvet rich, 
 Moved not in all the air; 
 
 With aristocrats' proud calmness. 
 And consciousness of ease, 
 
 They watched their little neighbors 
 Dance in the summer breeze. 
 
 " Quite pretty creatures, really!" 
 Their gentle comment rose; 
 
 " But singularly lacking, 
 
 Don't you think, in real repose ? " 
 
 And the feathers on the table 
 Fairly chuckled in their glee: — 
 " To think they cannot see we are 
 What they make believe to be ! " 
 
(J)attr%e (^iu. 
 
 The Partridge Vine offers its berries of red, 
 With round green leaves for dishes, most tempting- 
 ly spread, 
 For birds hungry in winter to come there and feed. 
 A bird bit a berry, and out flew a seed, 
 That hid itself shyly in earth; but in turn, 
 (For true modesty always is willing to learn,) 
 Came up a new vine with new berries of red. 
 While new birds of next winter came now to be fed. 
 A bird brings a berry, — a berry a bird: 
 It 's the nicest arrangement I ever have heard. 
 
 t^e <B>emu6 of t?e gpdrfor. 
 
 What keeps the quiet parlor 
 In such beautiful repose ? 
 
 It 's the watchful peacock feathers. 
 Whose eyelids never close. 
 
(Uu})tiaf (gnotB. 
 
 Poor Daisy, anxious for her fate, 
 
 Counts all her petals o'er; 
 But Forget-me-not, with fewer leaves. 
 
 Of hers is always sure. 
 " He loves me, loves itie not;'' — to count 
 
 Many, is doubtful quite; — 
 " Forgets me, — nay, forgets me not," 
 
 With four leaves comes out right. 
 The Daisy dreads her frequent " not," 
 
 Uncertain, as you see; 
 But Forget-me-not loves hers, which shows 
 
 How different things may be. 
 
 tXft QSaB^fuf (gUr^uerite. 
 
 Sweet Marguerite looked shyly from the grass 
 
 Of country fields, and. softly whispered: " Here 
 I make my home, content; for I, — alas! — 
 
 Am not the rose the city holds so dear." 
 Just then, the Queen, driving by chance that way, 
 
 Called to a page: " Bring me that Marguerite; 
 I am so tired of roses! " — From that day. 
 
 The daisy had the whole world at her feet. 
 
€o6t»e6. 
 
 " Will you walk into my parlor ? " said the spider 
 
 to the fly 
 In the good old days. " No, thank you, dear 
 
 spider," he 'd reply. 
 But nowadays the spider calls her pretty net a 
 
 wheel: 
 " Just come and try my bicycle! " she cries with 
 
 cunning zeal. 
 The flattered little fly just can't refuse; so on 
 
 and in 
 He steps, to find the spider is the one to take a 
 
 spin. 
 
 QSreab Crutn60. 
 
 Dear little bird, how could you know, 
 
 As across the Park you flew. 
 That over the cruelly frozen ground 
 
 I was scattering crumbs for you ? 
 
 From a mile away, it seemed to me. 
 You saw them over the snow. 
 
 What a tiny eye to see so far! 
 What a wise little heart to know! 
 
How did you know that they were crumbs ? 
 
 And even if that you knew, 
 How could you be so happily sure 
 
 That they were crumbs for you ? 
 
 Sometimes I think I see beautiful crumbs 
 
 Beyond the snow for me; 
 But if I really want to know, 
 
 I must travel over to see. 
 
 Sometimes they are crumbs; but nevertheless 
 
 I discover, once over there. 
 That they are somebody else's crumbs, 
 
 That I must not even share. 
 
 Oh! for those wonderful eyes of yours, 
 
 That can tell just where to go! 
 Such a tiny eye to see so far! 
 
 Such a wise little heart to know! 
 
" My dear, what makes your cheeks so red ? " 
 I asked one winter day 
 A Httle boy who came indoors 
 To finish up his play. 
 "Why, don't you know how cold it is ? 
 It 's cold as cold can be; 
 And that 's what makes my cheeks so red; 
 I can't stay out," said he. 
 
 " My dear, what makes your cheeks so red ? " 
 I asked one summer day 
 A little girl who came indoors 
 To finish up her play. 
 " Why, don't you know how hot it is ? 
 It 's hot as hot can be; 
 And that 's what makes my cheeks so red; 
 I can't stay out," said she. 
 
 And now, when sometimes I myself, 
 
 Though I am wise and old, 
 Do think the day is much too hot 
 
 Or very much too cold, 
 I try to think if it were changed. 
 
 Perhaps I might not find 
 The weather just the opposite 
 
 A bit more to my mind! 
 
(geffection. 
 
 " Come see the flag, mamma, here in the lake! 
 Red, white, and blue, — the stars, and stripes, 
 
 and all." 
 I bend to see the bright reflection fall 
 Where the clear waves the mirrored picture take. 
 
 " Of course, it 's not a real flag down there, 
 though," 
 My little son explains with careful sense 
 Of truth exact ; then adds with tone intense, 
 
 " But somewhere there must be a flag, you know, 
 
 Or else this would n't be there." Then he lifts 
 With intuition quick his eager eyes 
 To where the "real flag" floats in summer 
 skies. 
 
 While on the lake its mirrored semblance drifts. 
 
 So when philosophers with subtle art 
 Debate, deny, demand "Why is it so ?" 
 I answer with my child's "Somewhere, you 
 know. 
 
 Must be the truth reflected in my heart." 
 
S^tfi%atton. 
 
 A Clover blushed shyly, and said, *' To a friend 
 In the next field, I 'd like a short message to send ; 
 I can't go myself; would you mind, Mr. Bee ? " 
 (For a bee had just called for his afternoon tea.) 
 '* Not at all," said' the bee; and she wrote a short 
 
 note, 
 With pollen for sand, drying fast as she wrote ; 
 And the bee, fed with honey for tea, said he 'd 
 
 take 
 Her mail-bag, — or meal-bag, — and not wait for 
 
 cake. 
 Then he flew to her friend, made another short call. 
 And not knowing its contents, left note, pollen 
 
 and all. 
 The note asked for clover seed; quickly it sped. 
 Till the field with a great deal more clover was 
 
 spread. 
 " Cross-fertilization " the botanists say; 
 
 For the bee flew across, don't you see, on his 
 way; 
 
 Though he was n't himself cross a bit, on that 
 day. 
 
" Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday! " 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 Between the half-drawn curtains faintly gleamed 
 The early dawn's first pale and glimmering ray; 
 
 But through my heart rang ever, as I dreamed, 
 The poet's plaint: " Give me but Yesterday!" 
 
 Through swiftly-opening doors, with flying feet, 
 My little daughter with her curls of gold 
 
 Came eagerly the morning sun to greet; — 
 The little maid whom yesterday we told 
 
 To-morrow, if the skies were not unkind, 
 Out into country meadows she should go, 
 
 With beating heart and shining eyes to find 
 
 The sweet, shy haunts of wild flowers, hiding low. 
 
 Flushed in the morning light, she danced and 
 sang; 
 While I forgot the poet's murmuring lay, 
 As through the room her sweeter wisdom rang: 
 "Mamma! mamma! To-morrow is To-day!" 
 
 35 
 
(^ (Bentfe QReminber. 
 
 Something new about Christmas? 
 
 Why, what were half so sweet 
 As the old, old way of keeping 
 
 The day our glad hearts greet? 
 
 The old, old chimes are dearest; 
 
 The old, old songs are best. 
 It 's the old, old gladness welling 
 
 Within each joyous breast. 
 
 Then my little lad said slyly, 
 " Remember, if that 's true, 
 That your old, old way, mamma dear, 
 Was to give me something new! " 
 
 36 
 
Zo (Btg (go^— ©n ©ecoration ©ag. 
 
 If ever the dread day should come again 
 
 When the whole country needs her boys in blue, 
 
 How could I bear, dear lad, among the men 
 Marching to war and danger, to see you ? 
 
 My heart sinks as I watch them through the glass; — 
 And yet I know one thing were worse to bear: 
 
 That underneath my window they should pass 
 And I should look — and find you were not there. 
 
■^The Story of Azron. {Poem.) 
 
 Illustration from Daniel C. French, .... $1.50 
 
 The White Rosary. {Poems.) 
 
 Illustration from Elihu Vedder, 1.50 
 
 -Little Page Fern. {Verses.) For Children, . . . 1.50 
 
 The Finding of the Gentian. {Stories.) For Children, 1.50 
 
 A Story or Two. {Short Stories aizd Plays), . . . 1.50 
 
 The Exactions of Art. {A Dialogue), . . . . 1.50 
 
 Aphorisms for the Year. {Second Edition), ... .50 
 
 Unfamiliar Quotations, 50 
 
 The eight books, on one order, sold for $8.50 and sent 
 
 direct to different addresses if desired. 
 
 ALICE W. ROLLINS. 
 Bronxville, N. Y. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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