IN THE RECORD ROOM, SURROGATE'S OFFICE.

A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat;

Where buried papers, fold on fold,

Crumble to dust, that‘ thwart the sun

Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold.

The day is dying. All about,

Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still

I ponder o'er a dead girl's name

Fast fading from a dead man's will.

Katrina Harland, fair and sweet,

Sole heiress of your father's land,

Full many a gallant wooer rode

To snare your heart, to win your hand.

And one, perchance — who loved you best,

Feared men might sneer — “he sought her gold” —

And never spoke, but turned away

Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.

Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved,

And mourned him all a virgin life.

Perhaps forgot his very name

As happy mother, happy wife.

Unanswered, sad, I turn away —

“You loved her first, then?” First — well — no —

You little goose, the Harland will

Was proved full sixty years ago.

But Katrine's lands to-day are known

To lawyers as the Glass House tract;

Who were her heirs, no record shows;

The title's bad, in point of fact,

If she left children, at her death,

I've been retained to clear the title;

And all the questions, raised above,

Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.