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."