The Treasure Box.

    I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell,
    If she had things of value hidden safe away -
    Treasures that were her very own? And did she love
    To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth,
    And finger them with all a miser's greed of touch?

    She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down
    Beside her in the inglenook. The rain beat hard
    Against the panes, without the world was doubly gray
    With twilight and with cloud. The room was full of shade
    Till Persis stirred the slumbering grate fire wide awake,
    And made it send its flickering shafts of light into
    Each corner dim - gay shafts that chased the shadows forth
    And took their place, then stole away and let
    The shadow back, and then gave chase again,
    The maddest and the stillest game!

                To music of
    The raindrops on the pane, and wind that softly shrilled
    About the eaves, the treasure box was opened wide
    And its contents exposed to the rude gaze of one
    Too young, too worldly-wise to know their value great.
    I thought to see pearls, corals, quaint, old-fashioned gems,
    Or lace like gossamer creamed by the hand of time -
    Real treasures worthy of the hoarding.

                Lo! I saw
    A leather-covered book, a worn and musty thing
    With ragged leaves and many marks. "What is it?" I asked;
    "To me it looks the school-book that some stupid child
    Has learned its lesson from."
    "And so it is," she smiled. "My father's testament,
    And at his knee I conned the Golden Rule, and all
    The wondrous truths that teach us how to live. 'Tis dear
    To me, you may suppose."

                A knot of ribbon that
    Had once been blue, a braid of dark brown hair, a spray
    Of lily o' the valley, withered, sere, yet holding still a breath
    Of sweetness indescribable; some letters tied
    With silk, a broken fan, some verses scribbled on
    A yellow page, a baby's shoe, more letters, and,
    What think you, friend? A string of amber beads, without
    A trace of value - beads of glass strung on a bit
    Of twine. Aunt Persis took them in her hand and let
    The firelight play on them. "My grandmother's first gift,"
    She said, and slipped them round her neck. "I love them best
    Of all my ornaments - each amber bead holds fast
    A joy caught in the childhood days of pleasantness,
    And when I sit here with the sparkling things held close
    The joys they gathered long ago slip from them to
    My heart, and ere I know, I am a child once more.

    "Treasures! Nay, dear one, in your clear young eyes I see
    The disappointment grow - no treasures these, you say;
    These faded things, and poor, these musty, ragged things -
    But some day in the gloaming of your life you'll ope
    Your treasure box, and find a hoard of just such things
    As these - a few rare trifles wrapped in memories."