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[Newspaper clipping]
THE PIXIE-PIPER.
There is a little piper who plays an
elfin tune
In the sunlight and the mothlight and
underneath the moon;
If you know how to listen you're sure
to hear him soon.

By hedge and barn and woodland, in
city, street or square,
You'll catch the pixie-piping, like star-
dust in the air,
Of the little shy musician, so gay, so
debonair.

He cares not how you seek him, in rags
or tags or lace,
You may limp out a beggar or ride in
royal grace,
He will not flute his fancy unless he
likes your face.

He will not play for silver, he will not
play for gold,
He will not play for maid or man
whose heart is waxing cold,
But if you love to listen you'll never
quite grow old.

COMES THE DAY.
Blackness changes gray,
Grayness silver white,
Whitely comes the day,
Goes the passing night;
Birds in clamourous cry,
Glorious comes the sun,
A wagon rattles by,
Now the day's begun.
--Arthur S, Bourinot, in "Lyrics
From the Hills."