My love shall heal your wounded breast,
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."
_Joaquin Miller_.
* * * * *
I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.
'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
The sun was in the west,
When a merry, blithesome company
Met at a public feast.
Around the room rich banners spread,
And garlands fresh and gay;
Friend greeted friend right joyously
Upon that festal day.
The board was filled with choicest fare;
The guests sat down to dine;
Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
And some for rosy wine.
Among this joyful company,
A modest youth appeared;
Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
No specious snare he feared.
An empty glass before the youth
Soon drew the waiter near;
"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?
"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
We've first-class wine and cakes."
The youth with guileless look replied,
"_I'll take what father takes_."
Swift as an arrow went the words
Into his father's ears,
And soon a conflict deep and strong
Awoke terrific fears.
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