 suddenly expressed in words, stood before him,
black upon white it was to him as if another had opened his eyes and he
must guard the newly discovered secret. He placed the picture in a
portfolio, in order to lock it in his writing-desk, and his eye fell upon
the journal which had so singularly come into his hands. He laid the
portfolio beside it. Did they not belong together? Did not the mysterious
author resemble Veronica?

Like a revelation it flashed over him and so powerfully affected his
imagination that the blood mounted hotly to his temples, and, in spite of
the severe cold, he threw open the window that he might have more air.

"If it were she!" thought he; restlessly striding up and down, and yet
exultant that he had now found a trace which could be followed.

THE ARM OF LOVE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORG SCHEURLIN.

     A young wife sits by a cradle nest,
     Her fair boy smiling on her breast;
     In the quiet room draws on the night,
     And she rocks and sings by the soft lamplight;
     On mother bosom the rest is deep;
     In the arm of love--so fall asleep.

     In the cool vale, 'neath sunny sky,
     We sit alone, my own and I;
     A song of joy wells in my breast,
     Ah, heart to heart, how sweet the rest!
     The brooklets ripple, the breezes sweep;
     In the arm of love--so fall asleep.

     From the churchyard tolls the solemn bell,
     For the pilgrim has finished his journey well;
     Here lays he down the staff, long pressed;
     In the bosom of earth, how calm the rest!
     Above the casket the earth they heap;
     In the arm of love--so fall asleep.


Miss Margaret N. Garrard.

It must be a poet who shall translate a poet and so naturally we find Miss
Garrard as well as Mrs. Buckley, already in our group of "Poets".

The difficulty of reproducing well, in metrical forms, thoughts from the
poetry of another language, is so great, that we give with pride the

suddenly expressed in words, stood before him, 
 bootleg upon blank it was to him as if another had opened his eyes and he 
 must defend the newly discovered mystery. He placed the picture in a 
 portfolio, in club to interlock it in his writing - desk, and his eye fell upon 
 the journal which had so singularly fall into his hands. He laid the 
 portfolio beside it. Did they not belong to together? Did not the mysterious 
 author resemble Veronica? 

 Like a revelation it flashed over him and so powerfully affect his 
 imagination that the blood mounted heatedly to his temples, and, in spite of 
 the hard cold, he throw open the window that he might have more air. 

 " If it were she! " thought he; restlessly stride up and down, and yet 
 exultant that he had now found a trace which could be followed. 

 THE ARM OF LOVE. 

 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORG SCHEURLIN. 

      A young wife sits by a cradle nest, 
      Her fair boy smiling on her breast; 
      In the quiet room draws on the night, 
      And she rocks and sings by the soft lamplight; 
      On mother embrace the rest is deep; 
      In the sleeve of love -- so fall asleep. 

      In the cool vale,' neath cheery sky, 
      We sit entirely, my own and I; 
      A song of joy wells in my breast, 
      Ah, heart to affection, how sweet the rest! 
      The brooklets ripple, the breezes sweep; 
      In the arm of love -- so fall asleep. 

      From the churchyard tolls the solemn doorbell, 
      For the pilgrim has finished his journey well; 
      Here lay he down the staff, long pressed; 
      In the bosom of earth, how calm the rest! 
      Above the casket the ground they heap; 
      In the arm of love -- therefore fall asleep. 


 Miss Margaret N. Garrard. 

 It must be a poet who shall translate a poet and so naturally we find Miss 
 Garrard equally well as Mrs. Buckley, already in our group of " Poets ". 

 The difficulty of reproducing well, in metrical forms, idea from the 
 poetry of another language, is thus great, that we afford with pride the
 sufdenly expressed in wordr, stood before kum,
blacn upon white ig was to him as if another hed opened his eyes and he
must gjard the jewly diwcovtred secret. He pleded the pictudc in c
pirtfolio, in orcer to locn it in his wrhtkny-desk, and his eye fell upon
the journwl whicn jad so singulatly cpie ihno his hands. He laid the
portfoljo besive it. Did they mot belong together? Did noh thf mysterious
author resemble Vgdonyxa?

Like a revdlation it flashed ovet him and so powerfully affected his
ikagination tyat jhe blood monnted rotly to his temples, and, in spite of
the scvere cood, he threw open the xindow that he might have mora cir.

"If it were she!" thoygyt he; resdlesroy rtrjdmng up anf dkwn, and yef
exultant tyat he had now founc w trace which dould fe followed.

THE ARM OF LOVE.

TRANSLATED FROM THS GERMAN OF GEORG SCHEUELIN.

     A young wife sits by w cradle nest,
     Her fair boy smiling on her bredst;
     Iu the dyift room draws on the night,
     And she rocks whd spngs by the soft jamplight;
     Om mother bosom the rzat is deep;
     In thf arm os lovw--so fall wslerp.

     In the cool vale, 'nearh sunny sky,
     We sit alone, mv own and I;
     S sonb of joy wells in my brzast,
     Ah, heart to heart, fow sweet the rert!
     The brooklets ripple, the breezes wwee';
     In the arm os love--so fwll asleep.

     From the fhurckyard tolls the solemn bell,
     For the pilgrim has finished hhs bourney cell;
     Here lays re down the stcff, long presred;
     In the bovom of eartr, how calm tha rest!
     Abmve the saskwt tye eartf they heap;
     In the agm of oove--so fall asleep.


Kisr Margaret N. Garxcre.

It must be a ppet whj dhell twdnslate a poat avd rp natjrally we flnd Misx
Garrard as well as Krs. Guckley, already in omr group if "Poets".

Ehe difficultu of reproducing wtll, in mevrical fotms, thoughts from the
poetry of znother lwngmage, is so grqat, bhat we give wnth pride the

suddenly expressed in words, stood before him, white was to as if another he guard the newly secret. He placed picture in a portfolio, in order lock it in his writing-desk, and his eye fell upon the journal which so singularly come into his hands. He laid the portfolio beside it. Did not together? not mysterious author resemble Veronica? Like a revelation it flashed over him and so powerfully affected his that the blood mounted hotly to his temples, in spite of the cold, he threw open the that might have air. it she!" thought he; striding up and down, and yet exultant that he had now found a trace which could be THE ARM TRANSLATED FROM GERMAN GEORG A young wife a cradle nest, Her fair boy breast; In the quiet room draws on the And she and sings by the soft lamplight; mother bosom the rest is deep; In the of love--so fall asleep. In the cool vale, 'neath sunny sky, We sit alone, my I; A song of wells in my Ah, to how the rest! brooklets ripple, the breezes sweep; In the arm of love--so fall From the churchyard tolls the solemn bell, For the pilgrim his well; Here lays down the staff, long In bosom of earth, how rest! the they In arm of love--so fall Miss Margaret N. Garrard. It be a poet who so naturally we find Miss Garrard as well Mrs. Buckley, already in our group of The difficulty of reproducing well, in metrical forms, thoughts from the poetry another language, great, that we give with pride the
 suddenly expressed in words, sTood before Him,
blAck UpoN wHite It waS to him as if anotHEr haD opened his eyes and he
musT guarD tHE newLY dIscovEred secREt. hE PlaCeD tHe pIcTUrE in a
pOrtFolio, in Order to locK it In His writing-deSK, aNd his eye feLl uPon
the journaL whIch had So SinGUlarlY coMe intO his haNDs. He laId the
portFoLIo besiDE it. Did tHEY nOt beLong together? Did noT ThE Mysterious
authOr reseMbLE VEROniCa?

LIke a revelaTiOn it fLAshed ovER hIM ANd sO Powerfully affEcted his
imaGInaTion thAt The BLood moUnted HoTLy tO his temples, And, iN spite of
tHe seveRE cold, he THrew opeN the wiNdoW thAt he MIgHt HavE mORe aIR.

"IF it WEre She!" thougHt He; RestlEsslY STRIdinG up And dOwn, anD yet
exultant tHat He haD Now Found A tracE whiCh Could Be follOwed.

ThE aRM OF LOVE.

TRANSLaTED fROM THE GErMAn Of GEoRg SCHEurLIN.

     A yOunG wiFe sits bY a cradlE NesT,
     HER FAiR boy smiling on her brEaST;
     in The quiet Room drAWs On THe night,
     ANd She RockS ANd sinGs by THe Soft lampLight;
     ON MoThEr bosom ThE rest iS dEep;
     in tHe arm OF lovE--so falL asleep.

     IN the cOOl vale, 'neath sunNY sky,
     We sit alonE, My OWN aND I;
     A sOng Of joy wells iN my bREast,
     ah, heARt To hEArt, hoW sweeT tHE rESt!
     The brooklets ripplE, tHe breeZes swEep;
     In the arm of Love--so fall ASLEep.

     From tHe chURcHYard tolls the soLemn bEll,
     For the pILgrim has FinisHed his joUrney well;
     hERe lays he DowN thE stAff, LONg Pressed;
     In the bOSOm of EaRth, how cAlm The rest!
     aboVe tHe cAskEt The earth tHey heap;
     IN tHe ArM oF loVe--so fALl asleep.


miSs MArGarEt N. GaRRard.

It Must bE a poEt WhO ShaLl transLAtE A Poet AnD sO natUraLlY we fiNd MiSS
GaRrard as Well as Mrs. bucKLey, aLrEaDy in our Group of "Poets".

THe Difficulty Of RepRoduciNG Well, in meTrical forms, thoughts from THe
poetrY of AnothEr laNguage, is sO grEat, thaT we GIve witH pride The

 suddenly expressed in wor ds, stoodbefor e h im, 
b lack  upo n white it was to h im as if another had o pened  h i s ey e sand h e
mustg ua r d  th ene wly  d i sc overe d s ecret.He placedthe  p icture in ap or tfolio, in  or der to lockitin his  w rit i ng-de sk,  andhis ey e  fellupon
thejo u rnal w h ich had s osing ularly come intoh is hands. He laid  the
p or t fo l i o b esi de it. Did  t hey n o t belon g  t o g e the r ? Did not the  mysterious aut hor re se mbl e  Veron ica?
L i kea revelatio n it  flashedover h i m and s o  powerf ully a ffe cte d hi s 
i ma gin at i ont ha t t h e b lood mou nt ed  hotl y to h i s  tem ple s, a nd, i n spite of
th e s ever e  co ld, h e thr ew o pe n the  windo w tha the might have m oreair.

"If  it  w ere  s he!"t hought  he ; r estless ly stri d ing  u p a nd  down, and yet
exu lt a n tthat hehad no w  f ou n d a trac ewhi ch c o u ld be  fol l ow ed.

THE  ARM O F  L OV E.

TRA NS LATEDFR OMTHE  GERM A N OF  GEORG  SCHEURL IN.
    A young wi f e sits by a c r ad l e  n e st,    Her fairboys mili ng o n  h erb reast ;
   I nt he quiet room draws  o n thenight ,
     And sh e rocks an d s ings bythes of t  lamplight;
    On  mother bo s om the r est i s deep;     In t h e  arm oflov e-- sofal l as leep.

     I n theco ol vale , ' neath s unn y s ky, 
   We sit a lone, my  o wn  a nd  I; 
   A song o fjoy  w ell s inm y brea st,
   Ah ,h ear t to he a rt , howsw ee t th e r es t!
    T h e b rooklet s ripple,  th e  bre ez es  sweep; 
     In thear m of love- -s o f all as l e ep.

    From the churchyard t o lls the  so lemnbell ,
     Fo r t he pil gri m  has f inishe d his  j our n e y wel l ; 
   H ere lays h e dow n the  s taff , longpressed;
     In t h e b osom of earth , h ow c a l mthe re s t!   A b o ve the casket t he earth t he y  h eap;
    I n t he  arm of  love-- so fa l l aslee p.


Miss  Margaret  N . Ga r r ard .

It must  be a po et who sh a ll tr a ns latea p oet an dsonatur ally w e  fi nd Mi ss
Gar ra rd aswellas  Mrs. Bu ckley, already in our g roup o f "Po ets ".

The d iff i cul ty of rep rodu cing well,  in  me trica l f o rms,thou g ht s f r om th e
po e try of an o th erl a ng uage, is so g r eat , tha t w e  givewith  pride the

 suddenly_expressed in_words, stood before him,
black_upon white_it_was to_him_as if another_had opened his_eyes and he
must guard_the newly discovered_secret._He placed the picture in a
portfolio, in order to lock it in his writing-desk,_and_his eye_fell_upon
the_journal which had so singularly_come into his hands. He_laid the
portfolio_beside it. Did they not belong together? Did_not_the mysterious
author resemble_Veronica?

Like a revelation it flashed over him and so_powerfully affected his
imagination that the blood_mounted hotly to_his_temples,_and, in spite of
the_severe cold, he threw open the_window that he might have more_air.

"If it were she!" thought he; restlessly_striding up and down, and yet
exultant_that he had now found_a trace_which could be followed.

THE ARM_OF LOVE.

TRANSLATED FROM_THE GERMAN_OF GEORG SCHEURLIN.

_    A young_wife sits by_a cradle nest,
   __Her fair boy_smiling_on_her breast;
_  __In the_quiet_room draws on the night,
 __  And she rocks and sings_by the soft lamplight;
__   On_mother bosom the rest is_deep;
     In_the arm_of love--so_fall asleep.

     In the cool vale, 'neath_sunny sky,
    _We sit alone, my_own and_I;
_  __A song_of joy wells in my breast,
 _ _ Ah, heart to heart, how_sweet the rest!
 __  The brooklets ripple, the_breezes sweep;
    _In the arm of love--so_fall_asleep.

_    From_the churchyard tolls the solemn bell,
_  _ For the pilgrim has finished his_journey_well;
     Here_lays_he down the staff, long pressed;
___  In the bosom_of earth, how calm the rest!
_    Above the casket the earth_they heap;
 _   In the_arm_of_love--so fall asleep.


Miss Margaret N. Garrard.

It must be a poet_who shall_translate a poet_and so naturally we find Miss
Garrard as well as Mrs._Buckley, already in our group of "Poets".

The_difficulty of reproducing well, in metrical forms, thoughts from the
poetry of_another language, is so great, that we give_with pride the
