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POETRY. I

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POETRY. I FATHER'S WAY. BY EUGENE FIELD. I Mr father was no pessimist: he loved the things of earth, Ita cheerfulness and its sunshine, its music and its mirth: He never sighed or moped about whenever things went wrong I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song. But, being he wam't much on tune, whenever things went blu8 Hed whistle softly to himself the only tune he knew. Now, mother, when she learned that tune which father whi8U.d There?s something wrong to-day with Would ?y°' "There', something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know: He nefert'iiesto make believe he's happy th.t 'ere ?. But th .t I am certain as can be some trouble is to pay. And so, be time?, quite natural like, to us observant youth, There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep pathetic truth. When brother William joined the war a lot of us went down To?the gallant soldier boys right 9lilY out of town A?comiu' home, poor mother cried as if herMMtwou.u break I A^d ? us children, too. for her's, and not for WiHiam-s sake. Bother, trudgin- on ahead, his J^Sl'ow Kept whistlin' to himself, go sort of solemn like an. low. And "hen my elder sister Sue  married and went west, Seemed like it took tLe tuck right out of mùtber and the rest. S?as the sunlight in our home. ?hy, father used to 8Y Itwouldn't .eem like home at j" Tet. when she went. a leavl" us all sorrow and all tears, Poor father whistled ,.onistme likand went to feed the .teer! When crops were bad, Rnd other ills befel our homely lot, He'd set around and tried to a .{ minded not; And when came death and burt) away the one h-j wor- iPPe so, Bo?nly did his lips be?ie the heart benumbed with woe You see the tell. hIe whist,le told a mood he'd not admit;    whistlin' when he thought we noticed it sTrrs  sto'>piu' fOfm and hoary he-,d aRFiln, To see the honest, hdrty smile, that cheered hi fdIow- 4mon Ob, could I kiss the kindly lips, that spake no creature wrong, A??re the rapture of th?t heart th.tove?o?d?th IOn< T thf little tune he whisUed long a g o, Ob, could I hear the little tune he whistlerl long ago, When be did battle with the griefs he would nt haye us know.

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