LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 -Ras 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 lAli^ 
 
HOME LIFE IN SONG WITH THE POETS 
 OF TO-DAY. 
 
HOME LIFE IN SONG 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE POETS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 I. BABYHOOD. 11. CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. III. HOME LIFE. 
 IV. GRANDPARE^'lS. V. LOOKING BACKWARD. 
 
 i3 
 
 NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 
 
 38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET. 
 
 ^ ^ B-C 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY 
 
 A.NSON D. F. Randolph & Company. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 18S6, BY 
 
 A.NSON D. F. Randolph & Company. 
 
 (I 
 
 ^ 
 
 \<\ 
 
 Edward O. Jenkins' Sons, R.obert RLrrrER, 
 
 Printers, Binder, 
 
 20 North William St., N. Y. "0 and 118 East 14th St., N. Y. 
 
NOTES, 
 I, 
 
 In this collection the compiler has sought to present some of the many 
 phases and experie?ices of Home Life. No attempt has been made to 
 secure absolute unity in classification or expression ; the simple purpose 
 having been to gather — not from the published volumes of well-known 
 authors, but from other sources — the magaziiie and newspaper — -a portion 
 of the tna?iy excellent verses that are constantly floating through them. 
 It is hoped that in this more accessible and permanent form they may prove 
 acceptable to all who cherish the common incidents and memories of Do- 
 mestic Life. 
 
 A. D. F. R. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The marked favor which this compilation has received since its first 
 publication, has led to the present revised and enlarged edition ; contai?iing 
 nearly one hundred additiofia! poems, and nu7nerous illustrations. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Fronttispiece, "SNOV/ED IN." 
 T.— BABYHOOD, --------- 
 
 Illustration. AN INTERRUPTED LESSON. 
 II.— CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, ------ 
 
 Illustration, AMONG THE BLOSSOMS. 
 III. -HOME LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. - . - . 
 
 Illustration, A HARVEST DAY. 
 IV.— HOME LIFE IN TOWN, -_--.. 
 
 Illustration, FIRE-SIDE MUSINGS. 
 v.— GRANDFATHER AND GRANDMOTHER, - - 
 
 Illustration. WATCHING GRANDMOTHER. 
 VI.— LOOKING BACKWARD, - 
 
 Illustration, THE OLDEST AND THE YOUNGEST, 
 
 - 39 
 
 - 89 
 
 - 175 
 
 - 231 
 
 - 253 
 
BABYHOOD, 
 
BABYHOOD. 
 
 THIS BABY OF OURS. 
 
 There's not a blossom of beautiful 
 May, 
 
 Silver of daisy or daffodil gay, 
 
 Nor the rosy bloom of apple-tree flow- 
 ers, 
 
 Fair as the face of this baby of ours. 
 
 You can never find on a bright June 
 
 day 
 A bit of fair sky so cheery and gay, 
 Nor the haze on the hill, in noonday 
 
 hours, 
 Blue as the eyes of this baby of ours. 
 
 There's not a murmur of wakening 
 
 bird, 
 The clearest, sweetest, that ever was 
 
 heard 
 In the tender hush of the dawn's still 
 
 hours, 
 Sweet as the voice of this baby of ours. 
 
 There's no gossamer silk of tasseled 
 corn. 
 
 No flimsiest thread of the shy wood- 
 fern. 
 
 Not even the cobweb spread over the 
 flowers, 
 
 Fine as the hair of this baby of ours. 
 
 There's no fairy shell by the sounding 
 
 sea. 
 No wild-rose that nods on the windy 
 
 lea, 
 No blush of the sun through April's soft 
 
 showers, 
 Pink as the palms of this baby of ours. 
 
 May the dear Lord spare her to us, we 
 pray, 
 
 For many a long and sunshiny day. 
 
 Ere He takes to bloom in Paradise bow- 
 ers. 
 
 This wee bit darlmg— this baby of ours. 
 (II) 
 
THE "SWEETEST SPOT."— SHALL THE BABY STAY? 
 
 THE ''SWEETEST SPOT." 
 
 The sweetest spot in the house to me 
 Is the spot which holds my treasure 
 
 wee. 
 What is my treasure ? Come and see — 
 Only a blue-eyed baby. 
 
 Only a bundle of dimples and love, 
 Dropped in my arms from somewhere 
 
 above ; 
 A white-winged, cooing, and nestling 
 dove. 
 Or — a bundle of mischief, maybe. 
 
 Now creeping here, now creeping there, 
 Calling me hither and everywhere ; 
 Playing with sunbeams on the floor, 
 Cooing-" a-gooing " over and o'er; 
 Climbing up and clambering down, 
 Bumping and bruising his tiny crown ; 
 Sticking his toes through the dainty 
 
 socks, 
 Soiling and tearing his dainty frocks; 
 Falling and crying and catching his 
 
 breath, 
 Till mamma is frightened almost to 
 
 death ; 
 Laughing and shouting in frolic and 
 
 play. 
 Having a world of his nonsense to say ; 
 Showing the dimples in cheek and in 
 
 chin. 
 Where frolic and mischief peep out and 
 
 in ; 
 Asking for kisses and c^^///>z^ them, too, 
 On cheek and on chin and on eyes so 
 
 blue ; 
 Ready for play when the sunbeams rise, 
 Ready for sleep with the twilight skies ; 
 And the sweetest spot in the house, 
 
 you see, 
 Is the spot which holds my treasure 
 
 wee — 
 My blue-eyed baby, my bundle of love, 
 My white-winged, cooing, and nestling 
 
 dove ; 
 And long may he find his haven of 
 
 rest 
 In his mother's arms, on his mother's 
 
 breast. 
 
 SHALL THE BABY STAY? 
 
 In a little brown house. 
 With scarce room for a mouse, 
 Came with morning's first ray, 
 One remarkable day, 
 (Though who told her the way 
 I am sure I can't say) 
 A young lady so wee 
 That you scarcely could see 
 Her small speck of a nose ; 
 And, to speak of her toes. 
 Though it seems hardly fair 
 Since they surely were there. 
 Keep them covered we must ; 
 You must take them on trust. 
 
 Now this little brown house, 
 With scarce room for a mouse, 
 Was quite full of small boys, 
 With their books and their toys. 
 Their wild bustle and noise. 
 
 " My dear lads," quoth papa, 
 " We've too many by far; 
 Tell us what can we do 
 With this damsel so new? 
 We've no room for her here, 
 So to me 'tis quite clear. 
 Though it gives me great pain, 
 I must hang her again 
 On the tree whence she came, 
 (Do not cry, there's no blame) 
 With her white blanket round her 
 Just as Nurse Russell found her." 
 
 Said stout little Ned, 
 " I'll stay all day in bed, 
 Squeezed up nice and small 
 Very close to the wall." 
 Then spoke Tommie, " I'll go 
 To the cellar below ; 
 I'll just travel about. 
 But not try to get out ; 
 Till you're all fast asleep. 
 And so quiet I'll be 
 You'll not dream it is me." 
 Then flaxen-haired Will : 
 " I'll be dreadfully still ; 
 On the back-stairs I'll stay. 
 Way off, out of the way." 
 
MY BIRD.— THE BABY I LOVE. 
 
 13 
 
 Master Johnny the fair 
 Shook his bright curly hair, 
 " Here's a nice place for me, 
 Dear papa, do you see ? 
 I just fit in so tight 
 I could stand here all night." 
 And a niche in the wall 
 Held his figure so small. 
 
 Quoth the father, " Well done, 
 My brave darlings, come on ! 
 Here's a shoulder for Will, 
 Pray sit still, sir, sit still ! 
 VaHant Thomas, for thee, 
 A good seat on my knee. 
 And Edward, thy brother. 
 Can perch on the other. 
 Baby John, take my back ; 
 Now, who says we can't pack ? 
 
 So love gives us room 
 And our birdie shall stay. 
 We'll keep her, my boys, 
 Till God takes her away. 
 
 MV BIRD. 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
 
 And folded, oh, so lovingly, 
 
 Her tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe. 
 Shut softly on her starry eyes. 
 
 There's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest: 
 O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred, 
 
 Whose waters never more shall rest ! 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
 This seeming visitant from heaven. 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing. 
 To me, to me. Thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
 The blood its crimson hue, from 
 mine ; 
 
 This life, which I have dared invoke, 
 Henceforth is parallel with Thine. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room ; 
 
 I tremble with delicious fear ; 
 The future, with its light and gloom — 
 
 Time and Eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts — hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 
 
 Hear, O my God, one earnest prayer. 
 Room for mv bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel plumage there ! 
 
 f WEE SANG ON A WEE 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 Oh, my bonnie Mary, 
 Winsome little fairy, 
 Ever licht and airy — 
 
 Singin' a' the day ; 
 Lauchin' aye sae sweetly, 
 Actin' sae discreetly, 
 Winnin' hearts completely, 
 
 Witchin' Mary May. 
 
 Cheekies red as roses, 
 Lippies sweet as posies, 
 Ilka charm discloses. 
 
 Quite a lurin' fay ; 
 Eenie ever glancin', 
 Leggies ever dancin'. 
 Life an' love enchantin' — 
 
 Bonnie Mary May. 
 
 Hoo I lo'e thee, Mary ! 
 
 Witchin' little fairy, 
 
 A palace were a prairie, 
 
 Wantin' sic a stay ; 
 Sic gladness floats aboot thee, 
 Princes widna flout thee. 
 Life were cauld without thee. 
 
 Little Mary May. 
 
 THE BABY I LOVE. 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 
 The baby that can not talk ; 
 
 The baby that can not walk 
 The baby that just begins to creep ; 
 The baby that's cuddled and rock'd to 
 sleep ; 
 
 Oh, this is the baby I love ! 
 
14 
 
 BABY'S FIRST STEP.— MY BABY. 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 
 The baby that's never cross ; 
 
 The baby that papa can toss ; 
 The baby that crows when held aloft ; 
 The baby that 's rosy and round and 
 soft; 
 
 Oh, this is the baby I love ! 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 The baby that laughs when I peep 
 To see is it still asleep ; 
 The baby that coos and frowns and 
 
 blinks 
 When left alone — as it sometimes 
 thinks ; 
 Oh, this is the baby I love ! 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 The baby that lies on my knee, 
 And dimples and smiles on me 
 While I strip it and bathe it and kiss 
 
 it— Oh ! 
 Till with bathing and kissing 'tis all 
 aglow ; 
 Yes, this is the baby I love ! 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 The baby all freshly dressed ; 
 That, waking, is never at rest ; 
 That plucks at my collar and pulls my 
 
 hair 
 Till I look like a witch — but I do not 
 care ; 
 Oh, this is the baby I love ! 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 The baby that understands. 
 And dances with feet and hands, 
 And a sweet, little, whinnying, eager 
 
 cry 
 For the nice warm breakfast that waits 
 it close by ; 
 Oh, this is the baby I love ! 
 
 This is the baby I love ! 
 
 The baby that tries to talk ; 
 
 The baby that longs to walk ; 
 And oh, its mamma will wake some 
 
 day 
 To find that her baby has — run away ! 
 
 My baby !- -the baby 1 love ! 
 
 BABY'S FIRST STEP. 
 
 'TwAS a very simple lesson, 
 
 So simple — yet deep and sweet. 
 'Twas taught by our year-old baby. 
 
 Whose wee little dancing feet 
 Were tottering on the threshold 
 
 Of the open nursery door, 
 His bright eyes intently watching 
 
 A new toy upon the floor. 
 
 All untried and untested 
 
 Were those tiny, active feet ; 
 Never one step had they taken 
 
 In nursery or on the street ; 
 But the toy lay far beyond them, 
 
 And our baby's eager eyes 
 Danced, and he crowed in his gladness 
 
 As he saw the glittering prize. 
 
 " Come, httle boy ; come and take it ; 
 
 Father will not let you fall." 
 He lifted his face and listened. 
 
 As he heard the gentle call ; 
 Turned his sweet blue eyes, and seeing 
 
 A strong hand on either side, 
 Gathered all his faith and courage. 
 
 And his first weak footstep tried. 
 
 MY BABY. 
 
 With frolicsome freaks, 
 
 And rosy, red cheeks, 
 My baby lies waiting for me ; 
 
 He thinks not of crying. 
 
 But ever is trying 
 To sing a glad song in his glee. 
 
 His parted lips show 
 
 Three teeth in a row. 
 As white and as precious as pearls . 
 
 And his soft, silken hair 
 
 O'er his forehead so fair 
 Falls in dark, thick-clustering cuiJs. 
 
 His eyes, like two stars, 
 Peep out from the bars 
 
 Of his crib, as he w^atches for me. 
 And his pink little toes, 
 Down under the clothes. 
 
 Are kicking about to be free. 
 
BABY.— THE NURSE'S SONG. 
 
 15 
 
 I'm coming, my boy ! 
 
 My treasure, my joy ! 
 You shall wait no longer for me ; 
 
 But we'll up and away, 
 
 And be merry and gay. 
 Out under the old maple tree. 
 
 BABY. 
 
 Baby, baby, on my breast, 
 Oh, my little one, sleep sound ! 
 
 While the red clouds warm the west, 
 And the bright leaves light the 
 ground. 
 
 Mother's love is round you here ; 
 
 God's love, too, is close and near; 
 
 Full and happy be thy rest, 
 
 Bclb3^ baby, on my breast ! 
 
 Baby, baby, at my knee, 
 
 Lift )'our eyes up, let them show 
 All the dreams I can not see ; 
 
 Talk and tell me, make me know 
 How the world's dim puzzles seem 
 To your soul's pure waking dream. 
 Bring your marbles all to me, 
 Baby, baby, at my knee. 
 
 Baby, baby, at my side, 
 
 Ah, your cheek just reaches mine, 
 So, time will not be denied ; 
 
 Glossy braids are smooth and fine, 
 And I read within your eyes 
 Womanhood's fair mysteries, 
 Baby, baby, at my side, 
 Tall enough to be a bride ! 
 
 Baby, baby, far from me, 
 
 Lines of care have crossed your brow. 
 Little children climb your knee. 
 
 Fill your heart and household now, 
 "Mother," is my baby's name. 
 Yet to me, she's still the same ; 
 Still the child I rocked to rest 
 As a baby on my breast. 
 
 THE NURSE'S SONG. 
 When nursery lamps are veiled, and 
 nurse is singing 
 
 In accents low, 
 
 Timing her music to the cradle's swing- 
 ing, 
 
 Now fast, now slow — 
 
 Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and 
 furry 
 
 In rabbit cloak. 
 Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and 
 flurry 
 
 Of wind-swept oak ? 
 
 Of Boy Blue sleeping with his horn 
 beside him ; 
 
 Of my son John, 
 Who went to bed (let all good boys 
 deride him) 
 
 With stockings on ; 
 
 Of sweet Bo-Peep, following her lamb- 
 kins straying; 
 
 Of Dames in shoes; 
 Of cows, considerate, 'mid the Piper's 
 playing, 
 
 Which tune to choose ; 
 
 Of Gotham's wise men bowling o'er 
 the billow. 
 
 Or him, less wise. 
 Who chose rough bramble-bushes for 
 a pillow. 
 
 And scratched his eyes. 
 
 It may be, while she sings, that through 
 the portal 
 
 Soft footsteps glide. 
 And, all invisible to grown-up mortal. 
 
 At cradle side 
 
 Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old 
 mother. 
 
 And rocks and croons. 
 In tones which Baby hearkens, but no 
 other. 
 
 Her old-new tunes ! 
 
 I tiiink it must be so, else why, years 
 after, 
 
 Do we retrace 
 And ring with shadowy, recollected 
 laughter, 
 
 Thoughts of that face ; 
 
i6 
 
 THE HAPPY HOUR.— LITTLE TYRANT. 
 
 Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the 
 ages 
 
 Brimful of fun 
 And wit and wisdom, baffling all the 
 sages 
 
 Under the sun ? 
 
 A grown-up child has place still, which 
 no other 
 
 May dare refuse, 
 I, grown-up, bring this offering to our 
 Mother, 
 
 To Mother Goose, 
 
 And, standing with the babies at that 
 olden. 
 
 Immortal knee, 
 I seem to feel her smile, benign and 
 golden. 
 
 Falling on me. 
 
 THE HAPP V HO UP. 
 
 The busy day is over, 
 
 The household work is done ; 
 The cares that fret the morning 
 
 Have faded with the sun ; 
 And, in the tender twilight, 
 
 I sit in happy rest. 
 With my darling little baby 
 
 Asleep upon my breast. 
 
 White lids, with silken fringes, 
 
 Shut out the waning light ; 
 A little hand, close folded, 
 
 Holds mamma's fingers tight; 
 And in their soft, white wrappings. 
 
 At last in perfect rest, 
 Two dainty feet are cuddled 
 
 Like birdies in a nest. 
 
 All hopes and loves unworthy 
 
 Depart at this sweet hour ; 
 All pure and noble longings 
 
 Renew their holy power; 
 For Christ, v/ho, in the Virgin, 
 
 Our motherhood has blest, 
 Is near to every woman 
 
 With a baby on her breast. 
 
 THE SLEEP V LITTLE SISTER. 
 
 I SAT, one evening, watching 
 
 A little golden head 
 That was nodding o'er a picture book 
 
 And pretty soon I said, 
 " Come, darling, you are sleepy. 
 
 Don't you want to go to bed ? " 
 "No," she said, " I isn't sleepy. 
 
 But I can't hold up my head. 
 
 " Just now it feels so heavy. 
 
 There isn't any use ; 
 Do let me lay it down to rest 
 
 On dear old Mother Goose ! 
 I sha'n't shut up my eyes at all, 
 
 And so you need not fear ; 
 I'll keep 'em open all the while 
 
 To see this picture here." 
 
 And then, as I said nothing. 
 
 She settled for a nap ; 
 One curl was resting on the frill 
 
 Of the old lady's cap ; 
 Her arms embraced the children small 
 
 Inhabiting the shoe — 
 "Oh, dear," thought I, "what shall I 
 say? 
 
 For this will never do." 
 
 I sat awhile in silence. 
 
 Till the clock struck its " ding, ding,* 
 And then I went around and kissed 
 
 The cunning little thing. 
 The violets unfolded 
 
 As I kissed her, and she said, 
 " I isn't sleepy, sister. 
 
 But I guess I'll go to bed." 
 
 LITTLE TYRANT. 
 
 Let every sound be dead ; 
 
 Baby sleeps. 
 Tlie Emperor softly tread ! 
 
 Baby sleeps. 
 Let Mozart's music stop ! 
 Let Phidias' chisel drop ! 
 
 Baby sleeps. 
 Demosthenes be dumb ! 
 Our tyrant's hour has come ! 
 
 Baby sleeps. 
 
BABY'S COLOR.— A MOTHER'S DITTY. 
 
 17 
 
 BABY'S COLOR. 
 
 Scarlet is my baby's color. 
 
 Color of her dainty lips ; 
 Scarlet is the shade that matches 
 
 Splendor that her eyes eclipse. 
 Scarlet sets her face in glory, 
 
 Sunset flame and twilight eyes ; 
 Eyes that far outshine the fairest 
 
 Star in all the evening skies. 
 
 Every color suits my baby ! 
 
 With her shining gold-brown hair, 
 And her dark, dark eyes of splendor. 
 
 What may not my baby wear ? 
 Blue is like the smile of heaven 
 
 In the dimples of her face ; 
 Buff enhances while it softens 
 
 Every witching baby-grace. 
 
 White adorns her till her garments 
 
 Seem the robes that angels wear, 
 And a crown is in the sunshine 
 
 Falling on her silken hair. 
 Yet, my baby, how I tremble 
 
 When, in robes of snowy white, 
 I have hushed you into slumber 
 
 For the long, long, dreamful night : 
 
 Tremble, lest the angels, finding 
 
 Baby in her robes of white, 
 Think her but a little wanderer 
 
 From the golden shores of light. 
 Earth is rough ; yet oh, good angels, 
 
 Leave my baby yet awhile, 
 For the darkness and the shadow 
 
 Flee before her sunny smile. 
 
 I will keep her, oh, good angels, 
 
 Free from every sinful guile ; 
 I will teach her holy lessons, . 
 
 Leave my baby yet awhile. 
 Do not look upon her beauty, 
 
 Lest you take her for your own ; 
 She is mine, oh, pitying angels — 
 
 All my heart to her has grown. 
 
 Leave her though you love her, angels, 
 And the shadows, long and deep. 
 
 Fall athwart the toilsome journey 
 Of " Life's cold and slippery steep." 
 
 Leave her — I v^^ill bear the burdens, 
 I will keep the child from harm — 
 
 I will shelter her and shield her 
 From each bitter raging storm. 
 
 Nay, nay, angels, do not frown so, 
 
 I can guard her but with prayer ; 
 I am weak ; but God is mighty, 
 
 And His love is everywhere. 
 He will help me bring the lambkin 
 
 Safe at last into His fold, 
 With her dark, dark eyes of splendor, 
 
 And her brown hair tinged with gold : 
 
 A MOTHER'S DITTY. 
 
 It's aboot my chubby bit bairn 
 That 1 wanted a v^^ord to tell, 
 
 I'm sure his match is no to be fand 
 In the ring o' the Heigh Kirk Bell. 
 
 The lasses (an' I hae three), 
 
 I may say they are a' verra well ; 
 
 But they ne'er gi'ed me the hauf o' the 
 thocht 
 As this wee bit steering chiel. 
 
 Look at him rin to his faither, 
 I'm sure it's a sicht to see ; 
 
 The twa o' them screechin' and lauchin', 
 And roaring wi' verra glee. 
 
 See ! Up the wee man he catches 
 By the oxters, and sends him awa' 
 
 Near to the roof. And I gie a start, 
 As I see that he's like to fa'. 
 
 But his faither is there to catch him, 
 In a faither's ain loving airms ; 
 
 And then sic a squealin' and kittlin', 
 Dispel a' my silly alarms. 
 
 And they rumple and sprauchle aboot — 
 Look noo, on the floor they're doon ; 
 
 And they tumble and caper and shout, 
 Eneuch to deeve the toun. 
 
 Noo faither's his galloping horse. 
 And the wee man " gees " and 
 " wo's ; " 
 He hobbles and rides him to London, 
 
18 
 
 DREAM, MY BABY.— AN UNFINISHED PRAYER. 
 
 And then as he hugs his daddie, 
 A prood, prood man is he ; 
 
 But o' that wee fair-haired laddie 
 He'll never be fonder than me. 
 
 When I look in his bonnie blue een, 
 
 My ain begin to blink, 
 As I wonder if e'er he'll turn out bad ; 
 
 Of that I daur hardly think. 
 
 For noo as he sits on my knee, 
 Wi' his airm flung roun' my neck, 
 
 He cuddles and kisses his mammy sae 
 fond, 
 Till my heart is like to break. 
 
 For if the wee man should ever 
 
 Gae awa' on the road that's wrang, 
 
 I kenna what faither himself wad do, 
 But I to my grave wad gang. 
 
 So to the Lord I whisper 
 
 A prayer aboon my v/ean. 
 That he may be kept frae sorrow, 
 
 And suffering, and sin, and pain. 
 
 Lang may my jewel be spared. 
 And aye to his mither be kind ; 
 
 Then I kiss the wee lips and brush off 
 the tear. 
 And leave a' thae shadows behind. 
 
 DREAM, MY BABY. 
 
 Mother's baby, rock and rest, 
 
 Little birds are fast asleep. 
 Close beneath her mother-breast. 
 
 Safe the bird her brood will keep. 
 Oh ! my nestling, mother sings, 
 Close within the mother-arms. 
 Fold thy little, unfledged wings, 
 Safe from any rude alarms. 
 
 Sweet, my baby, on my breast 
 Dream your happy dreams and 
 rest. 
 
 Rest, oh ! rest. 
 
 Ah ! my baby, from the nest 
 Little birds will some day fly 
 
 To the east and to the west, 
 Wild their pretty wings to try. 
 
 But, fly they fast, my bird, or far, 
 
 Never can they find the spot, 
 Under sun or any star, 
 
 Where the mother-love is not. 
 
 Sweet, my baby, on my breast 
 Dream your happy dreams and 
 rest. 
 
 Rest, oh ! rest. 
 
 Oh ! my baby, mother prays. 
 
 As she clasps you closer still. 
 All sweet things for coming days. 
 
 And not any earthly ill. 
 Always, child, remember this : 
 
 Mother's heart is warm and true. 
 And she tells you, with a kiss. 
 There'll be always room for you. 
 
 Sweet, my baby, on my breast. 
 Dream your happy dreams and 
 rest. 
 
 Rest, oh ! rest. 
 
 AN UNFINISHED PRAYER. 
 
 "Now I lay" — say it, darling; 
 
 "Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
 Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
 
 O'er her folded finger-tips. 
 
 "Down to sleep — to sleep," she mur- 
 mured, 
 
 And the curly head dropped low. 
 " I pray the Lord," I gently added, 
 
 "You can say it all, I know." 
 
 "Pray the Lord" — the words came 
 faintly. 
 
 Fainter still — "My soul to keep;" 
 Then the rired head fairly nodded, 
 
 And the child was fast asleep. 
 
 But the dewy eyes half opened 
 When I clasped her to my breast, 
 
 And the dear voice softly whispered, 
 "Mamma, God knows all the rest." 
 
 Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
 Of that child-heart ! Would that I 
 
 Thus might trust my Heavenly Father 
 He v/ho hears my humblest cry. 
 
THE WEE-BIT BAIRN.— BABY ASLEEP. 
 
 19 
 
 THE WEE-BIT BAIRN. 
 
 We ha'e a wee-bit bairn at hame, 
 Sae blithesome, cannie bright. 
 
 That ever syne the day he came 
 Has filled the house wi' light. 
 
 He now is twa years old, or mair, 
 A' glib o' tongue and foot ; 
 
 He climbs up ilka fatal stair. 
 He claims ilk cast-off boot. 
 
 Barefit he toddles roun' the streets, 
 Wi' gran 'sire close behin' ; 
 
 Giving ilk person that he meets 
 Piece o' his childish min'. 
 
 Who kens the wee thmg, what'll he be 
 When years a score ha'e gaun ? 
 
 Gladding his mither's grateful e'e, 
 Piercing her breast wi' thorn ! 
 
 God gie His angels charge to keep 
 
 The bairnie, lest he stray ; 
 And though in death we fa' asleep, 
 
 Show him the narrow way. 
 
 High-minded family, 
 Very well bred ; 
 
 No falling out, you see ! 
 Three in a bed. 
 
 THE BIRD'S RETURN. 
 
 Where have you been, little birdie, 
 /here have vou been so long ? " 
 
 you 
 
 THREE IN A BED. 
 
 Gay little velvet coats, 
 
 One, two, three ; 
 Any home happier 
 
 Could there be ? 
 Topsev and Johnny 
 
 And sleepy Ned, 
 Purring so cosily. 
 
 Three in a bed. 
 
 Woe to the stupid mouse, 
 
 Prowling about ! 
 Old mother Pussy 
 
 Is on the lookout. 
 Little cats, big cats, 
 
 All must be fed. 
 In the sky parlor 
 
 Three in a bed. 
 
 Mother's a gypsy puss, — 
 Often she moves. 
 
 Thinking much travel 
 Her children improves. 
 
 •' Warbling in glee 
 
 Far o'er the sea. 
 
 And learning for you a new song, 
 
 My sweet — 
 Learning for you a new song." 
 
 " Why did you go, little birdie, — 
 Why did you go from me? " 
 
 " Winter was here, 
 Leafless and drear ; 
 And so I flew over the sea, 
 
 My sweet — 
 So I flew over the sea." 
 
 " What did you see, little birdie, — 
 What did you see each day .^ " 
 
 "Sunshine and flowers, 
 Blossoms and bowers, 
 
 And pretty white lambkins at play, 
 My sweet — 
 
 Pretty white lambkins at play." 
 
 " Who kept you safe, little birdie, — 
 Who kept you safe from all harm ? " 
 
 " The Father of all. 
 Of great and of small : 
 
 He sheltered me under His arm. 
 My sweet — 
 
 Under His dear loving arm." 
 
 BABY ASLEEP. 
 
 Two little dimpled hands 
 Chubby and warm. 
 
 Two little rosy cheeks 
 Perfect in form : 
 
20 
 
 AFTER ALL.— LULLABY.— AT NIGHT. 
 
 Two tiny golden curls 
 On her pure brow, 
 
 Resting so daintily 
 Always — as now : 
 
 Two little heavy eyes 
 Dewy with sleep, 
 
 Angels above them 
 Vigil will keep. 
 
 Jesus will care for thee 
 Safe in His love, 
 
 Dream, little slumberer, 
 Watched from above. 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 Dancing like a sunbeam, 
 
 Darting here and there, 
 Hiding 'neath the table, 
 
 Peeping round a chair, 
 Making merry music 
 
 With her laughter sweet. 
 And the roguish patter 
 
 Of her flying feet. 
 Papa hears the frolic ; 
 
 Rover joins the fun ; 
 Who would think it's bed-time 
 
 For my little one ! 
 
 On a snowy pillow 
 
 A little golden head ; 
 A dainty white-robed figure 
 
 In a cradle bed. 
 Blue eyes softly closing. 
 
 Red lips smiling sweet ; 
 Quiet, dimpled fingers ; 
 
 Quiet, dimpled feet. 
 Listening in the doorway, 
 
 I hear a sweet voice call ; 
 ' Mamma, mamma dearie, 
 
 I love you after all ! " 
 
 After all, dear Saviour, 
 When my closing eyes. 
 
 See the shadows creeping 
 O'er the evening skies ; 
 
 After all the straying 
 Of my wayward feet ; 
 
 After all my erring. 
 May Thy mercy sweet 
 
 Hear the trembling accents 
 From my lips that fall : 
 "Jesus, precious Saviour, 
 I love Thee after all ! " 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 Bye, Baby, day is over. 
 Bees are drowsing in the clover ; 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 Now the sun to bed is gliding, 
 All the pretty flowers are hiding ; 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 
 Bye, Baby, birds are sleeping, 
 One by one the stars are peeping ; 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 In the far-off" sky the twinkle. 
 While the cows come, tinkle, tinkle ; 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 
 Bye, Baby, mother holds thee, 
 Loving, tender care enfolds thee : 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 Angels in thy dreams caress thee. 
 Through the darkness guard and bless 
 thee ; 
 
 Bye, Baby, bye. 
 
 AT NIGHT. 
 
 The little weary winged bees 
 Give up their honey-quest. 
 
 And all the little singing birds 
 Fly home and go to rest. 
 
 The butterflies fold up at last 
 Their shining, golden crowns ; 
 
 And daisies, in their wee white cups, 
 Sleep on the dewy downs. 
 
 The cattle, with their tinkling bells. 
 Come home across the wold ; 
 
 And you're the only little lamb 
 That's left without the fold. 
 
 Then come, my pretty one, 'tis time 
 Thou, too, shouldst find thy rest ; 
 
BABY'S TOES.— BABY'S DAY. 
 
 21 
 
 The violet's eyes, as blue as thine, 
 Droop on each dewy breast. 
 
 And buttercups, adown the lane, 
 
 A]e folded from the dark, 
 And they'll be earher out than you, 
 
 And hear the first brown lark. 
 
 Then haste, before the stars cHmb up 
 The blue walls of the skies ; 
 
 For sure you would not let them see 
 Such drooping little eyes. 
 
 Fear not the shadow, for God keeps 
 Awake through all the night ; 
 
 To make our sleep more sweet and 
 calm, 
 He takes away the light. 
 
 BABY'S TOES. 
 
 Oh, the tiny, curled-up treasure, 
 
 Just as cute as cute can be ! 
 Come and help me count them, Mad- 
 
 While the baby bends to see ; 
 
 Peeps demurely over dainty 
 
 Skirts, drawn up to dimpled knees. 
 
 Hey, my lady Lily ! whose two 
 Roly-poly feet are these ? 
 
 See the darling's round-eyed wonder — 
 Does she really know they're hers .'' 
 
 Now she reaches down to feel them, 
 While new triumph in her stirs. 
 
 Crow your fill, my little lady ! 
 
 Those are your own cunning toes, 
 Round, and soft, and fat, and funny, 
 
 And— how many ? Madgie knows 1 
 
 Call them lily-buds to please her ? 
 
 Madgie says they are too pink. 
 Say ten roses and two posies ! 
 
 Rather rose-buds, don't you think .'^ 
 
 Come, wee toes, lie still ; be covered ; 
 
 You've cut capers quite enough ; 
 If you don't, we'll kiss and put you 
 
 Each one in a paper ruff. 
 
 BAB Y'S DA r. 
 
 The reason I call it "Baby's Day" 
 
 Is funny enough to tell ; 
 The first thing she did was give " syrup 
 of squills " 
 To dolly to make her well ; 
 And then when I told her how wrong 
 it was, 
 She said, with a quivering sigh, 
 " I'm sorry I made her so sticky, mam- 
 ma. 
 But I couldn't let dolly die." 
 
 Then comforted wholly she went away. 
 
 And was just as still as a mouse, 
 And I thought to be sure I should find 
 her at once 
 
 In the nursery playing " house ; " 
 But, lo ! on the way as I started to look, 
 
 A queer little piece I found. 
 Just like a center of snowy lav/n 
 
 That the scissors had scalloped 
 round. 
 
 I cried " O, baby ! what have you done ? 
 You have been to somebody's drawer. 
 And taken from out of the handker- 
 chief pile 
 The most beautiful one that you 
 saw ! " 
 And then the dear little head went down 
 
 Pathetic as it could be. 
 While she sobbed, " There was no- 
 thing for me to cut, 
 And I thought I'd take two or 
 three ! " 
 
 It was only a little later on, 
 
 That the water began to splash. 
 And 1 jumped and found she was rub 
 bing away 
 
 On her sister's holiday sash ; 
 But, catching a look of utter dismay. 
 
 As she lifted her innocent eyes. 
 She whispered: "Don't worry, I'li 
 wash it all dean. 
 
 And hang it up till it dries." 
 
 But the funny mishaps of that wonder- 
 ful day 
 I could not begin to relate ; 
 
22 
 
 LULU'S COMPLAINT.— MAMMA'S STORY 
 
 The boxes of buttons and pins she 
 spilled, 
 Like a cherub pursued by fate ! 
 And still, all the while, the dear little 
 dove 
 Was fluttering 'round her nest, 
 And the only thing I really could ^o 
 Was to smooth out her wings on my 
 breast. 
 
 But the day drifted on till it came to an 
 end, 
 And the great moon rose in sight. 
 And the dear soft lids o'er the dear 
 soft eyes 
 Dropped tenderly their good-night. 
 And I thought, as I looked on her 
 lying asleep, 
 I was glad (for once in a way), 
 That my beautiful child was human 
 enough 
 For a mischievous " Baby Day." 
 
 LULU'S COMPLALNT. 
 
 I's a poor 'ittle sorrowful baby. 
 For B'idget is way down stairs ; 
 
 My titten has st'ached my finder, 
 And Dolly won't say her p'ayers. 
 
 I haint seen my bootiful mamma 
 
 Since-ever so Ion' ado ; 
 An' I ain't her tunnin'est baby 
 
 No londer, for B'idget says so. 
 
 My ma's got another 7tew baby ; 
 
 Dod dived it — he did— yesterday, 
 An' it kies, it kies, oh, so defful ! 
 
 I wis' he would tate it away, 
 
 I don't want no "sweet 'ittle sister ! " 
 I want my dood mamma, 1 do ; 
 
 I want her to tiss me, an' tiss me. 
 An' tall me her p'ecious Lulii ! 
 
 I dess my bid papa will b'in' me 
 A 'ittle dood titten some day. 
 
 Here's nurse uid my mamma's new 
 baby, 
 I wis' s'e would tate it away. 
 
 Oh, oh, what tunnin' red finders ! 
 
 It sees me yite o' its eyes ! 
 I dess we will teep it, and dive it 
 
 Some tanny whenever it kies. 
 
 I dess I will dive it my Dolly 
 To play wid mos' every day ; 
 
 And I dess, I dess — Say, B'idget, 
 As' Dod not to tate it away. 
 
 MAMMA'S STORY. 
 
 "Tell us a story, mamma dear," 
 The children cried one day. 
 " The rain falls fast. It is going to last, 
 And we are all tired of play." 
 
 Ah ! pleading eyes and winning tones, 
 How could they be denied ? 
 
 So mamma began in merry strain, 
 And she laid her work aside : 
 
 "There was an old woman that lived 
 
 in a shoe, 
 And of all the children that ever you 
 
 knew. 
 Hers was the wildest, funniest crew ; 
 Do vou wonder she didn't know what 
 'to do? 
 
 "There were Ella, and Nell, and Mar) 
 
 Belle, 
 Laurie, Laura, and Maud Estelle, 
 Sarah, Sammy, and Josephine, 
 Norah, Norval, and Madeline, 
 Lillian, Archibald, and Harry, 
 Christopher, Charlie, Pete, and Carrie, 
 Jemmy, Johnny, and Theodore, 
 And over a half a dozen more. 
 
 " And then such a terrible time, 'twaa 
 
 said. 
 She had in getting them all to bed. 
 And supper, alas ! was such a dread, 
 Especially when they cried for bread. 
 One night she threatened to whip them 
 
 all. 
 And reached for the switch upon the 
 
 wall. 
 
ANITA AND HER DOLLS.— A HINT.— GOING UP. 
 
 23 
 
 My I how the mad-cap urchins flew 
 
 Look ! she lays her 
 
 In and out of the poor old shoe ; 
 
 Down by Caesar — 
 
 Over each other they madly dash, 
 
 What can be the matter, now } 
 
 The old lady after them like a flash. 
 
 Blue eyes closing. 
 
 Through a hole in the worn-out sole, 
 
 Blinking, dozing — ■ 
 
 Back and forth at each button-hole ; 
 
 Wee white hands and lily brow- 
 
 Out at the top and in at the toe, 
 
 
 Around and under, away they go. 
 
 Cheeks so waxen. 
 
 
 Tresses flaxen, 
 
 " Finally, wearied out with fun, 
 
 Footsteps, that a fairy seems — 
 
 They drop in their places one by one. 
 
 All now wander 
 
 And not till her house is still as death, 
 
 Over yonder, 
 
 Does the old woman pause to recover 
 breath." 
 
 In the happy land of dreams ! 
 
 ANITA AND HER DOLLS. 
 
 A HINT. 
 
 FAMILY-Iaden, 
 
 Our Daisy lay down 
 
 Wee, wise maiden — 
 
 In her little nightgown, 
 
 Knits her brow in dainty knots ; 
 
 And kissed me again and again. 
 
 How to dolly 
 
 On forehead and cheek. 
 
 Cure of folly 
 
 On lips that would speak. 
 
 Occupies her busy thoughts. 
 
 But found themselves shut, to their gain 
 
 " Dollie's wet her 
 
 
 Feet to get her 
 
 Then, foolish, absurd. 
 
 Posies, in the morning dew ; 
 
 To utter a word. 
 
 Sure to be sick — 
 
 I asked her the question so old 
 
 Cold or colic — 
 
 That wife and that lover 
 
 Like as not the measles, too 
 
 Ask over and over, 
 
 
 As if they were surer when told ! 
 
 " There is Freddy, 
 
 
 Always ready 
 
 There, close at her side. 
 
 Into awful 'fairs to fall : 
 
 " Do you love me .^ " I cried ; 
 
 Bad as Rosy — 
 
 She lifted her golden-crowned head ; 
 
 Doodness knows, I 
 
 A puzzled surprise 
 
 Don't know how to manage 'tall ! 
 
 Shone in her gray eyes— 
 
 " Jack or Norah's 
 
 " Why, that's why I kiss you ! " she said. 
 
 Telled a story ! 
 
 
 One or t'uver ate ma's cake ! 
 
 
 While there's silly, 
 
 
 Greedy Willy, 
 
 GOING UP. 
 
 Got a drefful stomach ache ! 
 
 
 
 Up and up the baby goes. 
 
 " Naughty Bessie 
 
 Up to papa's shoulder. 
 
 Tored her dress ; she 
 
 Now she clings to papa's nose — 
 
 Wants anuver one, I spose ; 
 
 Now, becoming bolder, 
 
 I tell you what 
 
 How she flings her arms and crows ! 
 
 It tates a lot 
 
 Do you think the darling knows 
 
 Of work to teep my dolls in tose ! " 
 
 How strong the arms that hold her } 
 
24 
 
 TELLING A STORY.— GOING TO BED. 
 
 Up and up the baby goes, 
 
 Taller, wiser, older ; 
 As the calyx holds the rose, 
 
 Childish years enfold her; 
 By and by they shall enclose 
 From the woman and the rose ; 
 
 Then, O Father, hold her ! 
 
 On the heights of womanhood, 
 Hold her. Heavenly Father; 
 
 Lest, forgetting what is good, 
 She be carried rather 
 
 Down with folly's multitude 
 
 Into error's mazy wood 
 
 Where the shadows gather. 
 
 Up and up the baby goes ; 
 
 Heavenh' Father, give her 
 Heart to feel for others' woes, 
 
 Hands of helping ever ; 
 Let her bloom, when life shall close, 
 Like a white immortal rose 
 
 By the crystal river. 
 
 TELLING A STORY. 
 
 Little Blue-eyes is sleepy, 
 
 Come here and be rocked to sleep. 
 What shall I tell you, darling } 
 
 The story of Little Bo Peep ? 
 Or of the cows in the garden. 
 
 Or the children who ran away } 
 If Fm to be stor3'-teller 
 
 What shall I tell you, pray } 
 
 "Tell me" — the Blue-eyes opened 
 
 Like pansies when they blow, 
 "Of the baby in the manger. 
 
 The little child-Christ, you know. 
 I like to hear that 'tory 
 
 The best of all you tell." 
 And my four-year-old nestles closer 
 
 As the twilight shadows fell. 
 
 And I told my darling over 
 
 The old, old tale again : 
 Of the baby born in the manger. 
 
 And the Christ who died for men, 
 Of the great warm heart of Jesus, 
 
 And the children whom He blest. 
 Like the blue-eyed boy who listened 
 
 As he lay upon my breast. 
 
 And I prayed, as my darling slumbered, 
 
 That my child, with eyes so sweet. 
 Might learn from his Saviour's lesson 
 
 And sit at the Master's feet. 
 Pray God he may never forget it, 
 
 But always love to hear 
 The tender and touching story 
 
 That now he holds so dear. 
 
 GOING TO BED. 
 
 Our Fannie Angelina 
 
 Didn't want to go to bed, — 
 Her reasons would you know } then 
 
 Let me tell you what she said 
 At eight o'clock precisely. 
 
 At the close of } csterday, 
 Her mamma m the trundle-bed 
 
 Had tucked her snug away. 
 " It isn't time to go to bed, 
 
 The clock goes round too quick ; 
 It hurts my back to lie in bed 
 
 And almost makes me sick : 
 I want to show my Uncle George 
 
 My pretty birthday ring ; 
 And sing him ' Jesus loves me,' 
 
 For he likes to hear me sing ; 
 My dollie, Haddynewya, 
 
 Her yellow dress is thin, 
 And she's sitting on the horse-block, 
 
 I forgot to bring her in ; 
 I want to go and get her, 
 
 She'll catch a cold and die ; 
 I want to get my nankachick, 
 
 I guess I've got to cry. 
 I said I'd wait till papa comes, 
 
 I wonder what he'll think; 
 There's something hurts me in my 
 throat, 
 
 I want to get a drink. 
 I guess I'd rather get it in 
 
 My little sih-er cup — 
 What makes me have to go to bed 
 
 When you are staying up } " 
 So Fannie Angelina 
 
 Was determined not to do it. 
 Yet she drifted off to Nod land. 
 
 Poor child, before she knew it. 
 
MAMMA'S KISSES.— OUT IN THE RAIN. 
 
 25 
 
 The queen who reigns in Nod land 
 Shut her willful eyes so tight, 
 
 They quite forgot to open 
 
 Till the sun was shining bright. 
 
 MAMMA'S KISSES. 
 
 A KISS when I awake in the morning, 
 
 A kiss when I go to bed, 
 A kiss when I burn my finger, 
 
 A kiss when I bump my head. 
 
 A kiss when my bath is over, 
 A kiss when my bath begins ; 
 
 My mamma is full of kisses, 
 As full as nurse is of pins. 
 
 A kiss when I play with my rattle, 
 A kiss when I pull her hair ; 
 
 She covered me over with kisses 
 The day I fell from the stair. 
 
 A kiss when I give her trouble, 
 A kiss when I give her joy ; 
 
 There's nothing hke mamma's kisses 
 For her own little baby boy. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Sing him a cradle song, 
 
 Tender and low ; 
 Tell him how Jesus came 
 
 Long, long ago : 
 Came as a little one. 
 
 Lowly and mild, 
 God's own eternal Son, 
 
 Yet Mary's child. 
 
 Long years may come and pass. 
 
 And there shall be 
 Under the churchyard grass 
 
 Slumber for thee ; 
 Yet shall thy song live on 
 
 Still in his life. 
 Sweeter when thou art gone 
 
 Out of the strife. 
 
 Sorrow will come with time. 
 
 Faith may grow cold ; 
 Truth, like a silver chime. 
 
 Calls to the fold : 
 
 Calls to the roving sheep 
 (Gone far astray,) 
 " Come, and thy Lord shall keep 
 Spoilers away." 
 
 Say not the words are weak, 
 
 Scorned of the wise ; 
 Doth not the Master speak 
 
 In lowly guise? 
 He shall thy weakness make 
 
 Holy and strong, 
 And thy poor song shall wake 
 
 A sweeter song. 
 
 THE WEE BIT SHOON. 
 
 The wee bit shoon she used to wear 
 
 They gav me aften greet ; 
 At gloamin' time could I aince mair 
 
 But haud those pink-white feet. 
 
 But haud those feet within my ban's, 
 
 An' hear her ripplin' glee, 
 A warl' o' houses an' o' lan's, 
 
 Hoo empty wad they be. 
 
 Those tiny palms, could I but taste, 
 Sae aft to me stretched out, 
 
 The earth wad be nae mair a waste. 
 My held nae whirl about. 
 
 The curls, hauf-grown, that graced her 
 broo, 
 
 The glintin* o' her een. 
 The tremblin' o' her matchless mou'. 
 
 Still haunt me, though unseen. 
 
 Wad death gie back, for ane short 
 hour. 
 
 The lapfu' that was mine ; 
 But, ah ! but, ah ! I'd hae nae power 
 
 The treasure to resig-n. 
 
 OUT IN THE RAIN. 
 
 A ROUND little face, peeping out of a 
 
 shawl, 
 That was trying to cover it, dimples 
 
 and all : 
 
26 
 
 SAFE-FOLDED. 
 
 A fat little hand pushing sturdily up, 
 And catching the drops in its mite of a 
 
 cup; 
 A frolicsome baby that didn't complain, 
 Though mamma and he were out in 
 
 the rain. 
 
 The ferry-boat jerked itself into the 
 
 slip, 
 And down came the shower, a pelt and 
 
 a drip ; 
 The pretty young ladies were mute 
 
 with despair, 
 For the rain would just leave them 
 
 with " nothing to wear ; " 
 While the dainty young gentlemen 
 
 stared at the skies, 
 With a feehng quite mildly expressed 
 
 by surprise ; 
 But 'twas fun to the baby, and once 
 
 and again 
 He laughed his delight at the beautiful 
 
 rain. 
 
 There were women with bundles, and 
 
 men with cigars. 
 There were newsboys around with 
 
 their Heralds and Stars, 
 There were crowds going up, there 
 
 were crowds going down. 
 And faster the deluge poured over the 
 
 town ; 
 Umbrellas were useless at home in the 
 
 hall. 
 And baby was fortunate, wrapped in a 
 
 shawl ; 
 He tugged at it bravely, with struggle 
 
 and strain. 
 It hindered his seeing enough of the 
 
 rain. 
 
 Oh, baby ! you darling, so merry and 
 
 sweet, 
 I followed you up the long hill of the 
 
 street ; 
 I'd nothing to fear, for ;;/y hat was not 
 
 new, 
 And so I had leisure to trifle with you, 
 And throw you my kisses, and think 
 
 what a joy 
 
 That dear little mamma must find such 
 
 a boy; 
 An annful to carry, a weight on her 
 
 shoulder, 
 But day by day growing a tiny bit 
 
 older; 
 Her pride and her comfort. She didn't 
 
 complain 
 As she bore you so cheerily home in 
 
 the rain. 
 
 Once there, how she'd loosen that 
 magical pin 
 
 That had fastened so precious a prison- 
 er in ; 
 
 And golden curls tumbled, and cap all 
 awry. 
 
 And rumpled and crumpled, but hap- 
 py and dry, 
 
 Would set you once more on the two 
 little feet, 
 
 Restless and rosy, and cunning and 
 fleet, 
 
 And laugh as you told her again and 
 again, 
 
 " How nithe it wath, mamma, out dere 
 in de wain." 
 
 SAFE-FOLDED. 
 
 Oh, it is hard when o'er the face 
 We scarce can see for weeping, 
 
 The little, loving baby face. 
 
 That last, still shade comes creep- 
 ing; 
 
 Full hard to close the tender eyes. 
 And fold the hands for sleeping. 
 
 Yet, when the world our own would 
 claim, 
 
 It doth not greatly grieve us ; 
 We calmly see, as days go by, 
 
 Our little children leave us — 
 And, smiling, heed not how the swift, 
 
 Soft-footed years bereave us. 
 
 Oh, mother-hearts ! I count you rich 
 
 Beyond mere earth-possessing. 
 Whose little babies never grow 
 
LITTLENESS.— OUR BABY. 
 
 27 
 
 Away from your caressing — 
 Safe-folded in His tender arms, 
 Who gives again, with blessing. 
 
 LITTLENESS. 
 
 " Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in 
 my infirmity." 
 
 Wearily from stair to stair 
 Slowly climb the little feet, 
 
 Dress awry and tangled hair, 
 Pouting lips as berries sweet. 
 
 " I'se so tired, don't 'ou see } 
 Dess I never '11 det up-stairs. 
 
 Dranpa, won't 'ou tarry me, 
 So as I tan say my prayers.^ " 
 
 Light the burden that I bore, 
 Nestling softly on my breast ; 
 
 Arms that hugged me o'er and o'er, 
 Tiny form at perfect rest. 
 
 And the midget softly said, 
 
 " Ain't 'ou glad I'se small ? 'Ou see, 
 When I have to go to bed, 
 
 'Ou tan always tarry me." 
 
 Glad I clasped the maiden close, 
 Warm the beating of my heart ; 
 
 Love, which every parent knows. 
 Made the happy tear-drops start. 
 
 Ah ! I thought, my weary feet, 
 Toiling painfully life's stair, 
 
 Often find it passing sweet 
 
 When I meet my Father there. 
 
 Weak and sinful, poor and blind, 
 Glad I seek His sheltering arm ; 
 
 Joyful welcome there I find, 
 Calm security from harm. 
 
 Whispering prattle faint and low. 
 
 In His ever open ear, 
 Words whose meaning I scarce know. 
 
 Yet He loves to pause and hear. 
 
 Does there ever o'er Him fall 
 That glad thrill of holy glee — 
 
 Gladness that I am so small 
 He can safely carry me ? 
 
 OUR BABY. 
 
 "DOD will tate tare of baby dear," 
 
 My winsome darling said, 
 When in her robe of white she knelt 
 
 Beside her little bed. 
 
 Her tiny dimpled hands were clasped, 
 As though she were in prayer, 
 
 And, oh ! methought a heavenly glow 
 Fell on her golden hair. 
 
 A ray, it may be, darted through 
 
 The door just pushed ajar 
 By angel hand, whose radiant face 
 
 Like a bright evening star 
 
 Looked down upon my darling one. 
 
 Kneeling beside her bed. 
 And smiled to hear the simple faith 
 
 In the sweet words she said. 
 
 "Dod will tate tare of baby dear," 
 And then the eyelids drooped ; 
 
 I laid her gently down to sleep, 
 But thought the angel stooped 
 
 To kiss good-night ; for the red lips 
 
 Were parted as she slept, 
 And o'er her face a holy smile 
 
 In rippling dimples crept. 
 
 " God will take care of baby dear ! ' 
 
 Ah, yes ! I knew it well, 
 E'en when the shadows, cold and chill, 
 
 Upon her young life fell. 
 
 And yet the mother-heart rebelled ! 
 
 This puny hand, I said. 
 Can shield her, guide her in the path 
 
 Where God would have her led. 
 
 I could not lose my petted flower, 
 
 So beautiful, so dear. 
 Nor thought it was too dark and chill 
 
 For such sweet blossoms here. 
 
 " Dod will tate tare of baby dear, ' 
 The parched lips murmured slow ! 
 
 And then the eyelids drooped and 
 closed 
 Forever, here below ! 
 
28 THE QUEEN IN HER CARRIAGE.— THE SUNDAY BABY. 
 
 Oh, mourning heart, hush thy sad wail, 
 She's safe, now, in His love ; 
 
 *' God will take care of baby dear " 
 In His bright home above. 
 
 THE QUEEN IN HER CARRIAGE 
 IS RIDING B V. 
 
 Oh, the queen in her carriage is pass- 
 ing by : 
 
 Her cheeks are like roses, her eyes like 
 the sky ; 
 
 Her wonderful teeth are white as new 
 milk, 
 
 Her pretty blonde hair is softer than 
 silk. 
 
 She's the loveliest monarch that ever 
 was seen ; 
 
 You ask of what country the darling is 
 queen ; 
 
 Her empire extends not to far distant 
 parts, 
 
 She is queen of our household, the mis- 
 tress of hearts. 
 
 For scepter she lifts her soft dimpled 
 
 hands ; 
 Her subjects all hasten to heed her 
 
 commands ; 
 Her smile is bewitching, and fearful 
 
 her frown, 
 And all must obey when she puts her 
 
 foot down. 
 
 May blessings descend on the bright 
 
 little head. 
 From the time she awakes till she's 
 
 safely in bed ; 
 And now do you guess, when I speak 
 
 of the queen, 
 'Tis only our six months baby I mean ? 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Sleep, my baby, beside the fire. 
 
 Sleep, child, sleep ; 
 Wmds are wailing, nigher and nigher, 
 Waves are raising, higher and higher. 
 
 Sleep, child, sleep ; 
 While thy father, out on the sea. 
 Toils all night for thee and me. 
 
 Sleep, my baby, content and blest, 
 
 Sleep, child, sleep ; 
 Whether the heart in thy mother's 
 
 breast 
 Be light or heavy — so best ! so best ! 
 
 Sleep, child, sleep ! 
 While thy father, out on the sea, 
 Toils all night for thee and me. 
 
 THE SUN DA Y BABY. 
 
 You wonderful little Sunday child ! 
 
 Half of your fortune scarce you know, 
 Although you have blinked and winked 
 and smiled 
 
 Full seven and twenty days below. 
 
 " The bairn that was born on Sabbath 
 day," 
 So say the old wives over their 
 glass — 
 " Is bonny and healthy, and wise and 
 gay ! " 
 What do you think of that, my lass ? 
 
 Health and wisdom, and beauty and 
 mirth ! 
 And (as if that were not enough for 
 a dower). 
 Because of the holy day of your birth. 
 Abroad you may walk in the gloam- 
 ing's hour. 
 
 When we poor bodies, with backward 
 look, 
 Shiver and quiver and quake with 
 fear 
 Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and 
 spook, 
 Never a thought need you take, my 
 dear — 
 
 For " Sunday's child " may go where 
 it please, 
 Sunday's child shall be free from 
 harm ! 
 Right down through the mountain side 
 it sees 
 The mines unopened where jewels 
 swarm ! 
 
THE DEAREST BABY.— CRADLE SONG. 
 
 29 
 
 Oh, fortunate baby ! Sunday lass ! 
 The veins of gold through the rocks 
 you'll see ; 
 And when o'er the shining sands you 
 pass, 
 You can tell where the hidden springs 
 may be. 
 
 And never a fiend or an airy sprite 
 May thwart or hinder you all your 
 days, 
 Whenever it chances, in mirk mid- 
 night, 
 The lids of your marvelous eyes you 
 raise. 
 
 You may see, while your heart is pure 
 and true. 
 The angels that visit this lower 
 sphere. 
 Drop down the firmament, two and 
 two, 
 Their errands of mercy to work down 
 here. 
 
 This is the dower of a Sunday child ; 
 What do you think of it, little brown 
 head, 
 Winking and blinking your eyes so 
 mild, 
 Down in the depths of your snowy 
 bed.? 
 
 THE DEAREST BABY. 
 
 South and North, 
 East and West, 
 
 Where is the baby 
 That I love best ? 
 
 A little papoose 
 Under the trees ? 
 
 A Chinese beauty 
 Beyond the seas ? 
 
 An English child 
 Among the mills } 
 
 A Switzer baby 
 Between the hills } 
 
 A dark-eyed darling 
 In Southern vales } 
 
 An Iceland baby 
 In Northern gales ? 
 
 What nonsense-talk 
 To speak of these ! 
 
 The dearest baby 
 Is on my knees. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! for the night 
 
 draweth nigh ; 
 The daylight is fading from earth and 
 
 from sky ; 
 Through rifts in the azure the stars 
 
 will soon peep. 
 While the breeze whispers softly, oh, 
 
 sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! mother sits by thy 
 
 side, 
 And rocks thee so gently, her joy and 
 
 her pride. 
 'Tis time you were shutting your bon- 
 
 nie blue eye. 
 There's nothing to fear, darling, sleep 
 
 and by-bye. 
 
 May angels watch o'er thee, through 
 
 dark and through light ; 
 God's tender care keep thee, we live in 
 
 His sight ; 
 We'll trust Him, my darling, by night 
 
 and by day ; 
 The hand that has made us, will guard 
 
 us alway. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! now the sand-man 
 is here ; 
 
 He stole in quite softly, his purpose is 
 clear ; 
 
 Through the ivory gate into dream- 
 land she goes — 
 
 Now rest thee, my darling, sweet be 
 thy repose. 
 
30 
 
 BABY-FAITH.— HER NAME. 
 
 BABY-FAITH. 
 
 Oh ! beautiful faith of childhood ! How 
 It beamed to-night on the upturned 
 
 brow 
 Of my three-year love, as she knelt to 
 
 say 
 Her prayers, in her guileless, dreamy 
 
 way. 
 
 " And wouldn't my darling like," I said. 
 As softly I stroked the bowing head, 
 " Like to be good, and by and by 
 Go to a home in the happy sky, 
 Away and away above yon star, 
 Where God and His holy angels are ? " 
 
 She lifted her drowsed and dewy eyes, 
 And a shy, scared look of half-surprise 
 Rippled and filmed their depths of blue 
 And kept the gladness from breaking 
 
 through. 
 " I think I would like to go," she said, 
 Yet doubtingly shook her golden head, 
 And clasped my hands in her fingers 
 
 small, 
 "But, then, I'm afraid that I might fall 
 Out at the moon ! " 
 
 Her baby eye 
 Saw only an opening in the sky — 
 A marvellous oriel, whence the light 
 Of heaven streamed out across the 
 
 night — 
 Where the angels lean, as they come 
 
 and go, 
 A-gaze at our world, so far below. 
 
 She mused a moment in tender thought, 
 Then suddenly every feature caught 
 A new, rare sparkle, and i could trace 
 The dawn of the trust that flashed her 
 
 face. 
 " But God is good. He will understand 
 That Baby's afraid, and will take my 
 
 hand 
 And lead me in at the shining door, 
 And then I shall be afraid no more." 
 
 SAND IN THE LITTLE EYES. 
 
 An old, old man, with whiskers white, 
 Flies over the earth as night comes 
 down, 
 And softly sings in his gentle flight. 
 As he winds his way through the 
 
 shades of night, 
 " Close, little eyelids ! close uptight ; 
 For the Sandman is in town." 
 
 He comes to the babe while yet 'tis 
 
 light ; 
 But on all at last the shower comes 
 
 down. 
 And the eyes of blue and brown, so 
 
 bright 
 Must close when he sings, as he 
 
 comes by night, 
 " Close, little eyelids ! close up tight ; 
 For the Sandman is in town." 
 
 He knows what makes little eyes so 
 
 bright. 
 So he pours the showers of bright 
 
 sand down. 
 And sweet sleep lingers till broad daj-- 
 
 light : 
 Then flies to him who sings each 
 
 night, 
 " Close, little eyelids ! close up tight ; 
 For the Sandman is in town." 
 
 HER NAME. 
 
 " I'm losted I Could you find me, 
 please ? " 
 Poor little frightened baby ! 
 The wind had tossed her golden fleece. 
 The stones had scratched her dimpled 
 
 knees. 
 I stooped, and lifted her with ease. 
 And softly whispered, " Maybe ; 
 
 " Tell me your name, my little maid, 
 I can't find you without it." 
 
 " My name is Shiny-eyes," she said. 
 
 " Yes, but your last } " She shook her 
 head ; 
 
 " Up to my house 'ey never said 
 A single fing about it." 
 
BABYLAND.— QUEEN BESS. 
 
 31 
 
 " But, dear," I said, " what is your 
 name? " 
 " Why, di'n't you hear me told you ? 
 Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought 
 
 came : 
 " Yes, when you're good ; but when 
 
 they blame 
 You, little one — is't just the same 
 When mamma has to scold you } " 
 
 " My mamma never scolds," she moans, 
 
 A little blush ensuing, 
 "'Ceptwhen I've been a-frowing stones, 
 And then she says (the culprit owns), 
 * Mehitable Sapphira Jo7ies, 
 
 What has you been a doing ? ' " 
 
 BAB YLAND. 
 
 How many miles to Babyland ? 
 Any one can tell ; 
 
 Up one flight 
 
 To the right — 
 Please to ring the bell. 
 
 What can you see in Babyland } 
 Little folks in white. 
 Downy heads. 
 Cradle beds, 
 Faces pure and bright. 
 
 What do they do in Babyland } 
 
 Dream, and wake, and play. 
 
 Laugh and crow, 
 
 Shout and grow, 
 
 Jolly times have they. 
 
 What do they say in Babyland } 
 Why, the oddest things ! 
 Might as well 
 Try to tell 
 What a birdie sings. 
 
 Who is the Queen of Babyland ? 
 Mother, kind and sweet ; 
 
 And her love. 
 
 Born above. 
 Guides the litde feet. 
 
 BABY'S 
 
 BREAKFAST- 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 -NURSE'S 
 
 Here's a stool, and here's a chair, 
 For my little lady fair ; 
 Here's the mug, and here's the spoon. 
 Breakfast will be ready soon. 
 
 Here's the knife, and here's the bread, 
 Soon my darling shall be fed ; 
 Lay the cloth so smooth and neat, 
 Get all ready for my sweet. 
 
 We have milk so fresh and white, 
 Every morning, every night ; 
 We have bread and butter too, 
 Some for me and some for you. 
 
 All we need our God has sent us, 
 But remember, life is lent us ; 
 Let it then be spent for Him, 
 Not in idleness or sin. 
 
 Pretty, smiling, bright, and good, 
 Sits baby in her little hood. 
 Good and gentle is my sweet. 
 Trotting on her little feet ; 
 Good and gentle is my baby, 
 Yes, she's quite a little lady ! 
 
 QUEEN BESS. 
 
 Mouth like a rosebud. 
 
 Eyes like the night — 
 Reigning a princess 
 
 In her own right. 
 A wee bit of tyrant, 
 
 I must confess, 
 But all hearts yield to her — 
 
 Little Queen Bess. 
 
 Never a safer throne 
 
 Than papa's knee — 
 Waving her fat white hands, 
 
 With laughter free. 
 Speaking a language 
 
 Love only can guess, 
 Wait we upon her will, 
 
 Bonny Queen Bess. 
 
32 
 
 BABY'S MISTAKE.— HANG UP BABY'S STOCKING. 
 
 All of the household 
 
 Bow low at her feet, 
 Quickly to hasten 
 
 At each bidding' sweet. 
 Never did sovereign 
 
 Such subjects possess, 
 Faithful and loving, 
 
 As Baby-Oueen Bess. 
 
 BABY'S MISTAKE. 
 
 My baby boy sat on the floor, 
 
 His big blue eyes were full of wonder 
 For he had never seen before 
 That baby in the mirror door — 
 
 What kept the two, so near, asunder ? 
 He leaned tov/ard that golden head 
 
 The mirror border framed within, 
 Until twin cheeks, like roses red. 
 Lay side by side, then softly said — 
 
 " I can't get out ; can you come in ? " 
 
 BAB V FINGERS. 
 
 Ten fat little fingers, so taper and neat, 
 Ten fat little fingers, so rosy and sweet. 
 Eagerly reaching for all that comes 
 
 near, 
 Now poking your eyes out, now pulling 
 
 your hair. 
 Smoothing and patting with velvet-like 
 
 touch, 
 Then digging your cheeks with a mis- 
 chievous clutch ; 
 Gently waving good-bye with infantine 
 
 grace. 
 Then dragging your bonnet down over 
 
 your face ; 
 Beating pat-a-cake, pal-a-cake, slow 
 
 and sedate, 
 Then tearing a book at a furious rate ; 
 Gravely holding them out, like a king, 
 
 to be kissed. 
 Then thumping the window with tightly 
 
 closed fist ; 
 Now lying asleep, all dimpled and warm. 
 On the white cradle-pillow, secure from 
 
 all harm. 
 
 Oh, dear baby hands ! how much love 
 
 you enfold 
 In the weak, careless clasp of those 
 
 fingers' soft hold ! 
 Keep spotless, as now, through the 
 
 world's evil ways, 
 And bless, with fond care, our last 
 
 weariful days. 
 
 GUESS. 
 
 I SEE two lilies, white as snov^. 
 That mother loves and kisses so ; 
 Dearer they are than gold or lands ; 
 Guess me the lilies — baby's hands/ 
 
 I know a rosebud fairer far 
 Than any buds of flowers are ; 
 Sweeter than sweet winds of the south ; 
 Guess me the rosebud — baby's month ! 
 
 I've found a place where shines the 
 
 sun ; 
 Yes, long, long after day is done ; 
 Oh, how it loves to linger there ! 
 Guess me the sunshine — baby's hair I 
 
 There are two windows where I see 
 My own glad face peep out at me. 
 These windows beam like June's own 
 
 skies ; 
 Guess me the riddle — baby's eyes! 
 
 HANG UP BAB Y' S STOCKING. 
 
 Hang up the baby's stocking, 
 
 Be sure you don't forget ; 
 The dear little dimpled darling! 
 
 She never saw Christmas yet ; 
 But I've told her all about it. 
 
 And she opened her big blue eyes, 
 And I'm sure she understands it, 
 
 She looks so funny and wise. 
 
 Dear ! what a tiny stocking ! 
 
 It doesn't take much to hold 
 Such pink little toes as baby's 
 
 Away from the frost and cold. 
 
HUSH-A-BY.— BABY'S TOLL-GATE. 
 
 33 
 
 But, then, for the baby's Christmas 
 
 It will never do at all, 
 Why, Santa wouldn't be looking 
 
 For anything half so small ! 
 
 I know what we'll do for the baby, 
 
 I've thought of the very best plan, 
 I'll borrow a stocking of grandma — 
 
 The longest that ever I can ; 
 And you'll hang it by mine, dear mo- 
 ther, 
 
 Right here in the corner, so. 
 And write a letter to Santa, 
 
 And fasten it on to the toe. 
 
 Write : " This is the baby's stocking, 
 
 That hangs in the corner here, 
 You never have seen her, Santa, 
 
 For she only came this year ; 
 And she's just the blessedest baby ! 
 
 And now, before you go. 
 Just cram her stocking with goodies, 
 
 From the top clean down to the toe." 
 
 HUSH-A-B V. 
 HuSH-A-BY baby! as the birds fly, 
 We are off to the island of lullaby, 
 I am the captain and you are the crew, 
 And the cradle, I guess, is our birch- 
 bark canoe ; 
 We'll drift away from this work-day 
 
 shore. 
 Forty thousand long leagues or more, 
 Till we reach the strand where happy 
 
 dreams wait. 
 Whether we're early or whether we're 
 late. 
 
 BABY IN THE CRIB, THINK- 
 ING. 
 Beautiful little mamma. 
 
 What do you think I'd do 
 If you were a baby smiling. 
 
 And I a mamma like you ? 
 I nevv^r would leave my baby 
 
 Wailing to be caressed, 
 But reach out my arms and take her, 
 And gather her on my breast ! 
 That's what I'd do 
 
 If 
 
 were you 
 
 Beautiful little mamma, 
 
 Sometimes I hear you sigh, 
 Sitting alone at the window, 
 
 Looking up at the sky. 
 If I had a baby cooing. 
 
 Trying to win a smile, 
 I'd kiss her, and so be happy, 
 
 And forget, forget for a while ! 
 That's what I'd do 
 
 If I 
 
 were you 
 
 Beautiful little mamma, 
 
 Flow would you like to be 
 A wide-awake, patient baby. 
 
 Nobody looking to see ? 
 If I were a beautiful mamma, 
 
 And knew what my baby knew, 
 I'd be at the crib to welcome 
 
 After her nap was through ! 
 That's what I'd do 
 If 1 were you ! 
 
 BABY'S TOLL-GATE. 
 
 Knock at the door, 
 
 Peep in ; 
 Lift up the latch, 
 
 And walk in. 
 
 What a funny door — 
 
 A forehead fair ; 
 House with a roof 
 
 Of golden hair, 
 And tangled curls 
 
 From ridge to base, 
 Over the eaves — 
 
 Queer little place. 
 
 Two windows there. 
 
 And baby peeps in ; 
 Finds the bright blue 
 
 Where the sky went in. 
 And a laughing elf 
 
 Looks out to see 
 Who raps so loud. 
 
 And calls for me. 
 
 A dainty nose 
 
 Turned up — beware ! 
 With thumbs and fingers 
 
 Lift it with care. 
 
34 
 
 OUR SKY.— LEARNING TO WALK. 
 
 The portals open ; 
 
 Don't walk in ! 
 Bow to the dimple 
 
 On the chin. 
 
 A kiss for toll 
 
 Now you must pay, 
 Or not come in 
 
 At all to-day. 
 
 But look ! while they worry and fret 
 
 The clouds are all gone and the wet ; 
 
 And the sky is as blue 
 
 And as innocent too 
 
 As if it had never rained yet. 
 
 So we cannot tell if we try 
 The signs of this dainty blue sky. 
 But its smile or its frown 
 Turns the house upside down, 
 For it is the baby's blue eye. 
 
 OUR SKY. 
 
 I KNOW of a dainty blue sky, 
 And it is the baby's blue eye ; 
 And we watch it to see 
 What the weather will be ; 
 But we never can tell if we tr}'. 
 
 We catch a wee ghmpse of the sun 
 
 And think such a fine day is begun ; 
 
 And everything neat 
 
 And happy and sweet, 
 
 All ready for frolic and fun. 
 
 The rainbows are here without doubt ; 
 
 And the robins and roses come out ; 
 
 And gay bobolinks 
 
 And poppies and pinks. 
 
 And butterflies skimming about. 
 
 The blue-bells are ringing a chime, 
 
 And the fairies come marching in time. 
 
 Mother Goose and the rest. 
 
 In their fine Sunday best, 
 
 And dance in a roUickmg rhyme. 
 
 But lo ! there's a storm in the sky.! 
 
 Then how the wee fairy folks fly ! 
 
 And Mother Goose rings 
 
 For umbrellas and things. 
 
 And tries hard to keep herself dry. 
 
 The birds and the blossoms look sad ; 
 For they wore the best coats that they 
 
 had ; 
 To think such a shower 
 Should come up in an hour ! 
 'Tis really, yes, really too bad ! 
 
 BABY'S GOOD-NIGHT, 
 
 Go to sleep, baby, 
 
 Shut your blue eyes, 
 Bright stars are winking 
 
 Up in the skies. 
 So go to sleep, baby. 
 
 Be sure you don't cry, 
 For mother will sing you 
 
 A sweet lullaby. 
 
 Up in their nests 
 
 In the great, tall trees, 
 Little birds rock 
 
 In the evening breeze. 
 Down in the meadow. 
 
 Beside the old sheep, 
 The baby lambs lay 
 
 Them down to sleep. 
 
 So my little baby 
 
 On mother's breast. 
 Forgets all her troubles. 
 
 And sinks to her rest, 
 God bless her ! God keep her 
 
 Safe from all harms, 
 The fast asleep baby 
 
 In mother's own arms. 
 
 LEARNING TO WALK. 
 
 Only beginning the journey, 
 
 Many a mile to go ; 
 Little feet, how they patter, 
 
 Wandering to and fro. 
 
THE BABY. 
 
 35 
 
 Trying again, so bravely, 
 
 Laughing in baby glee ; 
 Hiding its face in mother's lap. 
 
 Proud as a baby can be. 
 
 Talking the oddest language 
 Ever before was heard ; 
 
 But mother — you'd hardly think so- 
 Understands every word. 
 
 Tottering now, and falling, 
 Eyes that are going to cry. 
 
 Kisses and plenty of love-words, 
 Willing again to try. 
 
 Father of all, oh, guide them. 
 The pattering little feet. 
 
 While they are treading the up- 
 Braving the dust and heat. 
 
 road. 
 
 Aid them when they grow weary, 
 Keep them in a pathway blest. 
 
 And when the journey's ended, 
 Saviour, oh, give them rest. 
 
 THE BAB Y. 
 
 Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 
 
 Nae stockings on her feet ; 
 Her supple ankles white as snow 
 
 Of early blossoms sweet. 
 Her simple dress of sprinkled pink. 
 
 Her double, dimpled chin ; 
 Her pucker'd Hp and bonny mou', 
 
 With nae ane tooth between. 
 Her een sae like her mither's een, 
 
 Twa gentle, liquid things; 
 Her face is like an angel's face — 
 
 We're glad she has nae wings. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 

 AMONG THE BLOSSOMS. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 BENNY'S QUESTIONS. 
 
 What is the kitty good for? 
 My little boy Benny said. 
 
 To catch the mice in the pantry 
 When they nibble mamma's bread, 
 To sit on the rug in the sunshine, 
 To play with her little toes, 
 And if kitty is good for anything else, 
 It is more than mamma knows. 
 
 What is the mooly cow good for, 
 Mamma } I'd like to know. 
 
 To eat green grass in the pastures 
 Where the meadow-lilies grow. 
 To give us sweet golden butter, 
 Rich milk, and yellow cream, 
 And a great many more good presents 
 Than Benny could even dream. 
 
 What are the busy bees good for — • 
 To sting little boys ? asked he. 
 
 There is many a lesson my boy could 
 learn 
 
 From even a busy bee. 
 
 For he works all day in the summer 
 
 Laying sweet treasures by 
 
 For the long cold days that are com- 
 ing. 
 
 When roses and violets die. 
 
 What is old Rover good for } 
 I'm sure I can not see. 
 
 To teach my Benny how patient 
 Even a brute can be ; 
 To watch papa's house at midnight. 
 When the lamps are all out in the 
 
 street. 
 So, Benny, take care of good Rover, 
 And give him enough to eat. 
 
 What is my mamma good for ? 
 The little rogue laughing said. 
 
 Oh, Benny, my boy, I answered. 
 As I pillowed his sunshiny head, 
 Your mamma is good for nothing 
 If she can not teach her child 
 To follow the Infant Saviour, 
 So loving, tender, and mild. 
 
 FOUR YEARS OLD. 
 
 Oh, sun ! so far up in the blue sky ; 
 Oh, clovers ! so white and so sweet ; 
 Oh, little brook ! shining like silver. 
 And running so fast past my feet, — 
 
 You don't know what strange thing 
 
 has happened 
 Since sunset and star-shine last night ; 
 Since the four-o'clocks closed their red 
 
 petals 
 To wake up so early and bright. 
 
 Say, what will you think when I tell 
 
 you 
 What my dear mamma whispered to 
 
 me. 
 When she kissed me on each check 
 
 twice over } 
 You don't know what a man you may 
 
 see ! 
 
 Sweet-clover, stand still ; do not blov/ 
 so : 
 
 I shall whisper way down in your ear, 
 
 I was four years old early this morn- 
 ing ! 
 
 Would you think so, to see me, my 
 dear ? 
 
 (39) 
 
40 
 
 SUCH FUN.— TROUBLES IN HIGH LIFE. 
 
 Do you notice my pants and two 
 
 pockets ? 
 I'm so old, I must dress like a man ; 
 I must learn to read books and write 
 
 letters, 
 And I'll write one to you when I can. 
 
 My pretty gold butterflies flying, 
 Little birds, and my busy brown bee, 
 I shall never be too old to love you ; 
 And I hope that you'll always love me ! 
 
 ^UCJI FUN. 
 
 Madge, wee woman with earnest 
 
 look, 
 Is head and ears in a fairy book ; 
 Rob is a rogue with hair of tow, 
 Last but greatest is Baby Joe. 
 
 Fastened down there 
 In the big arm-chair. 
 Stiff and angular, strong and square. 
 He can't get up and he can't slide out ; 
 Nothing to do but to wriggle about. 
 Suck his thumbs and his rubber ring. 
 And wonder vaguely about his shoes 
 (Shiny and small such as babies use). 
 How they ever came on his feet. 
 If they're made to look at, or only to 
 
 eat? 
 Thinks quite strongly of making a 
 
 spring 
 In the hope of breaking the naughty 
 
 thing 
 That holds him a prisoner snug and 
 
 tight 
 In that tiresome chair from morning 
 
 till night. 
 
 But here comes Rob with a funny face. 
 
 Baby looks up and takes heart of grace ; 
 
 All his sorrows and griefs are past ; 
 
 Here is something to do at last. 
 He gurgles and crows 
 And wrinkles his nose, 
 
 With one little dimple that comes and 
 goes; 
 
 He stretches an arm with a doubled-up 
 
 fist, 
 Soft and rosy from elbow to wrist. 
 For Rob has been puffing his red 
 
 cheeks out 
 Till they look like big apples he's hold- 
 ing there, 
 Ripe and shining and smooth and fair. 
 Baby Joe strikes hard with his fist of 
 
 pink 
 At the puckered-up lips, then quicker 
 
 than wink 
 Rob jumps to his feet with a laugh and 
 
 a shout, 
 And capers and dances and whirls 
 
 about. 
 But the best of the play is, that when 
 
 it is done 
 They can play it all over again, 
 Such fun ! 
 
 TROUBLES IN HIGH LIFE. 
 
 Two miniature mothers at play on the 
 floor 
 Their wearisome cares were debat- 
 ing ; 
 
 How Dora and Arabelle, children no 
 more, 
 
 Were twice as much trouble as ever 
 before. 
 
 And the causes each had her own 
 cares to deplore, 
 Were, really, well worth my relating. 
 
 Said one little mother : " You really 
 
 don't know 
 What a burden my life is with Bella ! 
 Her stravagant habits 1 hope she'll 
 
 outgrow. 
 She buys her kid gloves by the dozen. 
 
 you know. 
 Sits for cartes-de-visite every fortnight 
 
 or so, 
 And don't do a thing that I tell 
 
 her ! " 
 Those stylish young ladies (the dollies, 
 
 you know). 
 Had complexions soft, pearly, and 
 
 waxen. 
 
LITTLE MARY'S SECRET. 
 
 With arms, neck, and forehead, as 
 
 white as the snow. 
 Golden hair sweeping down to the 
 
 waist and below, 
 Eyes blue as the sky, cheeks with 
 
 youth's ruddy glow, — 
 Of a beauty pure Grecian and Saxon. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the other, " that's sad 
 to be sure ; 
 But, ah," with a sigh, "no one 
 guesses 
 
 The cares and anxieties mothers en- 
 dure. 
 
 For though Dora appears so sedate 
 and demure. 
 
 She spends all the money that I can 
 secure 
 On her cloaks and her bonnets and 
 dresses." 
 
 Then followed such prattle of fashion 
 and style, 
 I smiled as 1 listened and wondered, 
 
 And I thought, had I tried to repeat it 
 erewhile, 
 
 How these fair httle Israelites, without 
 guile. 
 
 Would mock at my lack of their knowl- 
 edge, and smile 
 At the way I had stumbled and 
 blundered. 
 
 And I thought, too, when each youth- 
 ful mother had conned 
 Her startling and touching narration, 
 
 Of the dolls of which I in my child- 
 hood was fond. 
 
 How with Dora and Arabelle they'd 
 correspond. 
 
 And how far dolls and children to-day 
 are beyond 
 Those we had in the last generation ! 
 
 LITTLE MARY'S SECRET. 
 
 Oh, larks ! sing out to the thrushes, 
 And thrushes, sing to the sky ; 
 
 Sing from your nests in the bushes, 
 And sing wherever you fly ; 
 
 For I'm sure that never another 
 Such secret was told unto you — 
 
 I've just got a baby brother I 
 
 And r wish that the whole v/orld 
 knew. 
 
 I have told the buttercups, truly. 
 
 And the clover that grows by the 
 way ; 
 And it pleases me each time, newly, 
 
 When I think of it during the day. 
 And I say to myself: " Little Mary, 
 
 You ought to be good as you can, 
 For the sake of the beautiful fairy 
 
 That brought you the wee little 
 man." 
 
 I'm five years old in the summer, 
 
 And I'm getting quite large and tall , 
 But I thought, till I saw the new- 
 comer, 
 
 When I looked in the glass, I was 
 small. 
 And I rise in the morning quite early. 
 
 To be sure that the baby is here, 
 For his hair is so soft and curly. 
 
 And his hands so tiny and dear ! 
 
 I stop in the midst of my pleasure — 
 I'm so happy I can not play — 
 
 And keep peeping in at my treasure, 
 To see how much he gains in a day. 
 
 But he doesn't look much like growing. 
 Yet I think that he will in a year, 
 
 And I wish that the days would be go- 
 
 And the time when he walks would 
 be here ! 
 
 Oh, larks ! sing out to the thrushes. 
 
 And thrushes, sing as you soar ; 
 For I think, when another spring 
 blushes, 
 I can tell you a great deal more : 
 I shall look from one to the other. 
 And say : " Guess who I'm bringing 
 to you? " 
 And you'll look — and see — he's my 
 brother ! 
 And you'll sing, "Little Mary was 
 I true." 
 
42 LITTLE BOY BLUE.— BEFORE AND AFTER SCHOOL. 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 Under the hay-stack, Httle Boy Blue 
 Sleeps with his head on his arm, 
 
 While voices of men and voices of 
 maids 
 Are calling him over the farm. 
 
 Sheep in the meadows are running wild, 
 Where poisonous herbage grows. 
 
 Leaving white tufts of downy fleece 
 On the thorns of the sweet wild- 
 
 Out in the fields where the silken corn 
 Its plumed head nods and bows, 
 
 Where golden pumpkins ripen below, 
 Trample the white-faced cows. 
 
 But no loud blast on the shining horn 
 Calls back the straying sheep, 
 
 And the cows may wander in hay or 
 corn 
 While their keeper lies asleep. 
 
 His roguish eyes are tightly shut. 
 
 His dimples are all at rest ; 
 The chubby hand, tucked under his 
 head, 
 
 By one rosy cheek is pressed. 
 
 Waken him ? No. Let down the bars 
 And gather the truant sheep, 
 
 Open the barnyard and drive in the 
 cows. 
 But let the little boy sleep. 
 
 For year after year we can shear the 
 fleece. 
 And corn can always be sown ; 
 But the sleep that visits little Boy Blue 
 Will not come when the years have 
 flown. 
 
 TOO LITTLE, EH I 
 
 Two little girls are better than one, 
 Two little boys can double the fun, 
 Two little birds can make a fine nest, 
 Two little arms can love mother best, 
 
 Two little ponies must go to a span. 
 Two little pockets has my little man, 
 Two little eyes to open and close. 
 Two little ears and one little nose. 
 Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet. 
 Two little shoes on two little feet. 
 Two little lips and one little chin. 
 Two little cheeks with a rose set in. 
 Two little shoulders chubby and strong, 
 Two httle legs running all day long, 
 Two little prayers does my darling say, 
 Twice does he kneel by my side each 
 
 day, 
 Two little folded hands, soft and brown, 
 Two little eyelids cast meekly down, 
 And two little angels guard him in bed, 
 One at the foot and one at the head. 
 
 BEFORE AND AFTER SCHOOL. 
 BEFORE SCHOOL. 
 
 " Quarter to nine ! 
 
 Boys and girls, do you hear? " 
 " One more buckwheat, then — 
 
 Be quick, mother dear, 
 Where is my luncheon-box } " — 
 
 " Under the shelf, 
 Just in the place 
 
 You left it yourself! " 
 "I can't say my table ! " — 
 
 " Oh, find me my cap ! " 
 " One kiss for mamma, 
 
 And sweet Sis in her lap." 
 " Be good, dear ! " — " I'll try." — 
 
 "9 times 9's 81." 
 " Take your mittens ! " — " All right."— 
 
 " Hurry up, Bill; let's run." 
 With a slam of the door 
 
 They are off, girls and boys. 
 And the mother draws l)reath 
 
 In the lull of their noise. 
 
 AFTER SCHOOL. 
 
 Don't wake up the baby ! 
 Come gently, my dear 1 " 
 Oh, mother, I've torn my 
 New dress, just look here ! 
 
BED-TIME. 
 
 I'm sorry, I only was 
 
 Clirr.bing- the wall." 
 " Oh, mother, my map 
 
 Was the nicest of all ! " 
 " And Nelly, in spelling. 
 
 Went up to the head ! " 
 " Oh, say ! can I go out 
 
 On the hill with my sled ? " 
 " I've got such a toothache." — 
 
 " The teacher's unfair ! " 
 " Is dinner most ready ? 
 
 I'm just like a bear ! " 
 Be patient, worn mother, 
 
 They're growing up fast, 
 These nursery whirlwinds, 
 
 Not long do they last ; 
 A still, lonely house would be 
 
 Far worse than noise ; 
 Rejoice and be glad in 
 
 Your brave girls and boys ! 
 
 BED- TIME. 
 I. 
 
 The children are going to bed 
 In nurseries shaded and clean, 
 
 And many a bright and curly head 
 Is nestling the white sheets between. 
 
 Little faces all washed white as snow, 
 Are dewy with kisses to-night. 
 
 And young lips are murmuring low 
 Sweet prayers — words from con- 
 sciences white. 
 
 Tiny dresses and jackets and shoes 
 Lie folded away till the morn, 
 
 Like the chrysalis, no more of use 
 To the gayly-striped insect new-born. 
 
 The angel of sleep hovers near. 
 
 And curtains the room with his 
 wings ; 
 That incense to angels is dear 
 
 Which from the nursery altars up- 
 springs. 
 
 Little eyelids quite tired with play, 
 Are drooping and closing like flowers. 
 
 And restless young forms laid away. 
 To sleep through the long midnight 
 hours. 
 
 In cottage and castle and hall, 
 
 In valley, on prairie, or hill, 
 The calm hush of evening doth fall, 
 
 And life hath grown suddenly still. 
 
 At sunset a blessing comes down, 
 And peace upon all things is shed, 
 
 For in city and village and town 
 The children are going to bed. 
 
 II. 
 
 The children are going to bed, 
 
 Such bed as their lives ever know. 
 In alley and attic and shed, 
 
 And cellar-ways fetid and low. 
 In homes where wrangle and din 
 
 Turn night into hideous noon. 
 Where the voice of shame, sorrow, and 
 sin 
 
 Will break their light slumbers too 
 soon. 
 
 All tumbled and dirty they lie. 
 
 No kiss on the heavy young brow, 
 A tear scarcely dried in the eye. 
 
 The flush of a blow ling'ring now. 
 They sleep upon pavement or floor, 
 
 With never a low word of prayer. 
 Or gasp at the window or door 
 
 For a breath of the hfe-giving air. 
 
 Far up in the tenement high 
 
 They sob at the falling of day, 
 And angels bend down from the sky 
 
 To hear what the poor children say. 
 It may be that even in heaven 
 
 Some bright tears of pity are shed, 
 And sins of the day all forgiven 
 
 When the children are going to bed. 
 
 III. 
 
 " The children are going to bed ! " 
 Hushed voices speak gently the 
 word : 
 
 All muffled the mother's light tread. 
 No merry " Good-evening " is heard, 
 
44 
 
 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON. 
 
 No breath stirs the ringlets of gold, 
 No dimple the passionless cheek, 
 
 No tossing limbs ruffle a fold 
 
 Laid over the hands folded meek. 
 
 Oh ! quiet the cradle, though small, 
 
 Where the children are laid to their 
 rest ; 
 There is room and to spare for them all. 
 
 In Earth's warm and welcoming 
 breast. 
 What matter if castle or cot 
 
 Once held the fair image of snow ? 
 All ahke are they now in their lot. 
 
 As they nestle the flowers below. 
 
 Then cover them up from our sight, 
 Spread the freshest green turf o'er 
 their head. 
 Bid them one more caressing " good- 
 night," 
 The children are going to bed. 
 The children are folded in dreams. 
 Bright angels have sung them to 
 sleep. 
 And stars with their great solemn 
 beams, 
 Loving watch o'er their tired forms 
 keep. 
 
 No waking to sorrow or gioom, 
 
 No hunger, no shame, and no sin. 
 Oh ! faithful and loving the tomb 
 
 That safe from life's ills shuts them 
 in. 
 The sweet name of Jesus our Lord 
 
 Once more o'er their pillows be said. 
 And praise, that, secure in His Word, 
 
 The children are going to bed. 
 
 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE 
 MOON. 
 
 She turns her great grave eyes toward 
 mine, 
 While I stroke her soft hair's gold ; 
 We watch the moon through the win- 
 dow shine ; 
 She is only six years old. 
 
 " Is it true," she asks, with her guile- 
 less mien. 
 
 And her voice in tender tune, 
 "That nobody ever yet has seen 
 
 The other side of the moon } " 
 
 I smile at her question, answering 
 " Yes ; " 
 And then, by a strange thought 
 stirred, 
 I murmur, half in forgetfulness 
 
 That she listens to every word : 
 " There are treasures on earth so rich 
 and fair 
 That they can not stay with us here, 
 And the other side of the moon is where 
 They go when they disappear I 
 
 " There are hopes that the spirit hardly 
 names, 
 And songs that it mutely sings ; 
 There are good resolves, and exalted 
 aims ; 
 There are longings for nobler things ; 
 There are sounds and visions that 
 haunt our lot. 
 Ere they vanish, or seem to die. 
 And the other side of the moon (why 
 not?) 
 Is the far bourne where they fly ! 
 
 " We could guess how that realm were 
 passing sweet, 
 And of strangely precious worth. 
 If its distant reaches enshrined com- 
 plete 
 The incompleteness of earth ! 
 If there we could find, like a living 
 dream, 
 What here we but mourn and miss. 
 Oh, the other side of the moon must 
 beam 
 With a glory unknown in this ! " 
 
 "Are you talking of Heaven?" she 
 
 whispers now, 
 
 While she nestles against my knees. 
 
 And I say, as I kiss her white wide 
 
 brow, 
 
 " You may call it so, if you please .... 
 
GOOD-NIGHT.— THE LITTLE CAVALIER. 
 
 45 
 
 For whatever that wondrous land may 
 be, 
 Should we journey there, late or soon, 
 Perhaps we may look down from 
 Heaven and see — 
 The other side of the moon ! " 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Good-night ! the sun is setting, 
 
 " Good-night ! " the robins sing, 
 And blue-eyed dolls and blue-eyed girls 
 
 Should soon be following. 
 Come ! lay the Lady Geraldine 
 
 Among the pillows white ; 
 'Tis time the little mother kissed 
 
 Her sleepy doll good-night. 
 
 And, Willie, put the cart away, 
 
 And drive into the shed 
 The pony and the mooly cow ; 
 
 'Tis time to go to bed. 
 For, listen ! in the lilac tree 
 
 The robin does not sing ; 
 "Good-night!" he sang, and tucked 
 his head 
 
 Beneath his weary wing. 
 
 Soon all the world will go to rest. 
 
 And all the sky grow dim ; 
 God " giveth His beloved sleep," 
 
 So we may trust in Him. 
 The Lord is in the shadow. 
 
 And the Lord is in the light, 
 To guard His little ones from harm ; 
 
 Good-night, dear hearts, good-nighti 
 
 COUNTRY CHILDREN 
 
 Little fresh violets. 
 
 Born in the wildwood ; 
 Sweetly illustrating 
 
 Innocent childhood : 
 Shy as the antelope — 
 
 Brown as a berry-— 
 Free as the mountain air. 
 
 Romping and merry. 
 
 Blue eyes and hazel eyes 
 Peep from the hedges, 
 
 Shaded by sun-bonnets, 
 Frayed at the edges ! 
 
 Up in the apple trees, 
 
 Careless of danger. 
 Manhood in embryo 
 
 Stares at the stranger. 
 
 Out in the hilly patch, 
 
 Seeking the berries — 
 Under the orchard trees, 
 
 Feasting on cherries — 
 Trampling the clover blooms, 
 
 Down 'mong the grasses. 
 No voice to hinder them. 
 
 Dear lads and lasses ! 
 
 No grim propriety — 
 
 No interdiction ; 
 Free as the birdlings 
 
 From city restriction ! 
 Coining the purest blood, 
 
 Strength'ning each muscle, 
 Donning health armor 
 
 'Gainst life's coming bustle. 
 
 Dear little innocents ! 
 
 Born in the wildwood ; 
 Oh, that all little ones 
 
 Had such a childhood ! 
 Blue skies spread over them, 
 
 Earth's green beneath them 
 No sweeter heritage 
 
 Could we bequeathe them. 
 
 THE LITTLE CA VALIER. 
 
 He walks beside his mother. 
 
 And looks up in her face ; 
 He wears a glow of boyish pride 
 
 With such a royal grace ! 
 He proudly waits upon her ; 
 
 Would shield her without fear— 
 The boy who loves his mother well, 
 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
 To see no tears of sorrow 
 
 Upon her loving cheek, 
 To gain her sweet, approving smile. 
 
 To hear her softly speak— 
 Ah ! what in all this wide world 
 
 Could be to him so dear ?— 
 The boy who loves his mother well, 
 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
46 
 
 THAT LITTLE HAT."— MY BOY.— THREE OPINIONS. 
 
 Look for him in the future 
 
 Among the good, the true : 
 All blessings on the upward way 
 
 His Httle feet pursue. 
 Of robed and crowned and sceptered 
 kings 
 
 He stands the royal peer — 
 The boy who loves his mother well, 
 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
 " THA T LITTLE HA T" 
 
 I FIND it in the garden path, 
 
 Its little crown half full 
 Of white flowers ; where's the rogue 
 
 Who dared my roses pull } 
 I find it on the roadside there, 
 
 The flowers tossed away. 
 And in the crown, packed carefully, 
 
 A load of stones and clay. 
 
 I find it in the daisied field. 
 
 Or hidden in the clover. 
 Inspected by the wandering bees. 
 
 And crawled by insects over. 
 I find it on the old barn floor, 
 
 Or in the manger resting, 
 Or swinging from the beams above, 
 
 Where cooing doves are nesting. 
 
 I find it 'neath my busy feet 
 
 Upon the kitchen floor. 
 Or lying midv^^ay up the stairs. 
 
 Or by my chamber door. 
 I find it in, I find it out, 
 
 'Neath table, lounge, or chair. 
 The little shabby brimless thing, 
 
 I find it everywhere 
 
 But en the curly, golden pate 
 
 For which alone 'twas meant. 
 That little restless, sunny head, 
 
 On mischief always bent. 
 Oh ! baby boy, this problem solve, 
 
 And tell me, darling, whether 
 Your roguish pate and this old hat 
 
 Were ever seen together } 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 A LITTLE roll of flannel fine ; 
 
 A thrill in mother's heart — " 'tis mine; 
 
 A little head of golden hair; 
 
 A lifted eye to heaven in prayer ; 
 
 A smile that ripples to a laugh ; 
 A tear with grief in its behalf; 
 A pushing of a slender chair ; 
 A climbing of the oaken stair ; 
 
 A stride o'er everything at hand ; 
 A horse at Santa Claus' command ; 
 A little cart all painted red ; 
 A train of cars at full steam sped ; 
 
 A pair of " pants " that reach the knee ; 
 A strut like midshipman from sea ; 
 A pair of boots with tops of red ; 
 A knife, a ball, a gallant sled ; 
 
 A pocket full of everything ; 
 A "shooter," skates, and yards of string; 
 A voting fraction's " such a bore ; " 
 A holiday rejoicing o'er ; 
 
 A stretching down the pantaloon ; 
 A swim— a wrestling match at noon ; 
 A little Latin now, and Greek ; 
 A letter home just once a week ; 
 
 A roaming through collegiate halls ; 
 A summer evening spent in calls ; 
 A rapture o'er a sunny face ; 
 A bow, a ring, some bridal lace ; 
 
 A kneeling at the chancel rail ; 
 A trembling bride, a bridegroom pale 
 A leap into the world's wide sea ; 
 My boy was gone — ah me ! ah me ! 
 
 THREE OPINIONS. 
 
 The great Thanksgiving dinner 
 
 Was over — scant room to doubt ; 
 For a trio of little faces. 
 
 Jolly and fat, peeped out. 
 Fat quite nigh to bursting, 
 
 Jolly, good reason why — 
 Up to their eyes in turkey, 
 
 Brimful of pumpkin pie. 
 
 Three so lucky youngsters 
 Well might afford to pause, 
 
 To pity the turkey — martyrs 
 Roasted in such a cause. 
 
DAISY'S NEW PLAY. 
 
 47 
 
 And Susie had raised the question — 
 
 Jollily late, say I — 
 Whether in this day's honor 
 
 'Twerc just the turk should die. 
 
 She shook her brown curls doubtful. 
 
 " I ain't quite sure," she said, 
 " If even I'd like for honor 
 
 To be a turkey dead. 
 Ours strutted about so proudly, 
 
 Must 've thought he'd be spared. 
 It was sort of mean to kill him ; 
 
 Bob, do you think he cared ? " 
 
 Came a peal of puzzled laughter, 
 
 With the answer, from Bob's lips : 
 " Why, what was a turkey made for 
 
 But just for human nips? 
 I'm sure he'd 've felt real slighted 
 
 Not to be killed to-day. 
 For every well-trained turkey 
 
 Is proud to die this way." 
 
 Spoke Beth, the household baby — 
 
 Beth, nigh bursting, too ; 
 " I think 'ou'th jutht the queeretht, 
 
 Funnietht 'ittle Thue. 
 I knowth the vewy weathon, 
 
 I th' pothed 'ou undwerthtood : 
 If it wathn't wight to kill him 
 
 He wouldn't tathte the dood." 
 
 Quite charming the baby's logic ; 
 
 Wee Susan seemed convinced, 
 And crumpled up her conscience 
 
 So tight it never winced. 
 Surely, with her, quite easy 
 
 To see the reason why — 
 Up to her eyes in turkey. 
 
 Brimful of pumpkin pie. 
 
 DAISY'S NE W FLA V. 
 
 Our little Daisy is rosy and sweet, 
 Neat as a pin from her head to her 
 
 feet ; 
 Her long, waving ringlets are yellow 
 
 as gold. 
 And her bonny brown eyes they are 
 
 bright to behold. 
 
 All the day through it makes one re- 
 joice 
 
 To hear the soft tones of her sweet, 
 laughing voice ; 
 
 Summer or winter, sunshine or rain, 
 
 No one hears Daisy fret and complain. 
 
 Up stairs and down, nimble with fun. 
 Two little slippered feet scamper and 
 
 run, 
 While two little hands as nimble as 
 
 they 
 Make themselves busy with work and 
 
 with play. 
 
 Every one's errands they're ready to 
 
 do- 
 Find mamma's needle ; button her 
 
 shoe ; 
 Set papa's slippers down by the fire ; 
 Build baby's block-house two stories 
 
 higher. 
 
 Hold the long skein for grandmother's 
 knitting ; 
 
 Pick up the ball that's apt to go flit- 
 ting; 
 
 Run for the letters when the bell rings ; 
 
 Oh, she's the Daisy for all sorts of 
 things ! 
 
 Once when it rained, and baby was 
 
 cross. 
 And mother and nurse were quite at a 
 
 loss — 
 At their wit's end, in fact, I may say — 
 Daisy invented a new sort of play. 
 
 She put a mop-cap on her curly young 
 
 head. 
 Grandmother's cap, if the truth must 
 
 be said, 
 And next thing she borrowed, don't 
 
 you suppose. 
 Grandmother's specs to stick on her 
 
 nose ! 
 
 Somebody lent her an old parasol, 
 So she was so dressed to make us a 
 call; 
 
48 
 
 WHERE'S MY BABY ?— LITTLE BOOTS. 
 
 And you should have seen the baby's 
 
 delight 
 When Httle grandmother danced into 
 
 sight. 
 
 All in a minute the cross fit was over, 
 And he was as gay as a bee in the 
 
 clover, 
 Laughing and crowing in such a wild 
 
 frolic. 
 Nurse was afraid it would give him the 
 
 colic. 
 
 Our little Daisy, dainty and fair, 
 From her plump little toes to her yellow 
 
 gold hair, 
 Gentle and good as she's bonny and 
 
 clever. 
 Every one prays, Bless her forever ! 
 
 Strangers that meet her out in the 
 
 street. 
 Whisper, with kisses. Isn't she sweet ? 
 Sweet as a violet, fresh as a rose, 
 And how much we love her nobody 
 
 knows ! 
 
 WHERE'S MY BABY? 
 
 Where's my baby ? Where's my 
 baby ? 
 
 But a Httle while ago. 
 In my arms I held one fondly, 
 
 And a robe of lengthened flow 
 Covered little knees so dimpled, 
 
 And each pink and chubby toe. 
 
 Where's my baby ? I remember 
 Now about the shoes so red. 
 
 Peeping from his shortened dresses, 
 And the bright curls on his head ; 
 
 Of the little teeth so pearly. 
 
 And the first sweet words he said. 
 
 Where's my baby ? Ask that urchin, 
 Let me hear what he will say ; 
 
 "Where's your baby, ma ? " he ques- 
 tioned. 
 With a roguish look and way ; 
 
 "Guess he's grown to be a boy, now. 
 Big enough to work and play." 
 
 Where's my baby ? Where's my baby ? 
 
 Ah ! the years fly on apace ! 
 Yesterday I held and kissed it. 
 
 In its loveliness and grace ; 
 But to-morrow sturdy manhood 
 
 Takes the little baby's place. 
 
 THE LITTLE BO Y' S LAMENT, 
 
 Oh, why must I always be washed 
 so clean 
 And scrubbed and drenched for 
 Sunday, 
 V/hen you know very well, for you've 
 always seen, 
 That I'm dirty again on Monday.^ 
 
 My eyes are filled with the lathery 
 soap, 
 Which adown my ears is dripping ; 
 And my smarting eyes I can scarcely 
 ope. 
 And my lips the suds are sipping. 
 
 It's down my neck and up my nose. 
 And to choke me you seem to be 
 trying ; 
 That I'll shut my mouth you need not 
 
 suppose. 
 For how can I keep from crying ? 
 
 You rub as hard as ever you can. 
 And your hands are hard to my sor- 
 row ; 
 No woman shall wash me when I'm a 
 man. 
 And I wish I was one to-morrow. 
 
 LITTLE BOOTS. 
 
 Not those I sadly laid away. 
 With little stockings soft and gay. 
 That sunless, heart-sick, saddest day, 
 
 I passed beneath the rod ; 
 I wipe from them the gathering mold, 
 1 wonder at their growing old, 
 Then think how long the streets of 
 gold 
 
 My little one has trod ! 
 
A WEE PHILOSOPHER.— OUR CHARLIE. 
 
 49 
 
 To-day a little larger pair 
 
 Are traversing the hall and stair, 
 
 Or somersaulting in the air, 
 
 Are never, never still : 
 Down at the heel ! Out at the toes ! 
 Mud-covered ! every mother knows 
 How " in-and-out " her dear boy goes, 
 
 Oft chide him as she will. 
 
 But life and strength and glowing 
 
 health, 
 Come through those little boots by 
 
 stealth, 
 And willing errands, love's sweet 
 
 wealth 
 At bidding bring us joy. 
 Bear with the little boots, I pray ; 
 Soon into life they'll walk away, 
 And, sitting lone, your heart will say, 
 Where is my little boy } 
 
 A WEE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 As down the path, one Sabbath-morn, 
 
 I walked at rapid rate. 
 There stepped beside me hurriedly, 
 
 Lest she, too, should be late, 
 From tip to toe as sweet a maid 
 As careful mother e'er arrayed 
 
 For church, on Sunday morning. 
 
 A little space she trotted on 
 
 Demurely at my side — 
 A proper maid for Sabbath-morn — 
 
 When suddenly she spied 
 A luscious tempter in her path : 
 I heard a jolly crow and laugh ; 
 
 " Just ripe for Sunday morning ! " 
 
 A clump of whortleberries, green 
 
 Save just a few in sight. 
 Which, smarter than their neighbors, 
 had 
 Turned black within the night : 
 These bobbed their heads, as if to say, 
 " We'll wager that you've come this 
 way 
 To pick us, Sunday morning ! " 
 
 Too tempting was the prospect for 
 
 So wee a maid to slight ; 
 Quick plunged she 'mid the vines, then 
 rose 
 
 Uproarious with delight — 
 So meri-y that she heeded not, 
 So happy that she quite forgot 
 
 That it was Sunday morning. 
 
 A-sudden paused she, and her voice 
 
 Took quite a sober trill ; 
 A penitent in word at least. 
 
 She softly spoke — though still 
 She clutched the berry-branches tight, 
 " I don't suppose it was just right 
 
 To pick them Sunday morning ! " 
 
 So very loth was she to yield 
 The luscious prize at stake. 
 
 This little maid was tempted sore 
 A compromise to make ; 
 
 And curious, silent listener, I, 
 
 Next moment heard th' exultant cry : 
 " I'll eat them Monday morning ! 
 
 " Perhaps that won't so wicked be " — 
 
 And carefully she stowed 
 Her booty in a hiding-place. 
 
 Then hurried down the road. 
 From tip to toe as sweet a maid 
 As ruthless tempter e'er waylaid 
 
 Bound church-ward Sunday morn- 
 ing! 
 
 That she could keep her compromise 
 
 I doubted very much ; 
 Yet, truly, never all that day 
 
 Did she the berries touch. 
 But, bright and early, once again 
 I saw her tripping down the lane. 
 
 To eat them, Monday morning. 
 
 OUR CHARLIE. 
 
 There's a hurry of half-clipped words 
 Flung out of the baby mouth ; 
 
 A kiss like the rustle of birds, 
 
 And a breath like the wind from the 
 south. 
 
50 
 
 LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE. 
 
 There are chubby arms clasping me 
 tight 
 
 In the warmth of a childish caress, 
 There are questioning glances bright 
 
 And a little hand pulling my dress. 
 
 Then, a leap out of babyhood's door, 
 
 A cheerily ringing voice, 
 A bounding step on the floor, 
 
 A boyish bustle and noise ; 
 Lo, the inches are growing tall 
 
 On the head with its bright curls 
 shorn ! 
 There's a slate and a book and a ball, 
 
 Cut fingers, and looks forlorn. 
 
 A lengthening down of his clothes, 
 
 A fumbling after his wits, 
 A freckle or two on his nose, 
 
 A collar that never fits, 
 A voice that is cracked and hoarse, 
 
 A trouble with hands and feet, 
 A laugh grown a trifle coarse. 
 
 And a muckle bit o' conceit. 
 
 A voice that is merry and strong. 
 
 The curl of a dark moustache. 
 The ring of a college song, 
 
 A tale of adventures rash ; 
 A sign on an office door, 
 
 A story the poets sing, 
 A few whispered words said o'er, 
 
 A sigh and a proffered ring ; 
 
 An army marching away, 
 
 The touch of a parting hand, 
 The dawn of a battle day, 
 
 A grave in a southern land ; 
 A few swift tears to fall, 
 
 A uniform faded and torn, 
 A picture to hang on the wall, 
 
 A presence forever gone ! 
 
 LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE. 
 
 Not long ago I wandered near 
 A playground in the wood, 
 
 And there heard words from a young- 
 ster's lips 
 That I never quite understood. 
 
 " Now, let the old cat die," he laughed ; 
 
 I saw him give a push. 
 Then gravely scamper away as he 
 spied 
 
 My face peep over the bush. 
 
 But what he pushed, or where he went, 
 
 I could not well make out, 
 On account of the thicket of bendii^ 
 boughs 
 
 That bordered the place about. 
 
 "The little villain has stoned a cat. 
 
 Or hung it upon a limb, 
 And left it to die all alone," I said, 
 
 "But I'll play the mischief with him." 
 
 I forced my way between the boughs. 
 
 The poor old cat to seek, 
 And what did I find but a swinging 
 child. 
 With her bright hair brushing her 
 cheek. 
 
 Her bright hair floated to and fro. 
 Her little red dress flashed by. 
 
 But the loveliest thing of all, I thought. 
 Was the gleam of her laughing eye. 
 
 Swinging and swaying back and forth, 
 With the rosy light in her face. 
 
 She seemed like a bird and a flower in 
 one. 
 And the forest her native place. 
 
 "Steady! I'll send you up, my child," 
 But she stopped me with a cry : 
 
 " Go 'way ! go 'way ! don't touch me, 
 please, 
 I'm letting the old cat die ! " 
 
 "You letting him die ! " I cried, aghast, 
 " Why, Where's the cat, my dear? " 
 
 And lo ! the laughter that filled the 
 woods 
 Was the thing for the birds to hear. 
 
 " Why, don't you know," said the littk 
 maid. 
 The flitting, beautiful elf, 
 " That we call it ' letting the old cat 
 die,' 
 When the swing stops all of itself?' 
 
WHAT'S A BOY LIKE ?— SWINGING ON A BIRCH TREE. 5 1 
 
 Then swinging and swinging, and 
 
 looking back, 
 With the merriest look in her eye, 
 She bade me " Good-day," and I left 
 
 her alone, 
 A-letting the old cat die. 
 
 WHA T'S A BOY LIKE ? 
 
 Like a wasp, like a sprite. 
 
 Like a goose, like an eel. 
 Like a top, like a kite. 
 
 Like an owl, like a wheel. 
 Like the wind, Uke a snail. 
 
 Like a knife, like a crow. 
 Like a thorn, like a flail. 
 
 Like a hawk, Hke a doe. 
 
 Like the sea, like a weed. 
 
 Like a watch, like the sun. 
 Like a cloud, like a seed. 
 
 Like a book, like a gun. 
 Like a smile, like a tree. 
 
 Like a lamb, like the moon, 
 Like a bud, like a bee. 
 
 Like a burr, like a tune. 
 
 Like a colt, like a whip, 
 
 Like a mouse, like a mill, 
 Like a bell, like a ship. 
 
 Like a jay, like a rill, 
 Like a shower, like a cat. 
 
 Like a frog, like a toy, 
 Like a ball, like a bat, 
 
 Most of all — like a boy. 
 
 How can I wait till the years shall 
 have flown. 
 And the hands have grown larger 
 and stronger? 
 Who will be able the interest to pay 
 If the debt runs many years longer ? 
 
 Dear little feet ! How they fly to my 
 side ! 
 
 White arms my neck are caressing. 
 Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek, 
 
 Fair head my shoulder is pressing. 
 Nothing at all from my darling is due. 
 
 From evil may angels defend her — 
 The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis 
 made. 
 
 For love is a legal tender ! 
 
 PA YING HER WA Y. 
 
 What has my darling been doing to- 
 day. 
 To pay for her washing and mend- 
 ing ? 
 How can she manage to keep out of 
 debt 
 For so much caressing and tend- 
 ing? 
 
 SWINGING ON A BIRCH TREE, 
 
 Swinging on a birch tree 
 
 To a sleepy tune. 
 Hummed by all the breezes 
 
 In the month of June ! 
 Little leaves a-flutter 
 
 Sound like dancing drops 
 Of a brook on pebbles — 
 
 Song that never stops. 
 
 Up and down we see-saw ; 
 
 Up into the sky ; 
 How it opens on us. 
 
 Like a wide blue eye ! 
 You and I are sailors 
 
 Rocking on a mast ; 
 And the world's our vessel : 
 
 Ho ! she sails so fast ! 
 
 Blue, blue sea around us ; 
 
 Not a ship in sight ; 
 They will hang out lanterns 
 
 When they pass to-night. 
 We with ours will follow 
 
 Through the midnight deep 
 Not a thought of danger. 
 
 Though the crew's asleep. 
 
 Oh, how still the air is ! 
 
 There an oriole flew ; 
 What a jolly whistle ! 
 
 He's a sailor, too. 
 
52 
 
 ONLY A BOY.— CHESTNUTS. 
 
 Yonder is his hammock 
 In the elm-top high : 
 
 One more ballad, messmate ! 
 Sing it as you fly ! 
 
 Up and down we see-saw : 
 
 Down into the grass, 
 Scented fern and rose-buds, 
 
 All a woven mass. 
 That's the sort of carpet 
 
 Fitted for our feet ; 
 Tapestry nor velvet 
 
 Is so rich and neat. 
 
 Swinging on a birch tree ! 
 
 This is summer joy, 
 Fun for all vacation — 
 
 Don't you think so, boy? 
 Up and down to see-saw, 
 
 Merry and at ease, 
 Careless as a brook is, 
 
 Idle as the breeze. 
 
 ONLY A BOY. 
 
 Only a boy, with his noise and fun. 
 The veriest mystery under the sun ; 
 As brimful of mischief and wit and 
 
 glee 
 As ever a human frame can be. 
 And as hard to manage as — ah! ah 
 me ! 
 
 'Tis hard to tell ; 
 Yet we love him well. 
 
 Only a boy, with his fearful tread. 
 Who can not be driven, but must be 
 
 led; 
 Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and 
 
 cats. 
 And tears more clothes, and spoils 
 
 more hats, 
 Loses more tops and kites and bats. 
 Than would stock a store 
 For a year or more. 
 
 Only a boy, with bis wild, strange ways ; 
 With his idle hours on busy days ; 
 
 With his queer remarks and odd re- 
 plies, 
 Sometimes foolish, and sometimes 
 
 wise ; 
 Often brilliant, for one of his size 
 As a meteor hurled 
 From the pleasant world. 
 
 Only a boy, who will be a man. 
 
 If nature goes on with her first great 
 
 plan ; 
 If fire or water, or some fatal snare. 
 Conspire not to rob us of this our heir. 
 Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our 
 care. 
 
 Our torment, our joy^ 
 " Only a boy." 
 
 CHESTNUTS. 
 
 Down in the orchard, all the day. 
 The apples ripened and dropped away ; 
 Tawny, and yellow, and red they fell. 
 Filling the air with a spicy smell. 
 
 There were purple grapes on the al- 
 ders low. 
 
 But the jays had gathered them long 
 ago: 
 
 And the merry children had plundered 
 well. 
 
 Hedge, and thicket, and hazel dell. 
 
 But the sturdy chestnuts over the hill 
 Guarded their prickly caskets still, 
 And laughed in scorn at the wind and 
 
 rain, 
 Beating their burly limbs in vain. 
 
 " Hush ! " said the frost. " If you'll 
 
 hold your breath 
 Till hill and valley are still as death 
 I will whisper a spell that shall open 
 
 wide 
 The caskets green v/here the treasures 
 
 hide." 
 
 The rain sank down and the wind was 
 
 still. 
 And the world was wrapped in the 
 
 moonlight chill ; 
 
RUNNING AWAY FROM MAMMA.— STORMY-DAY PARTY. 53 
 
 And a faint white mist, like a ghost, 
 
 was seen 
 Creeping over the valley green. 
 
 Over the roofs of the sleeping town. 
 Over the hillsides, bare and brown ; 
 Field, and meadow, and wood were 
 
 crossed 
 By the shining trail of the silver frost. 
 
 Close at the door of each guarded cell 
 He breathed the words of his wonder- 
 ful spell, 
 And the bristling lances turned aside 
 And every portal flew open wide. 
 
 Up sprang the wind with a loud " Ho ! 
 
 ho!" 
 And scattered the treasures to and fro : 
 And the children shouted, " Come 
 
 away ! 
 There is sport in the chestnut woods 
 
 to-day." 
 
 RUNNING AWAY FROM 
 MAMMA. 
 
 Running away from mamma, 
 
 Bareheaded up the street, 
 Kicking the dust into yellow smoke 
 
 With little roguish feet, 
 Tossing it over his clean white dress 
 
 Into his stocking heels, 
 Checking the little wooden horse 
 
 That trundles along on wheels. 
 
 Dreaming away with mild blue eyes, 
 
 And speculating why 
 God don't give him the golden ball 
 
 That drops in the quivering sky — 
 What is the use of that pretty pink 
 cloud 
 
 Sailing away on high. 
 If he didn't have a ride on it } 
 
 And it's no use to try ! 
 
 If that woman grew with glasses on, 
 
 If this house is papa's ; 
 Why that nice red cow won't talk to 
 him, 
 
 Leaning across the bars. 
 
 Into the neighbors' gates and doors, 
 
 Under their cherry trees. 
 Into mischief and out again 
 
 Wherever he may please. 
 
 Wandering at last to the old church 
 steps 
 
 Little horse and all. 
 Climbing up laboriously — 
 
 (Too bad if he should fall !) 
 Pushing in with dimpled hands 
 
 The great doors strong and tall. 
 Letting the warm sweet sunr.ner light 
 
 Glide down the shadowed wall. 
 
 Standing still in the solemn hush 
 
 Of the chancel, nave, and dome. 
 Thinking it is prettier 
 
 Than the sitting-room at home. 
 Not a bit afraid — ah ! no, indeed, 
 
 Of the shadows vast and dim. 
 Quite at home and sure it was made 
 
 All on purpose for him. 
 
 The old, old story comes up to me. 
 
 Written so long ago, 
 About the heavenly temple 
 
 Where you and I must go. 
 The beautiful waiting temple 
 
 That has no room for sin — 
 Something about a little child 
 
 And the way of entering in. 
 
 STORMY-DAY PARTY. 
 
 Baby and I are invited 
 
 To a fine party, they say, 
 
 I'm sure we will be delighted 
 
 To go on this stormy day. 
 
 "Give my love — I'll come; baby, too. 
 
 Joins me with a hearty, 'a-goo.' " 
 
 " 'Tis not very far — ^just walk out here,' 
 
 Said dancing little Freddy, 
 " Have this easy-chair, mamma dear. 
 
 The party is quite ready. 
 Mrs. Hippo, mamma ; Miss Rose, too," 
 I bowed, and baby said, "a-goo." 
 
54 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING.— MICE. 
 
 Freddy did so very funny look, 
 
 In papa's coat and high hat — 
 Grace, as Mrs. Hippo and chief 
 cook, 
 In Bridget's new caHco, sat. 
 We talked and chatted as people do. 
 Baby repeating his sweet "a-goo." 
 
 Tea was served on dainty dishes. 
 
 Nuts, pop-corn, and bits of cake. 
 Peppermints and candy fishes, 
 Were spread for us to partake. 
 We sipped and ate, enjoyed it, too. 
 And baby laughed and said, "a-goo." 
 
 A step was heard out in the hall, 
 
 Stamping the snow from the feet, 
 " Papa's come," we shouted, and all 
 Invited him to the treat. 
 He gave us kisses, not a few, 
 But best of all was baby's " a-goo." 
 
 " I'm so glad," the dear papa said, 
 
 "While storming so wild without, 
 We have sunshine within. Fred, 
 Ask mamma to play ; no doubt 
 We can join in the singing, too. 
 And baby help with his " a-goo." 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD- 
 MORNING. 
 
 A FAIR little girl 
 Sat under a tree. 
 Sewing as long as 
 Her eyes could see ; 
 She smoothed her work. 
 And folded it right. 
 And said, " Dear work, 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
 Such a number of rooks 
 Went over her head, 
 Crying, " Caw, caw," 
 On their way to bed. 
 She said, as she watched 
 Their curious flight, 
 " Little black things, 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
 The horses neighed, 
 
 And the oxen lowed, 
 
 And the sheep's " bleat, bleat,' 
 
 Came over the road ; 
 
 All seeming to say. 
 
 With a quiet delight, 
 
 Good little girl, 
 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
 She did not say 
 To the sun, " Good-night," 
 Though she saw him there, 
 Like a ball of light ; 
 For she knew he had 
 God's time to keep 
 All over the world. 
 And never could sleep. 
 
 The tall, pink fox-glove 
 Bowed his head : 
 The violets curtsied 
 And went to bed ; 
 And good little Lucy 
 Tied up her hair. 
 And said, on her knees, 
 Her favorite prayer. 
 
 And while on her pillow 
 She softly lay. 
 She heard nothing more 
 Till again it was day. 
 And all things said 
 To the beautiful sun, 
 * Good-morning, good-morning 
 Our work has begun." 
 
 MICE. 
 
 They break the kitchen windows 
 
 And overturn the chairs ; 
 They cut the doors and tables — 
 
 Much wicked work is theirs. 
 Your watch they often handle, 
 
 And sometimes let it fall ; 
 Which fact is quite surprising 
 
 When told of rodents small. 
 
 They hide your books and papers, 
 Unlock the doors and gates ; 
 
 They revel in the pantry 
 And rattle down the plates. 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL.— CASTLES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 55 
 
 They fill your boots with pebbles, 
 And, to your great dismay, 
 
 A g-arret full of pussies 
 
 Can't keep the knaves away. 
 
 But mice don't slam the shutters, 
 
 And sail your hats for boats. 
 And give away to beggars 
 
 Your pantaloons and coats. 
 At last, you muse on Darwin, 
 
 And, much to your annoy. 
 You find those mice developed 
 
 Into that youngest boy. 
 
 SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 
 
 Little Bessie wakes at midnight. 
 And upon the nursery wall. 
 
 Sees she by the flickering firelight 
 Shadows dancing grim and tall. 
 
 Now they rise and now they beckon, 
 Nearer still they seem to come, 
 
 Bessie's blue eyes gaze wide open. 
 And her lips are stricken dumb. 
 
 Bessie thinks they are "the witches," 
 " Mary said they'd take away 
 
 All the naughty little children, 
 And I've not been good to-day. 
 
 " Once I did not mind my mother, 
 And I broke the china cup," 
 
 So the little tender conscience 
 All the past day's sins sums up. 
 
 Still the dancing shadows waken 
 Childhood's grief and childhood's 
 fear, 
 
 And there sink into the pillow 
 Many a sob and many a tear ; 
 
 Till the mother, sleeping lightly. 
 
 Just within the open door, 
 Wakes and listens for a moment ; 
 
 Hastens barefoot o'er the floor ; 
 
 Folds the little weeping maiden 
 Close within her loving arms ; 
 
 And upon that tender bosom 
 Bessie sobs out her alarms. 
 
 Then the mother, softly smiling. 
 Whispers, " All your witches tall, 
 
 Oh, my foolish little Bessie, 
 Are but shadows on the wall ! 
 
 " See, the tall ones are the andirons ; 
 
 That the wardrobe ; this the chair ; 
 And the shawl upon the sofa 
 
 Makes the face with flowing hair. 
 
 "Has my darling then forgotten, 
 When she said her evening prayer. 
 
 How she prayed that God's good an- 
 gels 
 Still might have her in their care ? 
 
 " Sure she knows that the Good Shep- 
 herd 
 
 Guards His flock by day and night, 
 And the lambs are folded safely. 
 
 In the dark as in the light." 
 
 Soon upon her mother's bosom 
 
 Little Bessie falls asleep. 
 Murmuring, as she clings the closer, 
 
 "Pray the Lord my soul to keep/' 
 
 And the mother, softly kissing 
 The wet eyelids and the hair. 
 
 Tossed back from the snowy forehead. 
 Clasps her close in voiceless prayer. 
 
 That the Love which gave her darling 
 Still may keep till dawns the day 
 
 When earth's haunting fears are over. 
 And the shadows flee away. 
 
 CASTLES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 Sitting by the fire-light, 
 
 In the twilight gray. 
 Building airy castles, 
 
 Bessie, Jack, and May, 
 Curly brown and golden locks, 
 
 Nestled close together, 
 Heeding not the wailing winds 
 
 Of November weather. 
 
 Seeing in the wood-fire 
 
 Many a vision rare ; 
 Tracing in their fancies. 
 
 The future gay and fair. 
 
56 
 
 LITTLE MISS MEDDLESOME.— PATCHWORK. 
 
 Well it is each dreamer 
 Sees not down the years 
 
 All his cares and sorrows. 
 All his toils and tears. 
 
 Look ' I see a war-horse. 
 
 Prancing, inky black. 
 Don't you see me charging 
 
 Fiercely on his back ? 
 Now, again, I'm bowing 
 
 To the loud * Hurrah ! ' 
 I've come back victorious — 
 
 A hero from the war." 
 
 See the haughty lady, 
 
 Turning cold away 
 From the throng of suitors, 
 
 Who all vainly pray. 
 Oh, she will not listen, 
 
 Noble though they be, 
 She's waiting for her sailor. 
 
 Sailing o'er the sea." 
 
 Now it is sweet May's turn. 
 
 Peering in the blaze. 
 What can see dear blue eyes, 
 
 Of the future days ? 
 ' I can see a little uni, 
 
 'Neath a willow-tree. 
 In a churchyard, all alone, 
 
 That 1 think's for me." 
 
 Boyish peals of laughter. 
 
 Ring out clear and free, 
 ' Yes, I see the little urn. 
 
 It's to make the tea. 
 I'll come back from battle, 
 
 Bessie from the sea, 
 Dearest May shall sit at home. 
 
 And brew us cups of tea." 
 
 LITTLE MISS MEDDLESOME. 
 
 Little Miss Meddlesome, scattering 
 
 crumbs, 
 Into the library noisily comes — 
 Twirls off her apron, tilts open some 
 
 books. 
 And into a work-basket rummaging, 
 
 looks. 
 
 Out go the spools spinning over the 
 floor. 
 
 Beeswax and needle-case stepped out 
 before ; 
 
 She tosses the tape-rule and plays with 
 the floss, 
 
 And says to herself, " Now won't mam- 
 ma be cross I " 
 
 Little Miss Meddlesome climbs to the 
 shelf, 
 
 Since no one is looking, and, mischiev- 
 ous elf, 
 
 Pulls down the fine vases, the cuckoo 
 clock stops. 
 
 And sprinkles the carpet with damag- 
 ing drops. 
 
 She turns over the ottoman, frightens 
 
 the bird, 
 And sees that the chairs in a medley 
 
 are stirred ; 
 Then creeps on the sofa, and, all in a 
 
 heap, 
 Drops out of her frolicsome mischief 
 
 asleep. 
 
 But here comes the nurse, who is shak- 
 ing her head. 
 
 And frowns at the Mischief asleep on 
 her bed ; 
 
 But let's hope when Miss Meddlesome's 
 slumber is o'er 
 
 She may wake from good dreams and 
 do mischief no more. 
 
 FA TCHWORK. 
 
 Little Miss Margery sits and sews , 
 Painfully creaking her needle goes, 
 As the moist little fingers push it 
 
 through. 
 Such a long stint she has got to do ! 
 "What is the good," she says with a 
 
 sigh, 
 " Of making more quilts to just lay by .^ 
 
 " Up in the press lies row on row ; 
 Who are they for.? I should like to 
 know. 
 
PATCHWORK. 
 
 57 
 
 You'll be glad some day,' says Aunt 
 
 Pauline, 
 ' That you made so many.' What can 
 
 she mean ? 
 Pretty white spreads, I think, look 
 
 best; 
 And, anyway, little girls want some 
 
 rest." 
 
 The small brass thimble gleefully 
 
 rolled 
 (Margery likes to play 'tis gold), 
 Scissors and spool with a clatter fell ; 
 Solemn old clock, now don't you tell ! 
 Over the sill see Margery lean. 
 Heedless of patchwork and Aunt 
 
 Pauline. 
 
 Clover-heads with their horns of 
 
 honey. 
 Daisies with gold and silver m.oney. 
 Strings of strawberries yet to be, 
 Yellow butterflies, gay and free. 
 Sun and wind, and a chance to play, — 
 All these scarcely a rod away. 
 
 She knows she could find a four- 
 leafed clover 
 
 Before she had hunted the field half 
 over ; 
 
 And, oh ! by the way that sparrow 
 flew. 
 
 She must have a nest there, certain 
 true ! 
 
 Only a thin white wall between ! — 
 
 When suddenly in walked Aunt Pau- 
 line. 
 
 The high -backed chairs grew 
 
 straighter still, 
 The clock began to tick with a will, 
 Even the foolish half-moon face 
 Checked itself in a broad grimace, 
 While a vagrant bee who was buzz- 
 ing through 
 Out of the window quickly flew. 
 
 Guilty Margery, quite aghast, 
 Straightens up and sews very fast. 
 But all in vain, however she tries, 
 To cheat for a moment those keen 
 eyes 
 
 Under their spectacles looking 
 
 through 
 Body and soul — and patchwork, too. 
 
 ' What is the matter," she asks, " to- 
 day ? 
 
 You want to go out in the field and 
 play? 
 
 If I were so silly I wouldn't have 
 told— 
 
 A great, big girl nearly twelve years 
 old. 
 
 Let me see your work. Well, I do 
 declare, 
 
 'Twould disgrace a baby, Margery 
 Ware! 
 
 " It must all come out. Here, take 
 
 this pin ; 
 Sit beside me, while you begin. 
 Remember, you must not leave your 
 
 seat 
 Until it is done all true and neat. 
 You'll be thankful yet that you learned 
 
 to sew," 
 With a glance at Margery's face of 
 
 woe. 
 
 " When I was a girl," says Aunt Pau- 
 line, 
 " An idle minute was seldom seen ; 
 
 You've no idea of the pains we'd take. 
 
 Our beautiful patchwork squares to 
 make. 
 
 For prints were precious, and thread 
 was high. 
 
 And little enough could our parents 
 buy. 
 
 " You could sew if you only tried ; 
 
 What in the world do you see out- 
 side ? 
 
 Grass wants cutting ; the corn looks 
 dry ; 
 
 Signs of rain, I think, in the sky. 
 
 Carefully, child, don't hurry so. 
 
 Set your stitches exact and slow." 
 
 Margery swings her restless feet. 
 Clover blossoms do smell so sweet ; 
 
58 
 
 LITTLE TODDTE.— BLUE AND GRAY. 
 
 Smooth little fing-er-tips grow rough, 
 Won't she ever have done enough ? 
 Well, she must bear it while she's 
 
 small ; 
 Grown-up folks needn't sew at all. 
 
 LITTLE TODDLE. 
 
 Is it bright with summer gladness, 
 Toddie dear ; 
 Is there nowhere any sadness, 
 
 Toddie dear, 
 In that land of pleasant mountains, 
 Crystal rivers, silver fountains. 
 In that home to which you hastened 
 From the home by sorrow chastened, 
 Joyless here ? 
 
 Do the seraph-bands surround you, 
 
 Toddie boy ? 
 Do the angels gather round you, 
 Toddie boy.'' 
 Do they keep your heart from grieving 
 For the mother you are leaving. 
 For the mother who is groaning 
 With a broken-hearted moaning 
 For her boy ? 
 
 Yes, we know that love upholds you, 
 Toddie dear ; 
 
 That a wondrous love enfolds you, 
 Toddie dear. 
 
 With an infinite sweet pity. 
 
 In that shining golden city 
 
 Little ones are crowned with blessing, 
 
 All the Saviour's care possessing. 
 There as here. 
 
 But we loved you very dearly, 
 
 Toddie boy ; 
 And we held you very nearly, 
 
 Toddie boy ! 
 Many, many tender mothers. 
 Little sisters, little brothers, 
 Would be sorely grieved in spirit. 
 But they know that you inherit 
 
 Peace and joy. 
 
 BLUE AND GRAY. 
 
 " Oh, mother, what do they mean by 
 blue? 
 
 And what do they mean by gray ? " 
 Was heard from the hps of a little, child 
 
 As she bounded in from play. 
 The mother's eyes filled up with tears ; 
 
 She turned to her darling fair, 
 And smoothed away from the sunny 
 brow 
 
 Its treasures of golden hair. 
 
 "Why, mother's eyes are blue, my 
 sweet. 
 And grandpa's hair is gray. 
 And the love we bear our darling child 
 
 Grows stronger every day." 
 " But what did they mean } " persisted 
 the child ; 
 " For I saw two cripples to-day. 
 And one of them said he fought for 
 the blue ; 
 The other, he fought for the gray. 
 
 " Now, he of the blue had lost a leg. 
 
 And the other had but one arm. 
 And both seemed worn and weary and 
 sad, 
 Yet their greeting was kind and 
 warm. 
 They told of battles in days gone by. 
 Till it made my young blood thrill ; 
 The leg was lost in the Wilderness 
 fight. 
 And the arm on Malvern Hill. 
 
 " They sat on the stone by the farm- 
 yard gate. 
 And talked for an hour or more, 
 Till their eyes grew bright and their 
 hearts seemed warm 
 With fighting their battles o'er. 
 And parting at last with a friendly 
 grasp, 
 In a kindly, brotherly way, 
 Each calling on God to speed the time 
 Uniting the blue and gray." 
 
 Then the mother thought of other 
 days — 
 Two stalwart boys from her riven ; 
 
HUMAN NATURE.— THE SPELLIN' SCHOOL. 
 
 59 
 
 How they knelt at her side and, hsp- 
 ing, prayed, 
 " Our Father which art in Heaven ; " 
 How one wore the gray and the other 
 the blue ; 
 How they passed away from sight, 
 And had gone to the land where gray 
 and blue 
 Are merged in colors of light. 
 
 And she answered her darling with 
 golden hair, 
 While her heart was sadly wrung 
 With the thoughts awakened in that 
 sad hour 
 By her innocent, prattling tongue ; 
 " The blue and the gray are the colors 
 of God ; 
 They are seen in the sky at even, 
 And many a noble, gallant soul 
 
 Has found them passports to Heav- 
 en." 
 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Two little children, five years old, 
 Marie the gentle, Charlie the bold ; 
 Sweet and bright and quaintly wise, 
 Angels both, in their mother's eyes. 
 
 But you, if you follow my verse, shall 
 
 see 
 That they were as human as human 
 
 can be. 
 And had not yet learned the maturer 
 
 art 
 Of hiding the " self " of the finite heart. 
 
 One day they found, in their romp and 
 
 play, 
 Two little rabbits soft and gray — 
 Soft and gray, and just of a size. 
 As like each other as your two eyes. 
 
 All day long the children made love 
 
 To the dear little pets — their treasure- 
 trove ; 
 
 They kissed and hugged them until the 
 night 
 
 Brought to the conies a glad respite. 
 
 Too much fondling doesn't agree 
 With the rabbit nature, as we shall see. 
 For ere the light of another day 
 Had chased the shadows of night away. 
 
 One little pet had gone to the shades, 
 Or, let us hope, to perennial glades. 
 Brighter and softer than any below — 
 A heaven where good little rabbits go. 
 
 The living and dead lay side by side. 
 And still alike as before one died ; 
 And it chanced that the children came 
 
 singly to view 
 The pets they had dreamed of all the 
 
 night through. 
 
 First came Charhe, and, with sad sur- 
 prise. 
 Beheld the dead with streaming eye:; 
 Howe'er, consoling, he said, 
 " Poorhttle Marie — her rabbit's dead T* 
 
 Later came Marie, and stood aghast ; 
 She kissed and caressed it, but at last 
 Found voice to say, while her young 
 
 heart bled, 
 " I'm so sorry for Charlie — his rabbit'!^ 
 
 dead r' 
 
 THE SPELLIN' SCHOOL. 
 
 See that crevice in the floor — 
 Slender line from desk to door. 
 First meridian of the school — 
 Which all the scholars toe by rule. 
 Ranged along in rigid row, 
 Inky, golden, brown, and tow. 
 Are heads of spellers high and low, 
 Like notes in music sweet as June, 
 Dotting off a dancing tune. 
 
 Boy of Bashan takes the lead — 
 Roughly thatched his bullet-head— 
 At the foot an eight-year old 
 Stands with head of trembling gold ; 
 Watch her when the word is missed ! 
 Her eyes are like an amethyst, 
 Her fingers dove-tailed, Hps apart ; 
 She knows that very word by heart 
 And swings like any pendulum, 
 Trembling lest it fail to come. 
 
6o 
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT. 
 
 Runs the word along the line. 
 Like the running of a vine, 
 Blossoms out from lip to lip, 
 Till the girl in azure slip 
 Catches breath and spells the word, 
 Flits up the class Hke any bird, 
 Cheeks in bloom with honest blood. 
 And proudly stands where Bashan 
 stood ! 
 
 SUNDA V NIGHT. 
 
 Three little curly heads golden and 
 fair. 
 
 Three pairs of hands that are lifted in 
 prayer, 
 
 Three little figures in garments of 
 white. 
 
 Three little mouths that are kissed for 
 good-night. 
 
 Three little gowns that are folded away, 
 
 Three little children who rest from their 
 play. 
 
 Three little hearts that are full of de- 
 light, 
 
 For this is the close of a sweet Sun- 
 day night. 
 
 And mamma had clustered them all 
 
 round her knee. 
 And made them as happy as children 
 
 could be ; 
 She told to them stories of Jesus of old 
 Who called little children like lambs 
 
 to His fold ; 
 Who gathered them up in His arms to 
 
 caress. 
 And blessed them as only a Saviour 
 
 could bless. 
 While the innocent faces grew tender 
 
 and bright 
 With the sweet, earnest talk of the 
 
 calm Sunday night. 
 
 And the blue eyes of Bennie had wid- 
 en'd with fear. 
 
 While Maidie had dropped an occa- 
 sional tear, 
 
 When they heard of the lions and 
 
 Daniel so bold, 
 And Joseph who once by his brethren 
 
 was sold, 
 And the children who walked 'mid the 
 
 furnace of flame. 
 Till the Angel of God in his purity came. 
 Walking unharmed in their garments 
 
 of white, — 
 Oh, these were sweet stories to hear 
 
 Sunday night ! 
 
 And Maidie had said — the dear little 
 
 child- 
 Looking up in the face of her mother 
 
 so mild, 
 " I wish — oh, so much ! — I wish, mam- 
 ma dear, 
 When the angels were walking they'd 
 
 come to us here ; 
 Fd like once to see them, so shining 
 
 and fair. 
 Come floating and floating right down 
 
 through the air. 
 Let's ask them to come," said the wee 
 
 Httle sprite, 
 " Let's ask them to come to us this 
 
 Sunday night." 
 
 Then mamma told in her grave, gentle 
 
 way. 
 How the angels were guarding the 
 
 children each day ; 
 How they stood softly round by the 
 
 little one's bed ; 
 How the blessings descended alike on 
 
 each head ; 
 But when they were naughty or will- 
 fully bad. 
 Then the Father was grieved and His 
 
 angels were sad. 
 "Ah, 1 mean to be good," lisped the 
 
 baby, " and then 
 I may see them some time when they're 
 
 coming to Ben ! " 
 
 Oh, the innocent children ! How lit- 
 tle they know 
 
 Of the dear eyes in heaven bent on 
 them below ; 
 
YE BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS.— GOOD SHIP " NEVER-FAIL." 6l 
 
 Of the guardian spirits, who close by 
 their side 
 
 Are watching and waiting to strength- 
 en and guide ; 
 
 And now, as they lie wrapped in 
 dreams and in sleep, 
 
 How ceaseless the vigils the angels 
 will keep ! 
 
 And mamma prays, " Father, oh, guide 
 them aright, 
 
 And send Thy good angels to guard 
 them to-night ! " 
 
 Yi: BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS, 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas ! 
 
 Pockets full of gold ; 
 Plums and cakes for Polly's stocking. 
 
 More than it can hold. 
 Pudding in the great pot, 
 
 Turkey on the spit, 
 Merry faces around the fire — 
 
 Sorrow ? not a bit ! 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas ! 
 
 Carols in the street. 
 Bundles going home with people, 
 
 Everywhere we meet. 
 Holly, fir, and spruce boughs 
 
 Green upon the wall, 
 Spotless snow along the road, 
 
 More going to fall. 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas ! 
 
 Empty pockets here ; 
 Windows broken, garments thin. 
 
 Stove black and drear. 
 Noses blue and frosty. 
 
 Fingers pinched and red. 
 Little hungry children going 
 
 Supperless to bed. 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas — 
 
 Tears are falling fast ; 
 Empty is the baby's chair. 
 
 Since 'twas Christmas last. 
 Wrathfully the north wind 
 
 Wails across the snow, 
 Is there not a little grave 
 
 Frozen down below } 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas ! 
 
 Thanks to God on high 
 For the tender hearts abounding 
 
 With His charity ! 
 Gifts for all the needy. 
 
 For the sad hearts, love, 
 And a little angel smiHng 
 
 In sweet heaven above ! 
 
 CHILD'S MORNING HYMN. 
 
 Safet-Y guarded by Thy presence, 
 By Thy tender love and power. 
 
 Holy Father ! Thou hast brought me 
 To this peaceful happy hour. 
 
 While the night shades gather round 
 me, 
 
 While " I laid me down and slept," 
 'Twas Thy mercy that sustained me, 
 
 And my life in being kept. 
 
 Thoughts of all this care so tender. 
 Wakes a morning hymn of praise. 
 
 While a song of full thanksgiving, 
 Here and now to Thee I raise. 
 
 Strengthened thus in mind and body, 
 
 Help me to begin anew. 
 In the race of love and duty, 
 
 And the right each hour pursue. 
 
 So, when all life's changing seasons. 
 Fraught with "weal or woe," are 
 past, 
 
 Kept and saved by love eternal, 
 Praise shall crown the work at last. 
 
 THE GOOD SHIP^'NEVER-FAILr 
 
 "Why don't you launch your boat, 
 my boy ? " 
 I asked the other day. 
 As strolling idly on the beach 
 
 I saw my lads at play ; 
 One blue-eyed rogue shook back his 
 curls, 
 And held his ship to me, 
 
62 PLANTING HIMSELF TO GROW.— "THANKS TO YOU." 
 
 " I'm giving- her a name," he cried, 
 
 " Before she goes to sea ; 
 We rigged her out so smart and taut, 
 
 With flag and snow-white sail, 
 And now I'll trust her to the waves. 
 
 And call her * Never-Fail.' " 
 
 The little ship sailed proudly out, 
 
 Through mimic rock and shoal. 
 The child stood watching on the beach 
 
 His vessel reach its goal ; 
 The wind had risen soft at first. 
 
 But wilder soon it blew, 
 It strained and bent the slender mast, 
 
 That still rose straight and true ; 
 " Yet," cried the boy, " my ship is safe, 
 
 In spite of wind and gale. 
 Her sails are strong, her sides are firm, 
 
 Her name is ' Never-Fail.' " 
 
 And presently the wind was lulled. 
 
 The little bark came home. 
 No wreck, although her sails were wet. 
 
 Her deck all washed with foam ; 
 And loudly laughed my true boy then, 
 
 As at his feet she lay. 
 And wisely spoke my true boy then. 
 
 Although 'twas said in play — 
 " Papa, I thought if mast and sail 
 
 And tackle all were true, 
 With such a name as ' Never-Fail,' 
 
 She'd sail the wide sea through." 
 
 PLANTING HIMSELF TO GRO W. 
 
 Dear little bright-eyed WilHe, 
 
 Always so full of glee. 
 Always so very mischievous, 
 
 The pride of our home is he. 
 
 One bright summer day we found him 
 
 Close by the garden wall, 
 Standing so grave and dignified 
 
 Beside a sunflower tall. 
 
 His tiny feet he had covered 
 
 With the moist and cooHng sand ; 
 
 The stalk of the great, tall sunflower 
 He grasped with his chubby hand. 
 
 When he saw us standing near him, 
 
 Gazing so wonderingly 
 At his babyship, he greeted us 
 
 With a merry shout of glee. 
 
 We asked our darling what pleased 
 him ; 
 
 He replied with a face aglow, 
 " Mamma, I'm going to be a man ; 
 
 1 've planted myself to grow ! " 
 
 *' THANKS TO YOUr 
 
 Every day for a month of Sundays, 
 
 Saturdays, Tuesdays, Fridays, Mon- 
 days, 
 
 Jack had pondered the various means 
 
 And methods pertaining to grinding 
 machines, 
 
 Until he was sure he could build a 
 wheel 
 
 That, given the sort of dam that's 
 proper, 
 
 Would only need some corn in the 
 hopper 
 
 To turn out very respectable meal. 
 
 Jerry, and Jane, and Joe, and the others. 
 Jack's incredulous sisters and brothers, 
 Gave him credit for good intentions, 
 But took no stock in the boy's inven- 
 tions. 
 In fact, they laughed them quite to 
 
 scorn ; 
 Instead of wasting his time, they said, 
 He would be more likely to earn his 
 
 bread 
 Planting potatoes or hoeing corn 
 
 Bessie alone, when all the rest 
 Crushed his spirit with jibe and jest. 
 Whispered softly, " Whatever they say, 
 I know you will build the wheel some 
 
 day ! " 
 Chirping crickets and singing birds 
 Were not so sweet as her heartsome 
 
 words ; 
 Straight he answered, " If ever I do, 
 I know it will only be thanks to you ! ' 
 
 4 
 
A LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER.— MOTHER GOOSE. 
 
 63 
 
 Many a time sore heart and brain 
 Leap at a word, grown strong- again, 
 Thanks to her, as the story goes, 
 Hope and courage in Jack arose; 
 Till one bright day in the meadow- 
 brook 
 There was heard a sound as of water 
 
 plashing, 
 And Bessie watched with her happy 
 
 look 
 The little wheel in the sunlight flashing. 
 
 By and by, as the years were fraught 
 
 With fruit of his earnest toil and 
 thought. 
 
 Brothers and sisters changed their 
 tune — 
 
 "Our Jack," they cried, "will be fa- 
 mous soon ! " 
 
 Which was nothing more than Bessie 
 knew, 
 
 She said, and had known it all the 
 while ! 
 
 But Jack replied with a kiss and a 
 smile, 
 
 " If ever I am, it is thanks to you ! " 
 
 A LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 
 
 What do the birds say, I wonder, I 
 wonder. 
 With their chitter and chatter ? It 
 isn't all play. 
 Do they scold, do they fret at some 
 boggle or blunder. 
 As we fret, as we scold day after 
 day ? 
 
 Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I 
 wonder. 
 At anything else than the danger 
 that comes 
 When some enemy threatens them 
 over or under 
 The great, leafy boughs of their great 
 leafy homes ? 
 
 Do they vow to be friends, I wonder, 
 I wonder, 
 With promises fair and promises 
 sweet, 
 
 Then, quick as a wink, at a word fal' 
 asunder. 
 As human friends do, in a moment 
 of heat ? 
 
 But day after day I may wonder and 
 wonder, 
 And ask them no end of such ques- 
 tions as these — 
 With chitter and chatter, now over, 
 now under. 
 The big, leafy boughs of the big, 
 leafy trees. 
 
 They dart and they skim, with their 
 bills full of plunder. 
 But never a word of an answer they 
 give, 
 And never a word shall I get, though 
 I wonder 
 From morning till night, as long as 
 I live. 
 
 MOTHER GOOSE. 
 
 " Tell me a story, mamma. 
 
 One that is not very long, 
 I am getting so tired and sleepy, 
 
 Or sing me a little song — 
 Something about the boy in blue 
 
 That watched the cows and sheep. 
 Who ought to get up and blow the horn, 
 
 But he lies in the hay asleep." 
 
 And I answered with quick impatience. 
 
 While he hung his sleepy head, 
 " No, not a story or song to-night, 
 
 Bertie must go to bed." 
 But after the room was silent. 
 
 And the weary boy asleep. 
 And never a sound came on my ears 
 
 Save the lonely cricket's peep. 
 
 The voice with the tone of pleading 
 
 Kept coming again and again, 
 " Tell me a story or sing me a scng," 
 
 Till I could not bear the pain ; 
 So I went with stealthy footstep 
 
 To see how my darling slept ; 
 Weak and foolish though it may seem 
 
 I knelt by the bed and wept, 
 
64 
 
 THE PLAY-HOUSE.— FANNY'S MUD PIES. 
 
 To think that I had refused him 
 
 The song that he loved so well, 
 And refused the simple story 
 
 That none but a mother can tell. 
 And I said, " Sleep on, sweet dreamer: 
 
 Fear not the cows and the sheep ; 
 Dream that you lie in the meadow, 
 
 Under the hay asleep. 
 All too soon you will waken. 
 
 To watch o'er the field of corn ; 
 All too soon will the sheep get in. 
 
 Though you bravely blow your horn." 
 
 THE PLAY-HOUSE. 
 
 Under a fir in the garden ground 
 A strange habitation to-day I found, 
 Built of bushes, and bark, and boards. 
 And holding hidden the queerest 
 hoards. 
 
 There were bits of crockery, sticks, and 
 
 stones, 
 Shreds of pink calico, strings of cones. 
 Crumbs of candle, a picture-book. 
 And, strangest of all, in a cosy nook 
 Was an idol made in the image of man, 
 With charcoal eyes, and stuffed with 
 
 bran. 
 
 "Were they heathens who dwelt 
 
 there?" Oh, no, indeed. 
 "Were they animals?" Yes, of the 
 
 kind that can read. 
 And laugh and cry, or be wicked and 
 
 pray, 
 And when they are old their hair grows 
 
 gray. 
 
 Their names are Margery, Ned, and 
 
 Sue; 
 Their curls are brown, and their eyes 
 
 are blue ; 
 And they builded there in the summer 
 
 heat, 
 As glad as the birds, and sang as sweet. 
 
 The birds that built in the tree-tops high 
 Are singing under a summer sky ; 
 
 But the dear little builders who toiled 
 
 below 
 Are singing here in the firelight glow. 
 
 FANNY'S MUD PIES. 
 
 Under the apple-tree, spreading and 
 
 thick, 
 Happy with only a pan and a stick. 
 On the soft grass in the meadow that 
 
 lies, 
 Our little Fanny is making mud pies. 
 
 On her bright apron, and bright droop- 
 ing head, 
 
 Showers of pink and white blossoms 
 are shed ; 
 
 Tied to a branch, that seems just meant 
 for that. 
 
 Dances and flutters her little straw hat. 
 
 Gravely she stirs, with a serious look, 
 Making believe she's a true pastry cook ; 
 Sundry brown splashes on forehead and 
 
 eyes 
 Show that our Fanny is making mud 
 
 pies. 
 
 But all the soil of her innocent play 
 Clean soap and water will soon wash 
 
 away ; 
 Many a pleasure in daintier guise 
 Leaves darker traces than Fanny's mud 
 
 pies. 
 
 Dash, full of joy in the bright summer 
 
 day, 
 Zealously chases the robins away, 
 Barks at the squirrels, or snaps at the 
 
 flies. 
 All the while Fanny is making mud pies. 
 
 Sunshine and soft summer breezes astir, 
 While she is busy, are busy with heis — 
 Cheeks rosy glowing, and bright spark- 
 ling eyes, 
 Bring they to Fanny while making mud 
 pies. 
 
THE NAUGHTY BAIRN.— THE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 Dollies and playthings are all laid away, 
 Not to come out till the next rainy day ; 
 Under the blue of those sweet summer 
 
 skies 
 Nothing so pleasant as making mud 
 
 pies. 
 
 THE NAUGHTY BAIRN. 
 
 The bairnie sat on the hillock hard, 
 The bright little brook beside, 
 
 With a world of care on his bonnie face, 
 And the tears on his cheek scarce 
 dried. 
 
 A naughty boy the bairn had been, 
 He had strayed from school away. 
 
 For the lessons were hard, and he could 
 not learn. 
 And he longed, oh, he longed to play. 
 
 He put his books in his satchel worn, 
 And kissed the mother good-bye ; 
 
 And smiled at her caution to walk in 
 the road, 
 For the grass was scarcely dry. 
 
 The naughty bairn ! he had in his mind 
 
 How merry it would be 
 To go and sit by the babbling brook, 
 
 And the pebbles and flowers see. 
 
 He could not bear to think of the school, 
 And the long, long, tiresome day : 
 
 So he laid his satchel 'neath the old 
 stone wall. 
 And hied to the brook away. 
 
 He tossed the pebbles in the waters 
 bright, 
 
 And plucked the sweet wild flowers ; 
 And thought what a merry way this was 
 
 To spend the morning hours. 
 
 So he merrily played till the sun went 
 
 down. 
 In a sea of crimson fire ; 
 And he saw o'er the meadows slowly 
 
 creep 
 The shadow of the village spire. 
 
 And then he remembered he must go 
 home, 
 And he thought of his mother's 
 frown ; 
 And then first he saw his mud-soiled 
 hands, 
 And the stains on his best school 
 gown. 
 
 And somehow the brook as it rippled 
 along. 
 
 Sang a quaint and a sad, sad lay ; 
 It sang to the bairn of the stolen hours, 
 
 And the lost and wasted day. 
 
 And home through the gloaming the 
 bairnie strayed, 
 
 But the smile of the day was gone ; 
 For, child as he was, he felt the grief 
 
 That always follows wrong. 
 
 Though the doing wrong may seem 
 merry and light. 
 The mem'ry is cold and chill ; 
 And the only pleasure we can truly 
 know. 
 Is doing the Father's will. 
 
 THE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 We bought him a box for his books 
 and things. 
 And a cricket-bag for his bat ; 
 And he looked the brightest and best of 
 kings 
 Under his new straw hat. 
 
 We handed him into the railway train 
 With a troop of his young compeers, 
 
 And we made as though it were dust 
 and rain 
 Were filling our eyes with tears. 
 
 We looked in his innocent face to see 
 The sign of a sorrowful heart ; 
 
 But he only shouldered his bat with glee 
 And wondered when they would 
 start. 
 
66 
 
 HARE AND HOUNDS."— CHURN SLOWLY. 
 
 'Twas not that he loved not as hereto- 
 fore, 
 
 For the boy was tender and kind ; 
 But his was a world that was all before 
 
 And ours was a world behind. 
 
 'Twas not his fluttering heart was cold, 
 For the child was loyal and true ; 
 
 And the parents love the love that is old 
 And the children the love that is new. 
 
 And we came to know that love is a 
 flower 
 Which only groweth down ; 
 And we scarcely spoke for the space of 
 an hour 
 As we drove back through the town. 
 
 ''HARE AND HOUND s:' 
 
 "What shall we do?" the children 
 
 said. 
 By the spirit of frolic and mischief led, 
 Frank and Lulu and Carrie, three 
 As full of nonsense as they could be : 
 Who never were known any fun to stop 
 Until they v/ere just about ready to drop. 
 Frank, whose " knowledge-box " surely 
 
 abounds 
 With games, spoke up for " Hare and 
 
 Hounds." 
 '* Down the cellar or up the stair. 
 Here and there, and everywhere, 
 You must follow, for Fm the Hare ! " 
 Lulu and Carrie gave quick consent. 
 And at cutting their papers and capers 
 
 went. 
 For the stairs were steep, and they 
 
 must not fail 
 To have enough for a good long trail. 
 Away went the Hare 
 Right up the stair. 
 And away went the Hounds, a laugh- 
 ing pair ; 
 
 And Tony, who sat 
 Near Kitty, the cat, 
 And was really a dog worth looking at. 
 With a queer grimace 
 Soon joined the race, 
 
 And followed the game at a lively pace 1 
 Then puss, who knew 
 A thing or two. 
 Prepared to follow the noisy crew, 
 And never before or since, I ween, 
 Was ever beheld such a hunting scene ! 
 The Hare was swift ; and the papers 
 
 went 
 This way and that, to confuse the scent ; 
 But Tony, keeping his nose in air. 
 In a very few moments betrayed the 
 
 Hare, 
 Which the children told him was hardly 
 
 fair. 
 
 I can not tell you how long they played, 
 Of the fun they had, or the noise they 
 
 made ; 
 For the best of things in this world, I 
 
 think, 
 Can ne'er be written with pen and ink. 
 But Bridget, who went on her daily 
 
 rounds, 
 Picking up after the " Hare and 
 
 Hounds," 
 Said she didn't mind hearing their 
 
 lively capers. 
 But her back was broke with scraps o' 
 
 papers. 
 
 Carrie, next day, couldn't raise her 
 
 head ; 
 Frank and Lulu were sick in bed ; 
 The dog and the cat were a used-up 
 
 pair. 
 And all of them needed the doctor's 
 
 care. 
 The children themselves can hardly fail 
 To tack a moral upon this trail ; 
 And I guess on rather more level 
 
 grounds 
 They'll play their next game of " Hare 
 
 and Hounds," 
 
 CHURN SLOWLY. 
 
 A LITTLE maid in the morning sun 
 Stood merrily singing and churn- 
 ing— 
 
TWO SCHOOL-BOYS.— THE MORNING SONG. 
 
 67 
 
 " Oh, how I wish this butter was done, 
 Then off to the fields I'd be turn- 
 ing ! " 
 So she hurried the dasher up and down. 
 Till the farmer called, with a half-made 
 frown, 
 
 " Churn slowly ! 
 
 *' Don't play the dasher so fast, my dear, 
 
 It's not so good for the butter, 
 And will make your arms ache, too, I 
 fear. 
 And put you all in a flutter — 
 For this is the rule, wherever you turn. 
 Don't be in haste whenever you churn — 
 ' Churn slowly ! ' 
 
 " If you'd see your butter come nice 
 and sweet, 
 Don't churn with a nervous jerking, 
 But ply the dasher slowly and neat — 
 
 You'll hardly know you're working ; 
 And when the butter has come, you'll 
 
 say, 
 ' Yes, this is surely the very best way ' — 
 Churn slowly ! " 
 
 Now, little folks, do you think that you 
 
 A lesson can find m butter ? 
 Don't be in haste, whatever you do, 
 
 Or get yourself in a flutter ; 
 And v/hile you stand at hfe's great 
 
 churn. 
 Let the farmer's words to you return, 
 " Churn slowly ! " 
 
 TWO SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 Two school-boys on their way to school 
 
 I day by day was meeting ; 
 Yet though I met them day by day, 
 We each and all pursued our way. 
 Nor exchanged a friendly greeting. 
 
 At last I got to nod and smile. 
 
 To smile they, too, were willing ; 
 And then I used to stop and stand, 
 And often shake them by the hand, 
 And sometimes tip a shilling ; 
 
 Till it became a daily treat 
 
 To meet these morning scholars : 
 I loved to see their merry looks, 
 Though schoolward bound, with bag 
 of books. 
 Bright cheeks, and shining collars. 
 
 Soon came the summer holidays, 
 And when they were half over, 
 
 I took a trip to Germany, 
 
 And three months passed away ere I 
 Recrossed the straits of Dover. 
 
 Again I took that old, old walk — 
 
 What time the leaves were yellow. 
 The autumn day was very still — 
 Just at the bottom of the hill 
 I met one little fellow. 
 
 He hailed me with a joyful cry 
 
 Of joyfullest delectation : 
 I laughed to see him laughing so. 
 " But where's our friend ? " " What ! 
 don't you know ? 
 
 He died in the vacation." 
 
 How was it that I turned aside, 
 With rough, abruptest bearing ? 
 
 No matter ; on the instant I 
 
 Turned off, nor even said, " Good-bye/ 
 And left the youngster staring. 
 
 THE MORNING SONG. 
 
 Sing, little daughter, sing ; 
 
 Sing me your morning song. 
 Thanking our Father for His love 
 
 And care the whole night long. 
 
 Sing out with cheerful heart. 
 Sing out with cheerful voice ; 
 
 The tones of gratitude to God 
 Will make my heart rejoice. 
 
 Thank Him for parents dear, 
 Thy father and thy mother ; 
 
 Thank Him for little sister Bess, 
 Thank Him for httle brother. 
 
68 
 
 THE BOY I LOVE 
 
 Thank Him for pleasant home, 
 Thank Him for many a friend. 
 
 For mercies which we can not count, 
 For mercies without end. 
 
 Thank Him for health and strength, 
 Thank Him for clothes and food, 
 
 Thank Him for light and the fresh air, 
 Thank Him for every good. 
 
 Thank Him for pleasant days. 
 For sunshine and for showers, 
 
 For the green grass and lofty trees, 
 And for the lair wild flowers. 
 
 Thank Him, oh, most of all. 
 
 For His most Holy Word, 
 Wherein we read the wondrous love 
 
 Of Jesus Christ our Lord. 
 
 Thank Him that Christ has died 
 
 That we might die to sin ; 
 Thank Him that Christ is risen again. 
 
 That we His heaven may win. 
 
 Sing, little daughter, sing ; 
 
 Sing forth with heart and voice. 
 Thanking the Lord for all His gifts ; 
 
 Rejoice, my child, rejoice. 
 
 THE BOY I LOVE. 
 
 My boy, do you know the boy I love ? 
 
 I fancy I see him now ; 
 His forehead bare in the sweet spring 
 
 air, 
 With the wind of hope in his waving 
 hair. 
 
 With sunrise on his brow. 
 
 He is something near your height, 
 may be. 
 
 And just about your years ; 
 Timid as you ; but his will is strong. 
 And his love of right and his hate of 
 wrong 
 
 Are mightier than his fears. 
 
 He has the courage of simple truth, 
 The trial that he must bear ; 
 
 The peril, the ghost that frights him 
 most, 
 
 He faces boldly, and like a ghost 
 It vanishes in air. 
 
 As wild-fowl take, by river and lake, 
 
 The sunshine and the rain. 
 With cheerful, constant hardihood. 
 He meets the bad luck and the good. 
 The pleasure and the pain. 
 
 Come friends in need.'' With heart 
 and deed 
 He gives himself to them. 
 He has the grace which reverence 
 
 lends — 
 Reverence, the crowning flower that 
 bends 
 The upright lily-stem. 
 
 Though deep and strong his sense of 
 wrong. 
 
 Fiery his blood and young. 
 His spirit is gentle, his heart is great. 
 He is swift to pardon and slow to hate, 
 
 And master of his tongue. 
 
 Fond of his sports ? No merrier lad's 
 
 Sweet laughter ever rang ! 
 But he is so generous and so frank. 
 His wildest wit, or his maddest prank. 
 Can never cause a pang. 
 
 His own sweet ease, all things that 
 please. 
 
 He loves, like any boy ; 
 But fosters a prudent fortitude ; 
 Nor will he squander a future good 
 
 To buy a fleeting joy. 
 
 Face brown or fair ? I little care 
 
 Whatever the hue may be. 
 Or whether his eyes are dark or light , 
 If his tongue be true and his honor 
 bright. 
 He is still the boy for me. 
 
 Where does he dwell ? I can not tell ; 
 Nor do I know his name. 
 
THE LESSON.— GRANDFATHER'S BARN. 
 
 69 
 
 Or poor or rich ? I don't mind which ; 
 Or learning Latin, or digging ditch, 
 1 love him all the same. 
 
 With high, brave heart, perform your 
 part, 
 Be noble and kind as he ; 
 Then, some fair morning, when you 
 
 pass. 
 Fresh from glad dreams, before your 
 glass, 
 His likeness you may see. 
 
 You are puzzled ? What ! you think 
 there is not 
 
 A boy like him — surmise 
 That he is only a bright ideal ? 
 But you have power to make him real, 
 
 And clothe him to our eyes. 
 
 You have rightly guessed : in each 
 pure breast 
 Is his abiding-place. 
 Then let your own true life portray 
 His beauty, and blossom day by day 
 
 THE LESSON. 
 
 [A beautiful answer was given by a little Scotch 
 girl ; when her class at school was examined, she 
 replied to the question, "What is patience?" — 
 " Wait a wee, and dinna weary."] 
 
 A VILLAGE school-room — this the 
 scene — 
 
 Aglow with a slant sun cheery : 
 A dominie there, of youthful mien. 
 With the sun of his spirit sharp and 
 
 keen, 
 And a class of girls in serried row. 
 Some taller, and some of stature low : 
 And some like the morning sun, afire 
 To reach the summit of brave desire ; 
 
 And, as aye, some unco' dreaiy ! 
 
 " I canna an' v^inna teach, and ye 
 
 Sae stupid the while I query — • 
 Nae vision for ocht but vanity ! " 
 With thundering rap the dominie 
 
 Out-blurted, chafed by a listless girl. 
 Whose only care seemed to smooth and 
 
 twirl 
 Her apron streamers. " Will onie lass 
 Mak' answer in a' this glaikit class ? " 
 The dominie sighed aweary. 
 
 " Oh, ay," said a little one, " I can tell." 
 " Weel, out wi't, then, my 
 dearie " — 
 
 And the frown from the master's fore- 
 head fell, 
 
 For the sweetest girl in school was 
 Nell— 
 
 " I wan't ye to show me the meaning 
 plain 
 
 O' patience ; sin' ow'r and ow'r again 
 
 I've put it this day ! " Then the Httle 
 maid, 
 
 With a rougish twinkle, soberly said, 
 "Wait a wee' and dinna weary." 
 
 GRANDFA THER'S BARN. 
 
 Oh, don't you remember our grand- 
 father's bam, 
 Where our cousins and we met to 
 play: 
 How we climbed on the beams and the 
 scaffolds high, 
 Or tumbled at will on the hay ? 
 How we sat in a row on the bundles 
 of straw. 
 And riddles and witch stories told. 
 While the sunshine came in through 
 the cracks of the south. 
 And turned all the dust into gold ? 
 
 How we played hide-and-seek in each 
 cranny and nook, 
 Wherever a child could be stowed ; 
 Then we made us a coach of a hogs- 
 head of rye, 
 And on it to " Boston " we rode ? 
 And then we kept store, and sold barley 
 and oats. 
 And corn by the bushel or bin ; 
 And straw for our sisters to braid into 
 hats, 
 And flax, for our mothers to spin. 
 
70 
 
 LITTLE BAGGAGE.— LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 
 
 Then we played we were biddies, and 
 cackled and crowed, 
 Till grandmother in haste came to 
 see 
 If the weasles were killing the old 
 speckled hen, 
 Or whatever the matter might be ; 
 How she patted our heads when she 
 saw her mistake. 
 And called us her sweet "chicken- 
 dears ! " 
 While a tear dimmed her eye as the 
 picture recalled 
 The scenes of her own vanished 
 years. 
 
 How we tittered and swung, and played 
 meeting and school, 
 And Indian, and soldier, and bear ! 
 While up on the rafter the swallows 
 kept house, 
 Or sailed through the soft summer 
 air. 
 How we longed to peep into their curi- 
 ous nests ! 
 But they were too far overhead ; 
 So we wished we were giants, or 
 winged like the birds, 
 And then we'd do wonders, we said. 
 
 And don't you remember the racket 
 we made 
 When selling at auction the hay ; 
 And how we wound up with a keel- 
 over leap 
 From the scaffold down into the bay? 
 When we went in to supper, our grand- 
 father said. 
 If he had not once been a boy, 
 He should thought that the Hessians 
 v/ere sacking the town. 
 Or an earthquake had come to de- 
 stroy. 
 
 LITTLE BAGGAGE. 
 
 Waiting at a wayside station 
 For a weary hour's duration, 
 Lost in anxious cogitation. 
 
 Over this and that ; 
 
 In there tripped a little maiden. 
 Box and bag and basket laden. 
 And beside me sat. 
 
 Little baggage ! rich in treasure ; 
 Youth, and hope, and heart for pleas- 
 ure, 
 Sweet contentment without measure. 
 
 All I once possessed. 
 Small, fair fingers, folded quaintly. 
 Blue eyes very calm and saintly. 
 
 Very full of rest. 
 
 Little dove of peace, I thought her. 
 Bless the happy stars that brought her ! 
 To my care-worn heart I caught her, 
 
 Though she never knew. 
 And the dark cloud of repining 
 Sudden showed its silver lining 
 
 Bright against the blue. 
 
 Oh, the charm of childhood's graces ! 
 Changing earth's most desert places 
 Into such a fair oasis, 
 
 Fresh with morning dew ; 
 That the world, grown old and dreary, 
 Seems less work-a-day and weary. 
 
 And hope wakes anew. 
 
 Sooner can their freshness free us 
 From the cares that years decree us, 
 Than the fabled child of Zeus 
 
 Could to youth restore. 
 Happy who the myth believing, 
 And the nectar cup receiving. 
 
 Lives a child once more. 
 
 LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 
 
 They drive home the cows from the 
 pasture, 
 Up through the long shady lane, 
 Where the quail whistles loud in the 
 wheat-fields. 
 That are yellow with ripening grain. 
 They find, in the thick, waving grasses. 
 Where the scarlet-lipped strawbeny 
 grows, 
 They gather the earliest snow-drops 
 And the first crimson buds of the 
 rose. 
 
A FANCY.— THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 
 
 They toss the hay in the meadow ; 
 
 They gather the elder-bloom white ; 
 They find where the dusky grapes pur- 
 ple 
 In the soft-tinted October light. 
 They know where the apples hang 
 ripest, 
 And are sweeter than Italy's wines ; 
 They know where the fruit hangs the 
 thickest 
 On the long, thorny blackberry vines. 
 
 They gather the delicate sea-weeds, 
 
 And build tiny castles of sand ; 
 They pick up the beautiful sea-shells — 
 Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
 They wave from the tall, rocking tree- 
 tops. 
 Where the oriole's hammock-nest 
 swings, 
 And at night-time are folded in slum- 
 ber 
 By a song that a fond mother sings. 
 
 Those who toil bravely are strongest ; 
 
 The humble and poor become great ; 
 And from these brown-handed children 
 
 Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 
 The pen of the author and statesman — 
 
 The noble and v^^ise of the land — 
 The sword, and chisel, and palette 
 
 Shall be held in the little brown 
 hand. 
 
 A FANCY. 
 
 I SUPPOSE if all the children 
 
 Who have lived through ages long 
 Were collected and inspected 
 
 They would make a wondrous 
 throng. 
 Oh, the babble of the Babel ! 
 
 Oh, the flutter of the fuss ! 
 To begin with Cain and Abel, 
 
 And to finish up with us ! 
 
 Think of all the men and women 
 Who are now and who have been, 
 
 Every nation since creation 
 
 That this world of ours has seen ; 
 
 And of all of them, not any 
 But was once a baby small, 
 
 While of children, oh, how many 
 Never have grown up at all ! 
 
 Some have never laughed or spoken, 
 
 Never used their rosy feet ; 
 Some have even flown to heaven 
 
 Ere they knew that earth was sweet. 
 And indeed I wonder whether, 
 
 If we reckon ev 'ry birth, 
 And bring such a flock together 
 
 There is room for them on earth } 
 
 Who will wash their smiling faces. 
 
 Who their saucy ears will box ? 
 Who will dress them and caress them ? 
 
 Who will darn their little socks ? 
 Where are arms enough to hold them ? 
 
 Hands to pat each shining head ? 
 Who will praise them ? who will scold 
 them } 
 
 Who wiU pack them off" to bed } 
 
 Little happy Christian children. 
 
 Little savage children, too. 
 In all stages of all ages. 
 
 That our planet ever knew ! 
 Little princes and princesses. 
 
 Little beggars, wan and faint. 
 Some in very handsome dresses. 
 
 Naked some, bedaubed with paint. 
 
 Only think of the confusion 
 
 Such a motley crowd would make ! 
 And the clatter of their chatter, 
 
 And the things that they would 
 break ! 
 Oh, the babble of the Babel ! 
 
 Oh, the flutter of the fuss \ 
 To begin with Cain and Abel, 
 
 And to finish off with us ! 
 
 THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 
 
 'Mid fields with useless daisies white, 
 Between a river and a wood. 
 
 With not another house in sight. 
 The low-roofed yellow cottage stood, 
 
72 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 Where I, 
 
 Long years ago, a little maid, 
 Through all life's rosy morning played. 
 
 No other child the region knew ; 
 
 My only playmate was myself. 
 And all our books, a treasured few, 
 
 Were gathered on a single shelf; 
 But, oh ! 
 Not wealth a king might prize could be 
 What those old volumes were to me ! 
 
 On winter's night beside the fire, 
 In summer, sitting in the door, 
 
 I turned, with love that did not tire, 
 Their well-worn pages o'er and o'er ; 
 In me, 
 
 Though sadly fallen, it is true, 
 
 Their heroines all lived anew ! 
 
 One day, about my neck a ruff 
 
 Of elder flowers with fragrant breath, 
 
 I was, with conscious pride enough 
 To suit the part, Elizabeth ; 
 The next. 
 
 Ensnared by many wily plots, 
 
 I sighed, the hapless Queen of Scots ! 
 
 Where darting swallows used to flit 
 
 Close to me, on some jutting rocks, 
 Above the river, I would sit 
 
 For hours, and wreath my yellow 
 locks, 
 
 And trill 
 A child's shrill song, and, singing, play 
 It was a siren's watching lay. 
 
 On Sundays, underneath the tree 
 That overhung the orchard wall, 
 
 While watching, one by one, to see 
 The ripe, sweet apples fall, 
 I tried 
 
 My very best to make believe 
 
 I was in Eden and was Eve ! 
 
 Oh, golden hours ! when I, to-day, 
 Would make a truce with care. 
 
 No more of queens, in bright array, 
 I dream, or sirens fair ; 
 In thought, 
 
 I am again the little maid 
 
 Who round the yellow cottage played. 
 
 SO ME BOD Y'S MO THER. 
 
 The woman was old and ragged and 
 
 gray. 
 And bent with the chill of the winter's 
 
 day: 
 
 The street was wet with a recent snow, 
 And the woman's feet were aged and 
 slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited 
 
 long, 
 Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng 
 
 Of human beings who passed her by, 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious 
 eye. 
 
 Down the street, with laughter and 
 
 shout, 
 Glad in the freedom of " school let out," 
 
 Came the boys like a flock of sheep. 
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 
 
 Past the woman so old and gray 
 Hastened the children on their way, 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to stir 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' 
 
 feet 
 Should crowd her down in the slippery 
 
 street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop — 
 The gayest laddie of all the group : 
 
 He paused beside her, and whispered 
 
 low, 
 ** I'll help you across if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
 She placed, and so, without hurt or 
 harm, 
 
 He guided the trembling feet along. 
 Proud that his own were firm and 
 strong. 
 
A MAY-DAY CAROL.— EIGHTEEN. 
 
 73 
 
 Then back again to his friends he went, 
 His young heart happy and well content. 
 
 " She's somebody's mother, boys, you 
 
 know, 
 For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 
 
 And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
 To help my mother, you understand, 
 
 If ever she's poor and old and gray. 
 When her own dear boy is far away." 
 
 And " somebody's mother" bowed low 
 
 her head 
 In her home that night, and the prayer 
 
 she said 
 
 Was " God be kind to the noble boy. 
 Who is somebody's son and pride and 
 
 joy I " 
 
 A MAY-DAY CAROL. 
 
 " Ah ! whither, fair maiden, 
 So bonny and bright, 
 Are your fairy feet hasting 
 At dawn's early light ? " 
 
 " To gather May-flowers, 
 For this is the day 
 The virgin Spring ushers in 
 Beautiful May." 
 
 ** Then gather sweet violets, 
 Meek-eyed and blue. 
 They'll catch from your bright orbs 
 A loveHer hue ! " 
 
 " Ah ! flatterer, flatterer, 
 Violets and eyes 
 Both catch their deep hue 
 From the bright Spring 
 skies. 
 
 " Weave a buttercup garland. 
 And Nature outvie, 
 As they on your golden locks 
 Lovingly lie.'' 
 
 " Ah ! flatterer, look ! 
 
 There is Nature's pure gold 
 In the rift of yon rosy cloud's 
 Soft fleecy fold." 
 
 " Then gather anemones, 
 Waxen and pure ; 
 Your brow is their rival. 
 Of that I am sure." 
 
 " Ah ! flatterer, flatterer ! 
 Under the snow, 
 That rivals all whiteness, 
 Pale anemones grow." 
 
 " Then come through the orchard. 
 With peach-blossoms laden ; 
 Let the bloom catch the tint 
 From thy cheek, pretty maiden." 
 " Ah ! flatterer, cease ; 
 
 I have tarried too long ; 
 The woodland is teeming 
 
 With perfume and song ; 
 And the birds will not flatter, 
 
 Their warbling is true ; 
 So a happy May morning, 
 And good-bye to you ! " 
 
 EIGHTEEN. 
 
 A SOFT gray mist lies low in the valley, 
 And trails its folds o'er the green- 
 robed hills — 
 It falls like a shadow across the river, 
 And mutely kisses the fern-edged 
 rills. 
 Sweet in the woods I hear the sing- 
 ing— 
 The tuneful murmur of drowsy birds ; 
 And my heart goes out in a glad 
 thanksgiving — 
 A half-breathed prayer that is deeper 
 than words. 
 
 "Father in heaven, who lifted the 
 
 shadov/ 
 Off my heart where it lay like a river, 
 Lowly I thank Thee for op'ning the 
 
 gateway — 
 For taking Thy child and her sorrow 
 
 right in." 
 This is my prayer in the morn's gray 
 
 dawning 
 Of this tender June-day a-break in 
 
 the skies ; 
 
74 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 
 Dark was the cloud that hung o'er 
 life's morning, 
 Now the sun shines like an angel's 
 eyes. 
 
 Eighteen to-day ! this world lies be- 
 fore me — 
 A long wide path for my willing feet. 
 Down, dark Past ! with your tears 
 and mourning; 
 The Future is waiting glad and 
 sweet. 
 Out of the dust I rise triumphant. 
 Hopeful and strong for the coming 
 years ; 
 Eighteen to-day ; good-bye, lost child- 
 hood ! 
 Good-bye, my weakness and useless 
 tears ! 
 
 Over the river the mist is rising, 
 
 The sun is kissing the verdant hills — 
 And it floods the meadow with tender 
 beauty ; 
 The song of the birds my being 
 thrills. 
 The shadow is passing ; the light is 
 dawning. 
 Guide my footsteps, O Friend above ! 
 Keep me safe till the night has fallen — 
 Safe in the shelter of Thy love. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 
 Go forth in the Battle of Life, my boy, 
 
 Go while it is called to-day ; 
 For the years go out, and the years 
 
 come in. 
 Regardless of those who may lose or 
 win — 
 Of those who may work or play. 
 
 And the troops march steadily on, my 
 boy, 
 To the army gone before ; 
 You may hear the sound of their fall- 
 ing feet. 
 Going down to the river where the 
 two worlds meet ; 
 They go to return no more. 
 
 I There is room for you in the ranks 
 my boy. 
 And duty, too, assigned ; 
 Step into the front with cheerful 
 
 grace — 
 Be quick, or another may take your 
 place. 
 And you may be left behind. 
 
 There is work to be done by the way, 
 my boy, 
 That, you never can tread again ; 
 Work for the loftiest, lowliest men — 
 Work for the plow, adze, spindle, and 
 pen ; 
 Work for the hands and the brain. 
 
 The Serpent will follow your steps, 
 my boy, 
 To lay for your feet a snare ; 
 And pleasure sits in her fairy bovvers, 
 With garlands of poppies and lotus 
 flowers 
 Enwreathing her golden hair. 
 
 Temptations will wait by the way, my 
 boy. 
 
 Temptations without and within ; 
 And spirits of evil, in robes as fair 
 As the holiest angels in Heaven wear. 
 
 Will lure you to deadly sin. 
 
 Then put on the armor of God, my 
 boy. 
 In the beautiful days of youth ; 
 Put on the helmet, breast-plate, and 
 
 shield. 
 And the sword that the feeblest arm 
 may wield 
 In the cause of Right and Truth. 
 
 And go to the Battle of Life, my boy 
 
 With the peace of the Gospel shod, 
 
 And before High Heaven, do the best 
 
 you can 
 For the great reward, for the good of 
 man, 
 For the Kingdom and crown of God. 
 
VACATION DAYS.— GRADUATED. 
 
 75 
 
 VACATION DAYS. 
 
 Each year, early in the summer, 
 
 While yet 'tis blue, blue June, 
 Suddenly the wild birds waken. 
 
 And with a longing tune 
 Go song-singing of the children 
 
 That are shut from the sun ; 
 " They are coming," the singers carol, 
 
 " For the school-days are done ! " 
 
 And they sing the song of cherries 
 
 Along the garden wall ; 
 And they sing the song of berries 
 
 That grow in thickets tall ; 
 And they sing the song of rambles. 
 
 Long rambles in the sun : 
 " They are coming," the singers carol, 
 
 " For the school-days are done ! " 
 
 And they sing the song of hammocks 
 
 Hung in the deep pine trees, 
 Where the children brown and brighten 
 
 With swaying in the breeze — 
 Happy, happy little children. 
 
 Just let out in the sun ! 
 "They are coming," the singers carol, 
 
 " For the school-days are done ! " 
 
 Give the world up to the children, 
 
 Yes, near and far and wide ! 
 Let the willing welcomes waken 
 
 Up all the country side 
 Meet them, bird and bee and blossom, 
 
 And meet them, breeze and sun, 
 Carol ! carol ! Oh, carol ! carol ! 
 
 That the school-days are done ! 
 
 GRADUATED. 
 
 A THOUSAND eyes behold the class- 
 mates range 
 Their semicircles round the rector's 
 chair. 
 While he, with stately-sounding old- 
 world words, 
 Gives parchment honors there. 
 
 A thousand shining eyes ! but none 
 descry 
 The shape that's clearest to my 
 dimming sight, 
 A shadow form that in yon goodly 
 throng 
 Moveth as with a right. 
 
 A form as fair as any of the rest. 
 Pressing, like them, with eager tread 
 of youth — 
 A face that not the brightest may out- 
 shine 
 For lovingness or truth ! 
 
 See how 'tis moved with feelings of the 
 hour! 
 With boyish pleasure, yet with manly 
 pain ; 
 Pleased with the prize, yet ready to 
 prefer 
 The long, sweet strife again. 
 
 Ah, tear-dimmed eyes ! it is in vain 
 you try, 
 With the self-cheating spirit to re- 
 store 
 That shape unto the place that knew it 
 once. 
 But knows it now no more. 
 
 He is not here, the earnest lad who 
 threw 
 
 Himself so lovingly into the round 
 Of college life, the fullest that as yet 
 
 His brief young days had found. 
 
 He is not here. Far other prizes now 
 May beckon him. Oh, dear one, long 
 away. 
 What high companionships content 
 thee for 
 Thine absence here to-day } 
 
 What happy schools, far off, of love and 
 
 joy 
 
 Have with their charms the gentle 
 grief consoled 
 With which thy faithful spirit laid aside 
 The life it loved of old ? 
 
76 
 
 KATIE'S TREASURES. 
 
 Not all the learning of the wise of earth 
 Could find an answer. Wearily, 
 mine eye 
 Turns from the smiling company to 
 seek 
 Outside the blue June sky. 
 
 Through open windows of the crowded 
 church, 
 In still significance, it looketh down. 
 And tossing elm-boughs hush them- 
 selves to catch 
 The word it might make known. 
 
 The buzz within, the rector's stately 
 speech. 
 Grow far-off to mine ear, and die 
 away. 
 I find again the silence of thy strange, 
 Sad graduation day ; 
 
 I hear again thy Master's simple words, 
 So low, so sweet, conferring thy de- 
 gree : 
 • Of such my kingdom is ; let none for- 
 bid 
 His coming unto me." 
 
 KATIE'S TREASURES. 
 
 In the soft October sunshine, 
 
 'Neath the forest's golden eaves, 
 Roamed a merry band of maidens, 
 
 In a crimson rain of leaves. 
 And 'mid ringing bursts of laughter, 
 
 Fluttering through the misty air. 
 All their young hearts' cherished treas- 
 ures 
 
 Each with other did compare. 
 
 *' I dwell in a lordly mansion," 
 
 Cried a pair of scarlet lips, 
 " In the carpets' tufted roses, 
 
 Deep my lightest footfall dips. 
 Oh ! the curtains and the pictures 1 
 
 But, more beautiful than all, 
 You should see the western sunlight 
 
 Creep along the painted wall." 
 
 " Listen," quickly cried another, 
 
 " Listen, now, I pray, to me : 
 Years ago there was a necklace 
 
 Borne across the deep blue sea ; 
 In its velvet-cushioned casket, 
 
 Stars could not so brightly shine. 
 But this chain of prisoned rainbows 
 
 By and by will all be mine." 
 
 "I have not such wondrous jewels," 
 
 Proudly spoke another voice, 
 "But I'd rather have v^^ father. 
 
 If I had to take my choice. 
 He has grown so very famous — 
 
 People almost kiss his hand, 
 And in time, I'm very certain. 
 
 He'll be ruler of the land." 
 
 Thus ran on the eager voices. 
 
 As they gayly had begun. 
 Till some tale of wondrous treasure, 
 
 Every child had told, save one. 
 " She will not have much to tell us," 
 
 Whispered they, "poor little thing ! ' 
 But with smiles, said blue-eyed Katie, 
 
 " I'm the daughter of a king ! " 
 
 Then they laughed: "Oh, princess, 
 tell us. 
 
 Where the king, your father, dwells ; 
 Do your mighty palace portals 
 
 Swing at touch of golden bells ? " . 
 Meekly answered gentle Katie, 
 
 Pushing back a floating curl, 
 " All the shining wall is golden. 
 
 Every gate a single pearl. 
 
 " And more glorious than the sunrise 
 
 Through the purple morning mist, 
 Brightly glow the brave foundations, 
 
 Jasper, sapphire, amethyst. 
 And within — such wondrous treasures, 
 
 Oh ! what happiness to see ! 
 But, when home my father calls me, 
 
 He v/ill give them all to me." 
 
 Then the little maids grew thoughtful, 
 And they looked with tender eyes 
 
 On the sweet-faced little Katie, 
 Gazing upward to the skies. 
 
LITTLE CHILDREN."— THE BOYS AND GIRLS. 
 
 71 
 
 And they said, " Oh, happy princess ! 
 
 List'ning for the great King's call, 
 You have found the greatest treasure. 
 
 You are richest of us all." 
 
 ''LITTLE children:' 
 
 Keep a guard on your words, my dar- 
 lings, 
 For words are wonderful things ; 
 They are sweet, like the bees' fresh 
 honey. 
 Like the bees, they have terrible 
 stings. 
 They can bless, like the warm, glad 
 sunshine, 
 And brighten a lonely life, 
 They can cut, in the strife of anger. 
 Like an open, two-edged knife. 
 
 Let them pass through your lips un- 
 challenged. 
 If their errand is true and kind ; 
 If they come to support the weary. 
 
 To comfort and help the blind. 
 If a bitter, revengeful spirit 
 
 Prompts the words, let them be un- 
 said ; 
 They may flash through a brain like 
 lightning. 
 Or fall on a heart hke lead. 
 
 Keep them back if they're cold and 
 cruel, 
 
 Under bar, and lock, and seal ; 
 The wounds they make, my darhngs, 
 
 Are always slow to heal. 
 May peace guard your lives, and ever, 
 
 Fro.m this time of your early youth, 
 May the words that you daily utter 
 
 Be the beautiful words of truth. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 "There is a good tin:ie coming, 
 boys "; 
 
 So runs the hopeful son'^- ; 
 Such is the poetry of youth : 
 
 When life and hope are strong. 
 
 But when these buoyant days are 
 passed. 
 
 Age cries : " How changed are men ! 
 Things were not so when 1 was young ; 
 
 The best of times was then." 
 
 " There is a good time coming, boys "; 
 
 The truth we will allow ; 
 But, waiting not for brighter days. 
 
 There is a good time now. 
 Why not improve the present, then. 
 
 Where'er the future lead ; 
 And let each passing moment's page 
 
 Bear proof of thought and deed ? 
 
 " There is a good time coming, boys "; 
 
 And many a one has passed ; 
 For each has had his own good time, 
 
 And will have to the last. 
 Then do thy work, while lingers youth 
 
 With freshness on its brov^'. 
 Still mindful of life's greatest truth. 
 
 The best of times is now. 
 
 THE BOYS AND GIRLS. 
 
 God wants the boys, the merry, merry 
 
 boys, 
 The noisy boys, the funny boys. 
 
 The thoughtless boys — 
 God wants the boys, with all their 
 joys. 
 That He as gold may make them 
 
 pure. 
 And teach them trials to endure ; 
 His heroes brave 
 
 He'll have them be, 
 Fighting for truth 
 And purity. 
 
 God wants the boys. 
 
 God wants the happy-hearted girls. 
 The loving girls, the best of girls. 
 
 The worst of girls — 
 God wants to make the girls His pearls, 
 And so reflect His holy face, 
 And bring to mind His wondrous 
 grace, 
 
78 
 
 THE BOYS.— THE TROUBLE OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 That beautiful 
 
 The world may be, 
 And filled with love 
 
 And purity- 
 God wants the girls. 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 
 There come the boys ! Oh, dear, 
 the noise ! 
 
 The whole house feels the racket ; 
 Behold the knee of Christie's pants, 
 
 And weep o'er Bertie's jacket ! 
 
 But never mind ; if eyes keep bright, 
 And limbs grow straight and limber ; 
 
 We'd rather lose the tree's whole bark 
 Than find unsound the timber. 
 
 Now hear the tops and marbles roll ! 
 
 The floors — oh, woe betide them ! 
 And I must watch the banisters, 
 
 For I know the boys who lide them ! 
 
 Look well as you descend the stairs, 
 
 I often find them haunted 
 By ghostly boys that make no noise 
 
 Just when their noise is wanted. 
 
 The very chairs are tied in pairs. 
 And made to prance and caper ; 
 
 What swords are whittled out of sticks ; 
 What brave hats made of paper. 
 
 The dinner-bell peals loud and well, 
 To tell the milkman's coming ; 
 
 And then the rush of " steam-car 
 trains " 
 Sets all our ears a-humming. 
 
 How oft I say, " What shall I do 
 To keep these children quiet } " 
 
 If I could find a good receipt 
 I certainly should try it. 
 
 But what to do with these wild boys 
 And all their din and clatter. 
 
 Is really quite a grave affair — 
 No laughing, trifling matter. 
 
 " Boys w^ill be boys " — but not for 
 long ; 
 Ah, could we bear about us 
 This thought: — "How very soon our 
 boys 
 Will learn to do without us ; 
 
 " How soon, and tall, deep-voiced men 
 Will gravely call us ' Mother,' 
 
 Or we be stretching empty hands 
 From this world to the other." 
 
 More gently should we chide the noise, 
 And when night quells the racket, 
 
 Stitch in but loving thoughts and 
 prayers 
 While mending pants and jacket. 
 
 THE TROUBLE OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 They name her "Trouble of the 
 House," 
 
 My merry little one. 
 And tell large stories of the deeds 
 
 Her busy hands have done ; 
 
 That every room has its own tale 
 
 Of mischief to declare. 
 Of eyes which peer exceeding bright 
 
 Through locks of golden hair. 
 
 I don't believe one-half they say, 
 
 And if I did, what then } 
 Why, simply that her little life 
 
 Was bubbling up again ; 
 
 That one more ray of sunlight streamed 
 Through this fair world of ours ; 
 
 That one more bud was blossoming 
 Within our garden bowers. 
 
 True, wrecks of many a toy and gem 
 
 Lie scattered on the floor; 
 And little feet come pattering 
 
 Through every open door ; 
 
 And, tireless as the bee which culls 
 Its honey from the flower, 
 
SENDING A VALENTINE.— DAMARIS BROWN. 
 
 79 
 
 Her mind, with curious wonderings 
 filled, 
 Is busy every hour. 
 
 But we as soon the streams may turn 
 
 Which to the ocean roll. 
 As quench this spark that glows and 
 burns 
 
 In an immortal soul. 
 
 The wish to know the why and when, 
 
 The mystery to explore. 
 The will to dare the path to tread 
 
 We have not trod before, 
 
 Rules both alike the man and child, 
 
 The simple and the wise ; 
 Both chase the bubble as it flits 
 
 Before their eager eyes. 
 
 Both sport with trifles — bat and ball 
 
 Are in our hands alway ; 
 And longings, never satisfied, 
 
 Attend us day by day. 
 
 Then chide her not, but rather bid 
 Her glad heart soar and sing; 
 
 The dew is fresh upon her brow, 
 Be freedom on her wing. 
 
 We hail the promise of to-day, 
 
 For, if the ruddy glow 
 Of morning breaks upon us such, 
 
 What may the evening show ! 
 
 SENDING A VALENTINE. 
 
 I MIGHT begin, " the rose is red " 
 (Though that is not so very new). 
 
 Or this the boys all think is good : 
 " If you love me as I love you." 
 
 But, seems to me, a valentine 
 Is nicer when you do not say 
 
 The same old things that every one 
 Keeps saying, in the same old way. 
 
 And I asked Jane, the other night, 
 
 What grown-up people write about; 
 She would not answer me at first, 
 
 But laughed till I began to pout. 
 That stopped her, for she saw I meant 
 
 The question (and she will not tease). 
 " Why — love," she said, " and shining 
 eyes, 
 
 A kiss, soft hair — just what they 
 please." 
 It can't be hard, if that is all, 
 
 So I'll begin by saying this : 
 
 " To my dear lady beautiful 
 
 I send a valentine and kiss ; 
 The valentine because she has 
 
 The loveliest hair and gentlest eyes ; 
 The kiss, because I love her more 
 
 Than any one beneath the skies ; 
 Because she is the kindest, best, 
 
 The sweetest lady ever known ; 
 And every year I'll say the same, 
 
 The very same, to her alone ! " 
 
 There ! Now it's finished. Who will 
 do? 
 
 I've thought of one and then another. 
 Who is there like it } Why, of course, 
 
 I'll send it right away to Mother ! 
 
 DAMARIS BROWN. 
 
 Damaris Brown is a wooden doll. 
 Three inches round, and ten inches tall ; 
 Her cheeks are chubby, her nose is flat, 
 And very old-fashioned her Leghorn 
 
 hat; 
 Her gown is of calico, apple green. 
 Her slippers the queerest ever was 
 
 seen; 
 She wears an apron that once was 
 
 white, 
 And the children call her a perfect 
 
 fright. 
 
 Damaris Brown was my Grandma's 
 
 doll- 
 Three inches round, and ten inches tall. 
 
8o THE LITTLE BEGGAR'S BUTTON-HOLE BOUQUET. 
 
 A perfect beauty, my Grandma thought, 
 When with her savings the doll she 
 
 bought, 
 At number twenty Commercial Row, 
 On Grandma's birthday so long ago ; 
 " Too pretty to play with," said Grand- 
 ma dear, 
 So she laid her away with loving care. 
 
 Grandma remembers the story well : 
 Often and often I've heard her tell 
 How she kissed her and how she 
 
 sighed, — 
 Alas ! she sacrificed love to pride ; 
 Wrapped her in tissue-paper soft, 
 Turning and peeping, oft and oft ; 
 That v/as how she was handed down 
 From Grandma to me — Damaris 
 
 Brown. 
 
 THE LITTLE BEGGAR'S BUT- 
 TON-HOLE BOUQUET, 
 
 'TWAS on a bitter winter's day ; 
 
 I saw a strange, pathetic sight : 
 The streets were gloomy, cold and 
 gray. 
 
 The air with falling snow was white. 
 
 A little ragged beggar child 
 
 Went running through the cold and 
 storm ; 
 He looked as if he never smiled. 
 
 As if he never had been warm. 
 
 Sudden, he spied beneath his feet 
 A faded button-hole bouquet ; 
 
 Trampled and wet with rain and sleet, 
 Withered and worthless, there it lay. 
 
 He bounded, seized it with delight. 
 Stood still and shook it free from 
 snow ; 
 
 Into his coat he pinned it tight, — 
 His eyes lit up with sudden glow. 
 
 He sauntered on, all pleased and proud, 
 His face transformed in every line ; 
 
 And lingered that the hunying crowd 
 Might chance to see that he was fine. 
 
 The man who threw the flowers away 
 Never one-half such pleasure had ; 
 
 The flowers' best work was done that 
 day 
 In cheering up that beggar lad. 
 
 Ah me, too often we forget, 
 
 Happy in these good homes of ours, 
 How many in this world are yet 
 
 Glad even of the withered flowers 1 
 
 CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 
 
 The church-bells for service are ring- 
 ing. 
 
 The parents gone forth on their way 
 And here on the door-step are sitting 
 
 Three golden-haired children at play. 
 
 The darlings, untiring and restless, 
 Are still for the service too small ; 
 
 But yet they would fain be as pious 
 As parents and uncles and all. 
 
 So each from a hymn-book is singing — 
 'Tis held upside down, it is true ; 
 
 Their sweet roguish voices are ringing 
 As if every number they knew. 
 
 But what they are singing they know 
 not; 
 
 Each sings in a different tone. 
 Sing on, little children : your voices 
 
 Will reach to the Heavenly Throne ; 
 
 For yonder your angels are standing, 
 Who sing to the Father of all : 
 
 He loves best the sound of His praises 
 From children, though ever so small. 
 
 Sing on ! How the birds in the garden 
 Are vying with you in your song, 
 
 As, hopping among the young 
 branches. 
 They twitter on all the day long ! 
 
 Sing on ! For in faith ye are singing. 
 And that is enough in God's sight : 
 
MASTER THEODORE.— MAY'S GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 8l 
 
 A heart like the dove's, pure and guile- 
 less, 
 Wings early to heaven its flight. 
 
 Sing ever ! We elders sing also ; 
 
 We read, and the words understand ; 
 Yet oft, too, alas ! we are holding 
 
 Our books upside down in the hand. 
 
 Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting, 
 From notes written carefully down ; 
 
 But ah ! from the strife of the brethren 
 How often has harmony flown ! 
 
 Sing on ! From our lofty cathedrals 
 What melodies glorious we hear ! 
 
 What are they ? — a sweet childish lisp- 
 ing. 
 A breath in the Mighty One's ear. 
 
 MASTER THEODORE. 
 
 Tittlebat Titmouse Theodore Van Horn 
 Was the prettiest baby that ever was 
 
 born, 
 I bathed him and fed him and taught 
 
 him " Bo-Peep," 
 Rocked him and trotted him, and sang 
 
 him to sleep. 
 Then I bade him good-bye, and crossed 
 
 the wide sea, 
 And it rolled twenty years 'twixt that 
 
 baby and me ; 
 Till at last I resolved I would cross the 
 
 blue main 
 And hug my own precious wee baby 
 
 again. 
 
 Well, that old ship creaked, and that 
 
 old ship tossed — 
 I was sure as I hved that we all should 
 
 be lost — 
 But at last we saw sea-gulls, and soon 
 
 we saw land ; 
 And then we were in ; and — if there 
 
 didn't stand 
 My own blessed baby ! He came there 
 
 to meet me ! 
 
 Yes, when we all landed, he hastened 
 
 to greet me ! 
 And wonder of wonders ! that baby 
 
 had grown 
 To be bigger than me, and he stood all 
 
 alone ! 
 " Why. Nursey ! " he said (he could 
 
 talk, think of that!) 
 As he bowed like a marquis and lifted 
 
 his hat. 
 " Ah, how did you know your old 
 
 Nursey ? Oh, my ! 
 You've changed very much, and no 
 
 wonder," says I ; 
 When I spied of a sudden his mother, 
 
 behind — 
 Sweet Lady ! She'd helped him Old 
 
 Nursey to find. 
 And he told me, right there, he'd a 
 
 sweet little wife, 
 And that I should live with them the 
 
 rest of my life. 
 
 So I'm here, and right happy. You 
 
 just ought to see 
 The dear little fellow that sits on my 
 
 knee. 
 He has beautiful dimples and eyes like 
 
 his Ma, 
 And a nose and a chin, just the same 
 
 as his Pa. 
 Ah, me ! He's a beauty ! There never 
 
 was born 
 A prettier babe that this latest Van 
 
 Horn. 
 
 MA Y'S GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 As the sun w^ent down in purple and 
 
 red, 
 A sweet little maiden pleasantly said : 
 " Now, good-night, sun. 
 For your work is done, 
 You have shone so bright through the 
 
 Summer day, 
 I am sorry to see you go away. 
 
 " And good-night, work : with the dark 
 we cease," 
 
82 
 
 THE FAIRY'S GIFT. 
 
 Then she folded it neatly, without a 
 crease. 
 
 " Good needle and thread, 
 
 You must go to bed : 
 
 All day, you know, it was in, it was out, 
 
 Though we knew quite well what we 
 
 were about. 
 
 " And little brown bird in the sycamore 
 tree, 
 
 You have sung pretty songs all day to 
 me. 
 
 Now go to your rest, 
 In your nice, soft nest : 
 
 I shall see you again in the morning- 
 light." 
 
 And the bird twittered back, •' Good- 
 night, good-night." 
 
 '*And, roses and lilies, the daylight 
 
 flies ; 
 You must go to sleep." Then they 
 shut their eyes. 
 
 " Dear daisies white, 
 It is nearly night." 
 So each little daisy nodded its head 
 And the violets courtesied and went to 
 bed. 
 
 Then, fair little May, in the evening 
 
 gloom, 
 Went softly away to her own sweet 
 
 room ; 
 Laid her new doll, Grace, 
 In its proper place ; 
 Put her books and her clothes away 
 
 with care. 
 And carefully brushed her long, brown 
 
 hair ; 
 
 With her little bare feet, in her night- 
 gown white. 
 
 Took a farewell peep of the lovely 
 night ; 
 
 Said her evening prayer, 
 With a loving care ; 
 
 Lay down on her pillow and slept all 
 nigijt. 
 
 And knew nothing more till the morn- 
 ing light. 
 
 THE FAIRY'S GIFT. 
 
 What shall it be, my little maid ? 
 
 A fairy tale ? Then listen 
 While in and out, with busy click, 
 
 Your shining needles glisten. 
 
 One summer day long years ago 
 
 A pretty maid was sitting 
 Upon the door-step in the sun. 
 
 While idle lay her knitting. 
 
 A frown was on her forehead fair, 
 Her eyes with tears were shining. 
 
 And all her young and girlish heart 
 Was heavy with repining. 
 
 A sudden footstep sounded near, 
 And through her tears up-glancing 
 
 She saw across the sunny field 
 A quaint old dame advancing. 
 
 " Good Fairy Bountiful," she cried, 
 
 "Ah me, but I am weary ; 
 From morn till night my toil is hard, 
 
 The days are long and dreary. 
 
 " Lend me, I pray, thy magic wand, 
 That shall my labor lighten." 
 
 " Nay," said the dame, " a better gift 
 I bring, thy life to brighten, 
 
 " Ten little workmen, brave and swift, 
 
 Who ever shall obey thee. 
 Lay on them what command thou wilt. 
 
 And prove their skill, I pray thee." 
 
 The fairy opened wide her cloak, 
 Ten dwarfs flew out from under. 
 
 The maiden watched them do her work. 
 Her blue eyes big with wonder. 
 
 Now here, now there, with nimble feet 
 They ran to do her pleasure. 
 
 " Kind Fairy Bountiful," she cried, 
 " Give me this wondrous treasure ! " 
 
 The fairy smiled. " Keep for thine own 
 These servants good and clever ; 
 
 But, little one, remember this, 
 Let them be idle never." 
 
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.— MISTRESS MARY. 
 
 83 
 
 She vanished. Had the maiden dream- 
 ed ? 
 
 Maybe. But ever after 
 Her work was as by magic done, 
 
 Her days were filled with laughter. 
 
 O thoughtful little maiden mine, 
 
 Low on your clasped hands leaning. 
 
 Now you have heard my fairy tale, 
 Can you not guess its meaning ? 
 
 Take up your idle work again, 
 Nor let the slow task hnger. 
 
 One of those fairy workmen hides 
 In every dimpled finger. 
 
 A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER. 
 The days are short, and the nights are 
 long. 
 And the wind is nipping cold ; 
 The tasks are hard and the sums are 
 wrong, 
 And the teachers often scold. 
 But Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he 
 As he whistles along the way ? 
 " It will all come right 
 By to-morrow night," 
 Says Johnny McCree to- day. 
 
 The plums are few, and the cake is 
 plain, 
 The shoes are out at the toe ; 
 For money, you look in the purse in 
 vain — 
 It was all spent long ago. 
 But Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he 
 As he whistles along the street ? 
 Would you have the blues 
 For a pair of shoes 
 While you have a pair of feet ? 
 
 The snow is deep, there are paths to 
 break, 
 
 But the little arm is strong. 
 And work is play, if you'll only take 
 
 Your work with a bit of song. 
 
 And Johnny McCree, 
 
 Oh, what cares he 
 As he whistles along the road ? 
 
 He will do his best. 
 
 And will leave the rest 
 To the care of his Father, God. 
 
 The mother's face, it is often sad — 
 
 She scarce knows what to do ; 
 But at Johnny's kiss she is bright and 
 glad- 
 She loves him, and wouldn't you ? 
 For Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he 
 As he whistles along the way ? 
 The trouble will go. 
 And " I told you so," 
 Our brave litttle John will say. 
 
 MISTRESS MARY. 
 
 Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 
 How does your garden grow? 
 
 With silver bells, and cockle-shells, 
 And tulips, all a row. 
 
 Prithee, tell me, mistress Mary, 
 Why this rhyme of " quite contrary " 
 Why should Mother Goose, beholding 
 All these pleasant blooms unfolding — 
 Ever>' prim and pretty border 
 Standing in such shining order — 
 Looking o'er the lovely rows, 
 Ask you " how your garden grows " ? 
 
 Mary, so precise and chary. 
 Are you, anyhow, contrary } 
 While these sweetly perfect lines 
 Nod their gentle countersigns, 
 Spending all your strength on this, 
 Lest the least thing grow amiss, 
 Weareth some unseen parterre 
 Quite a different kind of air ? 
 
 Through your hating of a weed 
 Runs there anythmg to seed — 
 Thistle-blow of petulance, 
 Bitter blade of blame, perchance. 
 Or a flaunting stem of pride. 
 In that other garden- side } 
 
84 
 
 AN OLD SAW.— ENTERING IN. 
 
 Mary, in our women-hearts 
 Spring such curious counterparts ! 
 
 In our home-plots watching wary 
 Lest the faultless order vary 
 By the dropping of a leaf, 
 Or a blossom come to grief 
 From the blasting of a storm, 
 Or the eating of a worm — * 
 Let us both be certain, Mary, 
 Nothing dearer goes contrary ! 
 
 AN OLD SAW. 
 
 A DEAR little maid came skipping out 
 In the glad new day with a merry 
 
 shout ; 
 With dancing feet and with flying hair 
 She sang with joy in the morning air. 
 
 " Don't sing before breakfast, you'll 
 
 cry before night I " 
 What a croak, to darken the child's 
 
 delight ! 
 And the stupid old nurse, again and 
 
 again, 
 Repeated the ancient, dull refrain. 
 
 The child paused, trying to under- 
 stand ; 
 
 But her eyes saw the great world rain- 
 bow-spanned ; 
 
 Her light little feet hardly touched the 
 earth, 
 
 And her soul brimmed over with inno- 
 cent mirth. 
 
 "Never mind — don't listen — O sweet 
 little maid ! 
 
 Make sure of your morning song," I 
 said : 
 
 " And if pain must meet you, why, all 
 the more 
 
 Be glad of the rapture that came be- 
 fore. 
 
 " O, tears and sorrow are plenty enough. 
 Storms may be bitter and paths be 
 rough. 
 
 But our tears should fall like the dear 
 
 Earth's showers 
 That help to ripen the fruits and flow- 
 
 " So gladden the day with your blissful 
 song. 
 
 Sing on while you may, my dear, sweet 
 and strong ! 
 
 Make sure of your moment of pure de- 
 light. 
 
 No matter what trials may come before 
 ni^ht." 
 
 ENTERING IN. 
 
 The church was dim and silent 
 
 With the hush before the prayer. 
 Only the solemn trembling 
 
 Of the organ stirred the air ; 
 Without, the sweet, still sunshine ; 
 
 Within, the holy calm 
 Where priest and people waited 
 
 For the swelling of the psalm. 
 
 Slowly the door swung open, 
 
 And a little baby girl. 
 Brown-eyed with brown hair falling 
 
 In many a wavy curl, 
 With soft cheeks flushing hotly, 
 
 Shy glances downward thrown. 
 And small hands clasped before her, 
 
 Stood in the aisle alone. 
 
 Stood half abashed, half frightened, 
 
 Unknowing where to go, 
 While, like a wind-rocked flower. 
 
 Her form swayed to and fro. 
 And the changing color fluttered 
 
 In the little, troubled face. 
 As from side to side she wavered 
 
 With a mute, imploring grace. 
 
 It was but for a moment ; 
 
 What wonder that we smiled, 
 By such a strange, sweet picture 
 
 From holy thoughts beguiled } 
 
THE CHILDREN'S COUNTRY.-CHILDREN'S JOYS. 85 
 
 Then up rose some one softly ; 
 
 And many an eye grew dim, 
 As through the tender silence 
 
 He bore the child with him. 
 
 And I — I wondered (losing 
 
 The sermon and the prayer) 
 If when, sometime, I enter 
 
 The " many mansions " fair, 
 And stand, abashed and drooping, 
 
 In the portal's golden glow, 
 Our God will send an angel 
 
 To show me where to go ! 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S COUNTRY, 
 
 She is sitting very silent in her little 
 
 crimson chair, 
 With the flicker of the firelight on her 
 
 pretty golden hair ; 
 And all pleasant things surround her, 
 
 but her thoughts are otherwhere. 
 
 For these little lads and lasses have a 
 
 country of their own, 
 Where, without the older people, they 
 
 can wander off alone. 
 Into dim and distant regions, that were 
 
 never named or known. 
 
 They are wearied with the questions, 
 and the running to and fro, 
 
 For some one is always saying, " You 
 must come," or " You must go "; 
 
 " You must speak and write correctly 
 sitting, standing, thus and so." 
 
 So they turn at any moment from the 
 
 figures on their slates, 
 And the names of all the islands, and 
 
 the oceans, and the States 
 Are forgotten in a moment when they 
 
 see the shining gates 
 
 Of their own delightful country, where 
 they wander as they please. 
 
 On the great enchanted mountains, or 
 beneath the forest trees. 
 
 With a thousand other children, all 
 entirely at their ease. 
 
 Oh, the happy, happy children ! do 
 
 they wish for anything, 
 Book or bird, or boat or picture, silken 
 
 dress or golden ring ? 
 Lo ! a little page will hasten, and the 
 
 treasure straight will bring. 
 
 It is strange the older people cannot 
 
 find this land at all : 
 If they ever knew its language, it is 
 
 lost beyond recall, 
 And they only, in their dreamings, 
 
 hear its music rise and fall. 
 
 Oh, the riches of the children with this 
 
 country for their own ! 
 All the splendor of its castles, every 
 
 flower and precious stone, 
 Until time itself is ended, and the 
 
 worlds are overthrown. 
 
 CHILDREN S JOYS. 
 
 The children's world is full of sweet 
 surprises ; 
 Our common things are precious in 
 their sight ; 
 For them, the stars shine and the 
 morning rises. 
 To show new treasures of untold 
 delight ! 
 
 A dance of bluebells in the shady 
 places ; 
 A crimson flush of sunset in the 
 west ; 
 The cobwebs, delicate as fairy laces ; 
 The sudden finding of a wood-bird's 
 nest. 
 
 Their hearts and lips are full of sim- 
 ple praises 
 To Him who made the earth di- 
 vinely sweet ; 
 They dwell among the buttercups and 
 daisies. 
 And find His blessings strewn about 
 their feet. 
 
86 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 But we, worn out by days of toil and 
 sorrow, 
 And sick of pleasures that are false 
 and vain, 
 Would freely give our golden hoards 
 to borrow 
 One little hour of childhood's bliss 
 again. 
 
 Yet He who sees their joy beholds our 
 sadness ; 
 And in the wisdom of a Father's 
 love 
 He keeps the secret of the heavenly 
 gladness — 
 Our sweet surprises wait for us 
 above. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to 
 give you ; 
 No lark could pipe to skies so cold 
 and grey : 
 Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave 
 you 
 
 For every day. 
 
 Be good, sweet, sweet maid, and let 
 who will be clever ; 
 Do noble things, nor dream them 
 all day long : 
 And so make life, death, and that vast 
 forever 
 
 One grand, sweet song. 
 
HOME LIFE AND HOME SCENES 
 
 [N THE 
 
 COUNTRY 
 
A HARVEST DAY. 
 
HOME LIFE AND HOME SCENES IN THE 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 A FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER. 
 
 A FOUR-LEAFED clover ! In my cham- 
 ber-drawer, 
 
 Turnin,i^ my treasures over, where 
 they lay, 
 I came across this leaf, grown dry and 
 sere, 
 
 Yet holdmg still the faint perfume 
 of May 
 
 That filled it when I plucked it from 
 the hay. 
 
 'Twas years ago I found it. Happy 
 chance 
 I thought it then, that laid it at my 
 feet; 
 I put it softly, shyly, in my shoe. 
 And walked unheeding over blossoms 
 
 sweet, 
 Wondering what fate my maiden 
 steps would meet. 
 
 So, sauntering slowly where forget-me- 
 nots 
 Swung in the breeze their tiny bells 
 of blue. 
 And where wild grape-vines flung their 
 tendrils wide, 
 I heard a step, swift, eager — one I 
 
 knew. 
 And turning, in vexation, saw 'twas 
 you. 
 
 " Why did you spoil my charm ? " I 
 cried in haste, 
 
 And when you asked what evil you 
 had brought, 
 I said, with reddening cheeks and tear- 
 wet eyes, 
 
 I never would reveal the harm you 
 wrought 
 
 By coming to me when I wished you 
 not. 
 
 You turned away in wonder at my 
 
 mood. 
 And I stood still, half vexed and half 
 
 ashamed ; 
 Was this the girlhood's knight I hoped 
 
 to meet ? 
 This man with sinewy arm for labor 
 
 framed ? — 
 " A son of toil," I sneered, " most 
 
 aptly named." 
 
 Ah, well ! the years bring wisdom ir 
 
 their train ; 
 
 And as I look into your face to- day. 
 
 Its clear, gray eyes down-shining into 
 
 mine, 
 
 I thank my fate for that auspicious 
 
 day 
 When clover-leaf and you came in 
 my Vv^ay. 
 
 AGAIN! 
 
 Oh, sweet and fair ! Oh, rich and rare 
 
 That day so long ago. 
 And autumn sunshine everywhere. 
 
 The heather all aglow. 
 The ferns were clad in cloth of gold, 
 
 The waves sang on the shore ; 
 Such suns will shine, such waves will 
 sing 
 
 Forever, evermore. 
 
 Oh, fit and few ! Oh, tried and true ! 
 
 The friends who met that day, 
 Each one the other's spirit knew ; 
 
 And so in earnest play 
 The hours flew past, until at last 
 
 The twilight kissed the shore ; 
 We said : " Such days shall come again 
 
 Forever, evermore." 
 
 (Sq) 
 
90 
 
 YOU AND L— KEPT. 
 
 One clay again, no cloud of pain 
 
 A shadow o'er us cast, 
 And yet we strove in vain, in vain 
 
 To conjure up the past : 
 Like, but unlike the sun that shone, 
 
 The waves that beat the shore, 
 The words we said, the songs we sung, 
 
 Like — unlike — evermore. 
 
 For ghosts unseen crept in between, 
 
 And, when our songs flowed free, 
 Sang discords in an undertone, 
 
 And marred the harmony. 
 " The past is ours, not yours," they said, 
 
 " The waves that beat the shore. 
 Though like the same, are not the same, 
 
 Oh, never, never more ! " 
 
 YOU AND I. 
 
 We meet to-day, we part to-morrow ; 
 
 You and I ; 
 If in secret, silent sorrow. 
 You regret the stern decree. 
 
 And I sigh. 
 Dreaming dreams of what might be. 
 Would fate only leave us free, 
 Will it make life less worth living ? 
 Will it make love less worth giving.^ 
 Or, if we walked on together. 
 Would our joys be any brighter ? 
 Would our sorrows be the lighter ? 
 
 Time and tide, 
 In their hurried onward rushing. 
 Sweep us on, and, answer nothing. 
 
 Much is given ere the asking. 
 
 And we try, 
 Vainly, heart and brain both tasking, 
 To forget the bitter knowledge, 
 
 Asking why 
 Things unequal were created ? 
 Why so many lives mismated 
 Curse the earth ? forever grieving. 
 With deceit themselves deceiving. 
 When a word in candor spoken, 
 Would sad hearts forever lighten. 
 And sad eyes forever brighten ; 
 
 What a change. 
 
 If we said things as we meant them, 
 And but meant them when we said 
 them ! 
 
 Years shall bless and years bereave us, 
 
 You and I, 
 As the summer-time shall leave us, 
 And the autumn tints veil softly 
 
 Youth's fair sky. 
 Other scenes ere long shall greet us, 
 Other friends will warmly meet us. 
 And, if wooing voices 'round us. 
 Fondly with their love have crowned 
 
 us, 
 Shall we, yielding, tell to memory 
 It were better that no token 
 Kept our friendship still unbroken? 
 
 Or, at last. 
 Shall we, somehow, find each other 
 Dearer far than any other ? 
 
 KEPT. 
 
 My lover and I stood on the shore ; 
 His boat rocked out on the sun-lit 
 bay ; 
 A little flower from my breast he tore. 
 And a kiss from my lips he stole 
 away. 
 "Never fear, little lass, never fear!'' 
 
 cried he, 
 " I will bring thy rosebud back to 
 thee." 
 
 On the shining deck I saw him stand : 
 I saw him stand by the snowy sail ; 
 He waved farev^^ell with the flower in 
 his hand, 
 But my heart beat quick and my 
 cheek grew pale. 
 Though never a cloud was in the sky, 
 I shuddered to hear the sea-gulls cr>-. 
 
 The whole white fleet was outward 
 
 bound. 
 Brave fisher-lads, — with a song the) 
 
 went ! 
 The waves rolled in with a sullen 
 
 sound, 
 
WOOING.— "DON'T STAY LONG.' 
 
 91 
 
 And the day and the tide were 
 
 nearly spent. 
 The last sail, touched with an ashen 
 
 light, 
 Like a" ghost sped into the dusky night. 
 
 Then back, as I stood on the shore 
 
 and prayed, 
 They came, for the storm-wind blew 
 
 apace. 
 The women came from their cots 
 
 afraid ; 
 The salt spray sprinkled each pallid 
 
 face ; 
 But while they murmured : " Alas ! 
 
 Alack ! " 
 I thought, " He will bring my rose-bud 
 
 back." 
 
 The great wind roared, and the hun- 
 gry hiss 
 Of the seething brine on the flying 
 shore. 
 Seemed moaning and sighing only this : 
 " Ah, nevermore ! ah, nevermore ! " 
 We held each other close. The foam 
 Still whispered to me : " He will come 
 home." 
 
 The morning dawned on the awful 
 
 sea! 
 They came to land. " None lost ? " 
 
 " But one." 
 I stood in my place all silently. 
 ~~e went in " 
 
 in the sun. 
 Washed to the shore, in his dear, dead 
 
 hand 
 He brought me my rosebud back to 
 
 land. 
 
 WOOING. 
 
 Captive little hand, 
 Wherefore trembling so ? 
 Like a fluttering bird. 
 All your pulses stirred : 
 Would you, if you could— 
 Would you go } 
 
 Drooping, downcast eyes, 
 Filled with love's own light, 
 'Neath your snowy lid 
 All my world lies hid : 
 Why so shyly veiled 
 From my sight? 
 
 Lovely quivering lips. 
 With your wealth of red. 
 Speak the longed-for word. 
 First in Eden heard. 
 In your own sweet way 
 Be it said. 
 
 Eager, restless heart. 
 Longing for your mate. 
 What have you to fear } 
 Find contentment here ; 
 To my tender love 
 Trust your fate. 
 
 Dainty little maid. 
 Graced with charms so sweet. 
 One bright glance bestow ; 
 Nay — but I will know 
 If — ah, yes, for me. 
 Life's complete ! 
 
 DON'T STAY LONG. 
 
 A LOOK of yearning tenderness 
 
 Beneath her lashes lies, 
 And hope and love unutterable 
 
 Are shadowed in her eyes, 
 As in some deep, unruffled stream 
 
 Are clouds and summer skies. 
 
 She passed to early womanhood. 
 From dreamy, sweet girl life. 
 
 And crossed the rosy threshold but 
 To find herself a wife ; 
 
 Oh ! gently should he lead her steps 
 Along the path of life ! 
 
 And as she clasped her small white 
 hands 
 
 Upon his arms so strong. 
 How often like a summer sigh. 
 
 Or a sweet pleading 5ong, 
 She whispers, with a parting kiss, 
 
 " Beloved one, don't stay long." 
 
92 
 
 WEDDING-DAY WISHES.— OVER THE BARS. 
 
 They're almost always on her lip, 
 Her gentlest parting words, 
 
 Sweet as the fragrance from rose leaves 
 When by soft zephyrs stirred, 
 
 And lingering in the memory 
 Like songs of summer birds. 
 
 And in his heart they nestle warm 
 
 When other scenes amid ; 
 He stays not till she weary grows, 
 
 And her fond eyes are hid 
 In tears which lie in bitterness 
 
 Beneath each veiling lid. 
 
 And, oh, how many hearts are kept 
 
 By that love-uttering song ! 
 There's scarcely one who on life's 
 waves 
 Is swiftly borne along, 
 But what has heard from some dear 
 lips 
 These sweet words, " Don't stay 
 long." 
 
 WEDDING-DAY WISHES. 
 
 Since I have not for your bridal 
 Any precious offerings brought — 
 
 Gold, or gems, or costly fabric, 
 
 By the curious workman wrought — 
 
 Let your thought admit the fancy, 
 While you read the words I write. 
 
 That your friend's heart is a casket, 
 And her wishes jewels bright. 
 
 Thus you shall be fairly furnished 
 With all favors brides should wear, 
 
 For the neck, the wrists, the fingers. 
 For your brow and shining hair. 
 
 Husband's love and faith should crown 
 you, 
 Better than wrought gems a queen ; 
 Wifely truth and trust illumine. 
 
 More than pearls could, race and 
 mien. 
 
 Home and sweet content I wish you. 
 More than lands and lofty hall — 
 
 Bracelets these, and golden neck-chain 
 Holding you in willing thrall. 
 
 Daily, loving words of kindness. 
 These for jeweled rings should be ; 
 
 Better than the diamond's radiance 
 Is the light of charity. 
 
 And for fairest, best adorning, 
 Never wanting, ever bright. 
 
 Wear the " meek and quiet spirit," 
 Priceless in the Giver's sight. 
 
 These will fail not, though misfortune 
 Sweep all earthly goods away ; 
 
 God's dear smile of love and favor 
 Turneth darkness into day. 
 
 OVER THE BARS. 
 
 'TWAS milking time, and the cows 
 came up 
 From the meadows sweet with clover. 
 And stood in the lane, while pretty 
 Jane 
 Had a quiet chat with the drover — 
 Such a quiet chat it scarcely seemed 
 
 That a single word was spoken ; 
 While a magic spell with the night 
 dews fell. 
 And the rhythm of song was un- 
 broken. 
 
 The cattle stood at the lover's side, 
 
 Without any show of vexation, 
 As though impressed with a five-bar 
 rest 
 
 Was a part of their rest-oration. 
 And as Jane listened to the notes that 
 came 
 
 Right under the bars and over. 
 Her heart took wing, the silly thing. 
 
 And nestled up close to the drover. 
 
 She heard him say his home was poor. 
 That he'd nothing but love to give 
 her ; 
 And she smiled content, as though love 
 had spent 
 Every arrow he had in his quiver ; 
 She smiled content, when the evening 
 air 
 With voices of birds are ringing. 
 
TWO OF THEM.— A HAPPY WIFE. 
 
 93 
 
 And her lips confessed that a lowly 
 nest 
 Should never prevent her singing. 
 
 So over the bars the lovers lean, 
 
 In the joy of their sweet communion ; 
 And their looks declare that poverty 
 ne'er 
 Shall be a bar to their union ; 
 Oh, sweetest music, go thread your 
 rhymes. 
 Now under the bars and over ; 
 Where pretty Jane, in the fragrant 
 lane, 
 Bewitched the heart of the drover. 
 
 TfVO OF THEM. 
 
 In the farm-house porch the farmer sat. 
 With his daughter having a cosy chat : 
 She was his only child, and he 
 Thought her as fair as a girl could be. 
 A wee bit jealous the old man grew. 
 If he fancied any might come to woo 
 His one pet lamb, and her loving care 
 He wished with nobody else to share. 
 
 " There should be two of you, child," 
 
 said he ; 
 " There should be two to welcome me 
 When I come home from the field at 
 
 night : 
 Two would make the old homestead 
 
 bright. 
 There's neighbor Grey with his chil- 
 dren four 
 To be glad together. Had I one more, 
 A proud old father I'd be, my dear, 
 With two good children to greet me 
 here." 
 
 Down by the gate 'neath the old elm- 
 tree 
 
 Donald waited alone ; and she 
 
 For whom he waited his love-call 
 heard, 
 
 And on either cheek the blushes stirred. 
 
 "Father," she said, and knelt her 
 
 down, 
 And kissed the hand that was old and 
 
 brown — 
 " Father, there maybe two, if you will, 
 And I — your only daughter still. 
 
 " Two to welcome you home at night ; 
 Two to make the old homestead bright : 
 I — and somebody else." " I see," 
 Said the farmer, " and whom may 
 
 ' somebody ' be ? " 
 Oh, the dimples in Bessie's cheek, 
 That played with the blushes at hide- 
 and-seek ! 
 Away from his gaze she turned her 
 
 head, 
 " One of neighbor Grey's children," 
 she said. 
 
 " H'm ! " said ^e farmer ; " make it 
 
 plain ; 
 Is it Susan, Alice, or Mary Jane } " 
 Another kiss on the aged hand, 
 To help the farmer to understand (?) 
 " H'm," said the farmer : " yes ; I see ; 
 It is two for yourself and one for me." 
 But Bessie said, " There can be but 
 
 one 
 For me and my heart till life is done." 
 
 A HAPPY WIFE. 
 
 He wraps me round with his riches. 
 
 He covers me up with his care, 
 And his love is the love of a manhood 
 
 Whose life is a living prayer. 
 I have plighted my woman's affections 
 
 I have given my all in all, 
 And the flowers of a daily contentment 
 Renew their sweeL lives ere they fall ; 
 And yet like an instrument pre- 
 cious 
 That playeth an olden tune, 
 My heart in the midst of its bless- 
 ings 
 Goes back to a day in June — 
 
94 
 
 RECONSTRUCTION.— WEDDED.— AN AUGUST DAY. 
 
 To a day when beneath the 
 branches 
 
 I stood by a silent stream, 
 And saw in its bosom an image 
 
 As one seeth a face in a dream. 
 
 I would not resign his devotion, 
 No, not for a heart that lives ! 
 Nor change one jot my condition 
 
 For the change that condition gives : 
 I should mourn not more for another, 
 
 Nor more for another rejoice. 
 Than now, when I weep at his absence, 
 Or welcome his step and his voice. 
 And yet like an instrument pre- 
 cious. 
 That playeth an olden tune. 
 My heart in the midst of its bless- 
 ings 
 Goes back to a day in June — 
 To a day when, beneath the 
 branches, 
 I stood in the shadowy light. 
 And heard the low words of a 
 whisper 
 As one heareth a voice in the 
 night. 
 
 RE CO N ST R UCTION. 
 
 In a wagon made of willow 
 
 Wheeled I once a little maiden. 
 
 Ringlets shining on the pillow. 
 
 Rolling homeward treasure laden, 
 
 Like a boat upon the billow. 
 
 Ten years fled. Ah ! how I missed 
 her 
 
 When we left the village school ! 
 But she said she'd be my sister 
 
 As we lingered by the pool, 
 And I passionately kissed her. 
 
 Ten more fretting years renew it ; 
 
 Little wagon made of willow ; 
 Loving eyes are bent to view it ; 
 
 Loving hands adjust the pillow. 
 And we've fitted rockers to it. 
 
 WEDDED. 
 
 Some quick and bitter words we said. 
 And then we parted. How the sun 
 
 Swam through a sullen sea of gray ! 
 
 A chill fell on the summer day. 
 
 Life's best and happiest hours were 
 done. 
 Friendship was dead. 
 
 How proud we went our separate ways, 
 And spake no word and made no 
 
 moan ; 
 She braided up her flowing hair. 
 That I had always called so fair, 
 Although she scorned my loving tone, 
 
 My word of praise. 
 
 And I ? I matched her scorn with 
 
 scorn, 
 I hated her with all my heart. 
 Until — we chanced to meet one day ; 
 She turned her pretty head away ; 
 I saw two pearly tear-drops start, 
 Lo ! love was born. 
 
 Some fond, repenting word I said, 
 She answered only with a sigh ; 
 But when I took her hand in mine 
 A radiant glory half divine 
 Flooded the earth and filled the sky. 
 Now we are wed. 
 
 AN AUGUST DAY. 
 
 Over the fields by winding ways 
 
 We wandered on together. 
 Under the flashing azure skies. 
 
 In a hush of August weather. 
 Round about us, afar and near, 
 
 We heard the locusts humming, 
 And the asters starring the lonely path 
 
 Laughed out to see us coming. 
 
 Bird songs out of the sunlit oak 
 Fell rippling through the shadow. 
 
 Like a spear of flame the cardinal 
 flower 
 Burned out along the meadow. 
 
BLACKBERRIES AND KISSES.— THE GIRL FOR ME. 
 
 95 
 
 Into our hearts the blithe wind blew, 
 Its own free gladness giving-, 
 
 And all things laughed in the happy 
 earth. 
 For the pure sweet joy of living. 
 
 Two roamed on with their eyes alight, 
 And their hearts too still for laugh- 
 ter. 
 Two in a revel of golden life, 
 
 Looked neither before nor after. 
 One went dreaming with downcast 
 face 
 Through the hush of the woodland 
 cover, 
 But one praised God from a trembling 
 heart 
 That the shadow of pain was over. 
 
 BLACKBERRIES AND KISSES. 
 
 We were up on the green old hill-side 
 Where the blackberry bushes grow. 
 And we gathered the ripe, sweet 
 berries 
 Till the sun was getting low, 
 And somehow, where the fruit was 
 ripest — 
 I could not account for this ! — 
 We v/ere sure to eat all the berries, 
 And sweeten them with a kiss. 
 Oh, I knovv' of nothing better. 
 
 The whole year round, than this : 
 A handful of ripe blackberries 
 Made sweet with a lover's kiss. 
 
 " If they saw us eating the berries 
 
 In this new, but pleasant way. 
 They would say we were silly 
 creatures," 
 Said she : but I answered, " Nay. 
 They would say we were wise, my 
 darling, 
 To eat our berries so, 
 For kisses are cheaper than sugar 
 In times like these, you know." 
 Oh, I know of nothing better, 
 
 The whole year round, than this : 
 A handful of ripe blackberries 
 Made sweet with a lover's kiss. 
 6 
 
 As we stood in the path together. 
 When our feet were homeward 
 turned, 
 I whispered the sweet old question 
 
 That each lover's heart has learned. 
 I forget the words of her answer. 
 
 But I can remember this. 
 It was all my heart had hoped for, 
 And I took it with a kiss. 
 
 Oh, I know of nothing better. 
 
 The whole year round, than this : 
 A handful of ripe blackberries 
 Made sweet by a lover's kiss. 
 
 LICHEN. 
 
 Little lichen, fondly clinging 
 In the wild wood to the tree ; 
 Covering unseemly places. 
 Hiding all thy tender graces, 
 Ever dwelling in the shade. 
 Never seeing sunny glade. 
 
 Little lichen, enr.blem sweet 
 Of a friend, whom now I greet ; 
 She, too, dwelleth in the shade, 
 Pineth not for sunnier glade. 
 Clinging to the dear home-walls, 
 Where scarce a ray of sunsliine falls. 
 
 Yet in her heart such love abideth, 
 That she hke the dark places hideth ; 
 She would not be a roadside flower. 
 Nor long to dwell in sunny bower ; 
 She loves the deep and woody shade, 
 She loves the dark that God has made. 
 
 She is not dazed with golden glare 
 Of worldly joy, however fair ; 
 And in her little corner shineth, 
 A purer light, my soul divineth. 
 Than any earthly sunshine bringeth ; 
 A light from Him to whom she clingeth 
 
 THE GIRL FOR ME. 
 
 Just fair enough to be pretty, 
 Just gentle enough to be sweet, 
 
 Just saucy enough to be witty, 
 Just damty enough to be neat. 
 
96 
 
 LOVERS' PRECEPT. 
 
 Just tall enough to be graceful, 
 Just slight enough for a fay, 
 
 Just dress enough to be tasteful, 
 Just merry enough to be gay. 
 
 Just tears enough to be tender, 
 Just sighs enough to be sad ; 
 
 Tones soft enough to remember 
 Your heart through tiie cadence 
 made glad. 
 
 Just meek enough for submission, 
 Just bold enough to be brave, 
 
 Just pride enough for ambition, 
 
 Just thoughtful enough to be grave. 
 
 A tongue that can talk without harm- 
 ing, 
 Just mischief enough to tease, 
 Manners pleasant enough to be charm- 
 ing, 
 That put you at once at your ease. 
 
 Disdain for silly presumption, 
 
 Sarcasm to answer a fool, 
 Cool contempt shown to assumption, 
 
 Proper dignity always the rule. 
 
 Flights of fairy fancy ethereal, 
 Devotion to science full paid. 
 
 Stuff of the sort of material 
 Poets and painters are made. 
 
 Generous enough, and kind-hearted, 
 
 Pure as the angles above ; 
 Oh, from her may I never be parted, 
 
 For such is the maiden I love. 
 
 LOVERS' PRECEPT. 
 
 Do not let us take the highway, sweet ; 
 
 It is full of curious, pr^'ing eyes. 
 
 Let us choose the wandering path that 
 
 lies 
 Thro' the fields, and shuns the dust 
 
 and heat — 
 Daisy-bordered, bridged by waving 
 
 shade 
 Thro' whose interlacings glints the 
 
 golden flood 
 
 Which the priest this morning, when 
 
 he prayed. 
 Likened to the all-embracing love of 
 
 God- 
 Sweet the text that followed, I could 
 
 have wished no other : 
 " A new command I give. Love ye one 
 
 another." 
 
 I turned to watch you as the words di- 
 vine 
 Stole on my sense like music of the 
 
 spheres ; 
 A flush crept o'er your cheek, a mist 
 
 of tears 
 Swam to your eyes, which drooped 
 
 away from mine. 
 I saw the hand that held your book of 
 
 prayer 
 Thrill like a flower swept by delicious 
 
 gales ; 
 But not a look would you vouchsafe 
 
 me there. 
 Oh, lovely saint, shrined within altar 
 
 veils. 
 Were you afraid to turn and face your 
 
 brother 
 After the new command, " Love ye one 
 
 another? " 
 
 I will absolve you for the look not 
 
 given. 
 So fully doth suffice the look you give. 
 Droop not, shy, lily lids, but let me 
 
 live 
 Forever, \n your eyes serene, blue 
 
 heaven ! 
 Lay hand to heart, and tell me, maiden 
 
 mine, 
 If in the long, strange years you do 
 
 not see, 
 You fear you may regret the tender 
 
 sign 
 Of love and trust which you now give 
 
 to me. 
 Or wish in secret it had been some 
 
 other 
 Who learned with you the lesson, 
 
 ' Love ye one another." 
 
MARGARET.— ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 97 
 
 For life will not be all like this, alas ! 
 A walk thro' meadows, under skies so 
 
 fair. 
 With bobolinks a-trilling- in the air, 
 And daisies blooming golden in the 
 
 grass. 
 There will be rough and stormy days, 
 
 my sweet. 
 When God behind a cloud will hide 
 
 from sight. 
 And you and I, with hurt and weary 
 
 feet. 
 Will ])ass through thorny ways to 
 
 reach the light : 
 Shall it be hand-in-hand, dear, and 
 
 patient with each other. 
 Remembering the message, " Love ye 
 
 one another? " 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Into the garden I walked ; 
 
 Ne'er had I seen her before. 
 Under a budding white rose 
 
 She stood in the shade of the door. 
 Quiet and pale was her face. 
 
 But maidenly bright were her eyes, 
 Fair as the newly-born moon 
 
 When low in the easterly skies. 
 There as I stood by her side 
 
 My sph-it grew happy and free ; 
 Would I had said what I thought, 
 
 That none would I marry but thee. 
 The far-off bells were tolling, 
 
 For 'twas some one's funeral-day, 
 And in the meadows close by 
 
 The mowers were mowing the hay. 
 
 Into the garden I walked ; 
 
 But once had I seen her before ; 
 Vacant and still was the house. 
 
 Wide open was standing the door, 
 Then silent and listening I went 
 
 Up to the curtainless bed, 
 Where she lay shrouded in white. 
 
 All wintry, lonely, and dead ; 
 There was a look on her face 
 
 As if she'd been thinking- of me. 
 
 " Dear Margaret," then whispered I, 
 " None will I marry but thee ! " 
 
 And the far-off bells were ringing, 
 For 'twas some one's wedding-day. 
 
 And in the meadows close by 
 
 The mowers were mowing the hay. 
 
 Silent and dark was yon lake, 
 
 As under the desolate hill. 
 Lit by no gleam from the sky. 
 
 It slumbered there, dreary and still. 
 Till, with its swallow-like wing, 
 
 The wind in its wandering flight 
 Touched into music the reeds. 
 
 And broke it in ripples of light. 
 Silent and dark was my heart, 
 
 Till suddenly thrilled by the tone 
 Tender and pure ot the voice 
 
 Which told me I was not alone. 
 Yet how I long to be dead. 
 
 Whene'er, on a calm summer day, 
 The far-off bells are ringing, 
 
 And the mowers are mowing the 
 hay! 
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 Standing on the threshold, 
 
 With her wakening heart and mind, 
 Standing on the threshold, 
 
 With her childhood left behind ; 
 The woman softness blending 
 
 With the look of sweet surprise 
 For life and all its marvels 
 
 That lights the clear blue eyes. 
 
 Standing on the threshold, 
 
 With light foot and fearless hand, 
 As the young knight by his armor 
 
 In minster nave might stand ; 
 The fresh red lip just touching 
 
 Youth's ruddy rapturous wine. 
 The eager heart all brave, pure hope, 
 
 Oh, happy child of mine ! 
 
 I couM guard the helpless infant 
 
 That nestled in my arms : 
 I could save the prattler's golden head 
 
 From petty baby harms ; 
 
98 
 
 WILLY'S WIFE. 
 
 I could brighten childhood's gladness, 
 And comfort childhood's tears. 
 
 But I can not cross the threshold 
 With the step of riper years. 
 
 For hopes, and joys, and maiden 
 dreams 
 Are waiting for her there. 
 Where girlhood's fancies bud and 
 bloom 
 In April's golden air ; 
 And passionate love, and passionate 
 griefs. 
 And passionate gladness lie 
 Among the crimson flowers that spring 
 As youth goes fluttering by. 
 
 Ah ! on those rosy pathways 
 
 Is no place for sobered feet. 
 My tired eyes have naught of strength 
 
 Such fervid glow to meet ; 
 My voice is all too sad to sound 
 
 Amid the joyous notes 
 Of the music that through charmed 
 air 
 
 For opening girlhood floats. 
 
 Yet thorns amid the leaves may lurk, 
 
 And thunder-clouds may lower, 
 And death, or change, or falsehood 
 blight 
 
 The jasmine in the bower ; 
 May God avert the woe, my child ; 
 
 But 0'% should tempest come, 
 Remember, by the threshold waits 
 
 The patient love of home ! 
 
 WILLY'S WIFE. 
 
 The road is long and rough, you see, 
 
 Far stretching o'er the prairie ; 
 And if his father went — why, I 
 
 Must stay and mind the dairy. 
 Perhaps an idle tear I dropped 
 
 To see him mount the filly. 
 And go alone to bless the bans 
 
 Of our dear boy, our Willy. 
 
 A week of days has passed since then, 
 
 Each longer than the other. 
 So strange it Is to think he'd wed. 
 
 And I not there — his mother. 
 So strange, when he, a toddling thing. 
 
 Got all my care so freely ; 
 Well, care and kisses wait to-day 
 
 For Willy's wife and Willy. 
 
 What's that you say.^ That I've not 
 seen. 
 
 And so I may not love her. 
 Not love his love } Why troops of 
 girls 
 
 Might lift their heads above her. 
 Ah, all the girls might fairer be. 
 
 In bloom of rose and lily ; 
 But dearer than the best to me 
 
 Would be the wife of Willy. 
 
 'Tis true, he's young. 'Twere well, 
 perhaps. 
 
 He'd waited just a little ; 
 A lover's knot too early tied 
 
 May prove, alas ! but brittle. 
 Yet old folks often make mistake 
 
 In thinking young folks silly, 
 And what's the use to question now ? — 
 
 She's wife of my boy Willy. 
 
 Oh, ah ! be sure, some other might 
 
 Have lined with gold his pocket ; 
 But I have seen full many a stick 
 
 Dome down from costly rocket. 
 And yet — I hinted to the boy 
 
 His own short purse ; and still he 
 But scorned the hint. Well, love's 
 enough 
 
 To dower the wife of Wilty. 
 
 For Willy, let me tell you now. 
 
 Is not the one to falter 
 In doing what an honest man 
 
 Has promised at the altar ; 
 'Twill be no fault of idle ways 
 
 If later times prove chilly; 
 No need, I wis, for aught but love 
 
 With this young wife of Willy. 
 
A RETURN. 
 
 99 
 
 And that a wife brings love, I'm sure 
 
 Should make a mother kindly ; 
 The mother, if she's wise at all. 
 
 Will scan a little blindly ; 
 For smooth the ruts as smooth we may 
 
 Life's path will yet be hilly ; 
 There's many a flint to prick the feet 
 
 Of even the wife of Willy. 
 
 So keep your doubts, no longer jest, 
 
 Because I'm anxious waiting 
 To clasp my darlings to my breast, 
 
 And bless their early mating. 
 I spake full loud to stay the match ; 
 
 But now my finger stilly 
 Is placed upon my lip — since she • 
 
 Is mine, the wife of Willy. 
 
 She's Willy's wife, and so she's mine. 
 
 My own dear, darling daughter ; 
 If they're one flesh, they're but one 
 blood. 
 
 And " blood is more than water." 
 Then hold your peace about the charms 
 
 Of Susan or of Milly ; 
 I tell you, friends, she's best of all. 
 
 This wife of my boy Willy. 
 
 Lo ! here they are, the precious pair ! 
 
 My precious boy, my rover — 
 And with him one to crown his days ; 
 
 Look ! who could help but love 
 her? 
 Come, father, shut the kitchen door. 
 
 The winds without blow shrilly. 
 But what care we, beside the fire. 
 
 With Willy's wife and Willy ? 
 
 The bread is white upon the board. 
 
 The kettle bravely simmers, 
 The red flame dances up the wall 
 
 Where shining pewter shimmers ; 
 The neighbors come and greetings 
 bring 
 
 In welcome, " will he, nill he ; " 
 Oh, happy dav that light the home 
 
 With Willy's wife and Willy ! 
 
 A RETURN. 
 
 " Do ye not know me, Donald ? " 
 Pushing back her gray hair — 
 
 " Can you not speak to me, Donald 
 Me who was once so fair ? 
 
 " Many years have gone over us — 
 
 Fortunate years for thee ; 
 When I see thee they seem not so 
 many — 
 
 Only when thou seest me. 
 
 " For I wear the snow of winters 
 No sun and no summer can change ; 
 
 Yet I seem to hear the spring coming. 
 And the blue -bird beginning to 
 range. 
 
 "As when in the old days together 
 We wandered and talked by the 
 stream. 
 
 Of thy Hfe in the far new country. 
 And our love. Was it all a dream ? 
 
 "For what could I be to thee, Donald, 
 
 A man grown to honor and land, 
 With a choice of the whole world be- 
 fore thee — 
 While I could give thee but my 
 hand ! 
 
 " 'Twas long that I stayed by the brook- 
 side. 
 In the dews and the dark of the eve. 
 Through winter and summer there- 
 after, 
 Ere I could forget to grieve. 
 
 " For thou wast my first love, Donald — 
 Thou the first love of my heart : 
 
 Why should I not tell thee, Donald, 
 What sadness it was then to part .'* " 
 
 " I can not recall thee, woman ; 
 
 And yet, when I hear thy voice, 
 I hear the low rippling river, 
 
 I see the girl of my choice. 
 
 " Can ye not tell me of Janet, 
 Something of her I once loved ? 
 
lOO 
 
 AT NIGHTFALL.— THE SECOND PLACE. 
 
 She gave me a wing for my bonnet ; 
 I gave her a ring ere I roved." 
 
 " Think ye on her sometimes, Donald ? 
 
 Can ye remember the ring ? 
 It is worn now very thin, Donald ; 
 
 Yet, perhaps, ye'U remember the 
 thing. 
 
 " It is here on my hand still, Donald ; 
 
 I can not remove it again ; 
 I have kept it through labor and sor- 
 row ; 
 
 It is grown now a part of my pain ! " 
 
 A T NIGHTFALL. 
 
 Coming along by the meadows. 
 Just after the sun went down, 
 
 Watching the gathering shadows 
 Creep over the hillsides brown. 
 
 Coming along in the gloaming, 
 With never a star in the sky. 
 
 My thoughts went a-roaming, a-roam- 
 ing 
 Through days that are long gone by. 
 
 Days when desire said, " To-morrow, 
 'ro-morrow, heart, we'll l)e gay ! " 
 
 Days ere the heart heard the sorrow 
 Which echoes through yesterday. 
 
 Life was a goblet burnished. 
 
 That with love for wine was filled ; 
 
 The cup is bruised and tarnished. 
 And the precious wine is spilled. 
 
 But to the traveler weary, 
 
 Just coming in sight of home, 
 
 What does it matter how dreary 
 The way whereby he has come ? 
 
 Coming along by the meadows, 
 And watching the fading day, 
 
 Duskier than night's dusky shadows 
 Fell shadows of yesterday. 
 
 In the northern sunset's glimmer, 
 The Great Bear opened his eyes ; 
 
 Low in the east a shimmer 
 
 Showed where the full moon would 
 rise. 
 
 Lights in a window were gleaming. 
 And some one stood at the gate. 
 
 Said, " Why do you stand there dream- 
 ing? 
 And why are you home so late ? " 
 
 Yesterday's shadows and sorrow 
 That moment all vanished away ! 
 
 Here were to-day and to-morrow — 
 What matter for yesterday ! 
 
 THE SECOND PLACE. 
 
 Unto my loved ones have I given all : 
 The tireless service of my willing 
 hands. 
 The strength of swift feet running to 
 their call. 
 Each pulse of this fond heart whose 
 love commands 
 The busy brain unto their use ; each 
 
 grace. 
 Each gift, the flower and fruit of life. 
 
 To me 
 They give, with gracious hearts and 
 tenderly, 
 
 The second place. 
 
 Such joy as my glad service may dis- 
 pense 
 They spend to make some brighter 
 
 life more blest ; 
 The grief that comes despite my frail 
 
 defense 
 They se^sk to soothe upon a dearcr 
 
 breast. 
 Love veils his deepest glories from my 
 
 face ; 
 I dimly dream how fair the light may 
 
 be 
 Beyond the shade, when I hold, long* 
 
 ingly, 
 
 The second place. 
 
 I 
 
HEARTSEASE.— " PAPA, PLEASE LET ME IN!" 
 
 lOT 
 
 And yet 'tis sweet to know that though 
 1 make 
 No soul's supremest bliss, no life 
 shall lie 
 Ruined and desolated for my sake, 
 
 Nor any heart be broken when I die. 
 And sweet it is to see my little space 
 Grow wider hour by hour ; and grate- 
 fully 
 I thank the tender fate that granted me 
 The second place. 
 
 HEARTSEASE. 
 
 Of all the bonny buds that blow 
 In bright or cloudy weather. 
 
 Of all the flowers that come and go 
 The whole twelve moons together. 
 
 The little purple pansy brings 
 
 Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest 
 things, 
 
 I had a little lover once, 
 
 Who used to^ive me posies ; 
 
 His eyes were blue as hyacinths, 
 His lips were red as roses — 
 
 And everybody loved to praise 
 
 His pretty looks and winsome ways. 
 
 The girls that went to school with me 
 Made little jealous speeches, 
 
 Because he brought me royally 
 His biggest plums and peaches. 
 
 And always at the door would wait 
 
 To carry home my books and slate. 
 
 " They couldn't see '' — with pout and 
 fling— 
 
 *' The mighty fascination 
 About that little snub-nosed thing 
 
 To win such admiration ; 
 As if there weren't a dozen girls 
 With nicer eyes and longer curls." 
 
 And this I knew as well as they, 
 And never could see clearly 
 
 Why more than Marion or May, 
 I should be loved so dearly. 
 
 So once I asked him, why was this } 
 
 He only answered with a kiss. 
 
 Until I teased him — " Tell me why — 
 I want to know the reason ; " 
 
 When from the garden-bed close by 
 (The pansies were in season) 
 
 He plucked and gave a flower to me, 
 
 With sweet and simple gravity. 
 
 " The garden is in bloom," he said, 
 " With Hlies pale and slender, 
 
 With roses and verbenas red. 
 And fuchsias' purple splendor ; 
 
 But over and above the rest. 
 
 This little heartsease suits me best." 
 
 *' Am I your little heartsease, then ? " 
 I asked with blushing pleasure ; 
 
 He answered yes ! and yes again— 
 Heartsease and dearest treasure ; 
 
 That the round world and all the sea 
 
 Held nothing half so sweet as me. 
 
 I listened with a proud delight 
 Too rare for words to capture. 
 
 Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight 
 Would come to chill my rapture. 
 
 Could I foresee the tender bloom 
 
 Of pansies round a little tomb } 
 
 Life holds some stern experience, 
 
 As most of us discover. 
 And I've had other losses since 
 
 I lost my little lover ; 
 But still this purple pansy brings 
 Thoughts of the saddest, sweetest 
 things. 
 
 ''PAPA, PLEA SE LE T ME IN! " 
 
 A TIMID knock was at my door, 
 And restless feet were on the floor ; 
 
 A soft sweet voice said, " Papa, please, 
 And little Jimmie will not tease." 
 
 I knew the presence waiting there, 
 The deep blue eyes, the nut-brown 
 hair. 
 
 Just now, the bolt upon him drawn, 
 He had been banished all forlorn ; 
 
102 
 
 THE EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 For turning things all upside down, 
 While I was in a study brown. 
 
 His little hand touched everything, 
 His tongue put in such questioning ; 
 
 That I could not command my thought, 
 And so I rose and turned him out. 
 
 He went without remonstrance cry. 
 But curled his lip so mournfully ; 
 
 That courage cooled as I went back, 
 And somehow I was off the track. 
 
 Did I not know that, in his eyes. 
 My study was a paradise } 
 
 And there he stood beseechingly. 
 With voice so soft and sobbingly ; 
 
 And so with show of discipline, 
 I rose and let my Jimmie in. 
 
 His dear red lips my cheek did press, 
 About my neck he flung caress. 
 
 " I'm sorry, papa ; let me stay. 
 And I'll be good and still all day." 
 
 Then down with book upon the floor, 
 He sat and turned the pictures o'er. 
 
 And as he mused, he sweetly said, 
 " I wonder when the folks are dead, 
 
 And go to God, how long they stand, 
 Before our Father takes their hand ; 
 
 And says to them, I'm glad you've 
 
 come, 
 To my nice warm and pretty home. 
 
 And is it long they have to wait, 
 Before God opens wide the gate ? " 
 
 1 told my boy the Lord would come, 
 Himself, to take His people home. 
 
 " And will He come for me, papa, 
 When I must leave you and mamma ? 
 
 Oh, if He does, I'll thank Him so, 
 For He will know the way to go.*' 
 
 Two weeks had passed and little more, 
 Our Jimmie was at death's dark door, 
 
 He murmured sadly in his sleep, 
 And asked the Lord his "soul to keep/' 
 
 " I'm knocking, papa, at the door ; 
 Please let me in, I'll plague no more." 
 
 Then suddenly, with opened eyes, 
 j That shone with sweet and glad sur- 
 j prise : 
 
 I 
 I " Oh, thank you, Jesus ; you have come, 
 
 To take your little Jimmie home." 
 
 We closed his eyes, his work was done, 
 Our darling boy was from us gone. 
 
 O Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord, 
 We thank Thee for Thy precious word : 
 
 " Suffer the children, let them come. 
 For I will lead them to my home." 
 
 THE E VENING PR A YER. 
 
 All day the children's busy feet 
 
 Had pattered to and fro ; 
 And all the day their little hands 
 
 Had been in mischief so — 
 
 That oft my patience had been tried ; 
 
 But tender, loving care 
 Had kept them through the day from 
 harm, 
 
 And safe from ev'ry snare. 
 
 But when the even-tide had come. 
 The children went up-stairs, 
 
 And knelt beside their little beds, 
 To say their wonted prayers. 
 
 With folded hands and rev'rent mien, 
 " Our Father," first they say, 
 
 Then, " Now I lay me down to sleep," 
 With childlike faith they pray. 
 
A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE.— MOSS ROSES. 
 
 103 
 
 With cheeks upon the pillow pressed, 
 They give a kiss, and say, — 
 
 ** Good - night ; we love you, dear 
 mamma, 
 You've been so kind to-day." 
 
 " Dood-night ; I love 00, too, mamma," 
 
 And baby's eyelids close ; 
 And tired feet and restless hands 
 
 Enjoy the sweet repose. 
 
 The trouble and the weariness 
 To me indeed seemed light, 
 
 Since love had thus my efforts crowned 
 To guide their steps aright. 
 
 And as I picked the playthings up. 
 
 And put the books away. 
 My heart gave grateful thanks to God, 
 
 For His kind care all day. 
 
 A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. 
 
 One day in Summer's glow 
 
 Not many years ago, 
 A little babv lay upon my knee, 
 
 With rings of silken hair, 
 
 And fingers waxen fair. 
 Tiny and soft, and pink as pink could be. 
 
 We watched it thrive and grow. 
 Ah me ! we loved it so — 
 And marked its daily gain of sweeter 
 charms ; 
 It learned to laugh and crow, 
 And play and kiss us — so — 
 Until one day we missed it from our 
 arms. 
 
 In sudden, strange surprise, 
 We met each other's eyes, 
 Asking, "Who stole our pretty babe 
 away?" 
 We questioned earth and air, 
 But, seeking everywhere, 
 We never found it from that summer 
 day. 
 
 But in its wonted place 
 There was another face — 
 
 A little girl's with yellow curly hair 
 About her shoulders tossed. 
 And the sweet babe we lost 
 
 Seemed sometimes looking from her 
 eyes so fair. 
 
 She dances, romps, and sings, 
 And does a hundred things 
 
 Which my lost baby never tried to do ; 
 She longs to read in books, 
 And with bright, eager looks 
 
 Is always asking questions strange 
 and new. 
 
 And I can scarcely tell, 
 
 I love the rogue so well. 
 Whether I would retrace the four- 
 years' track, 
 
 And lose the merry sprite, 
 
 Who makes my home so bright. 
 To have again my little baby back. 
 
 Ah, blue-eyes ! do you see 
 Who stole my babe from me. 
 
 And brought the little girl from fairy 
 clime ? 
 A gray old man with wings, 
 Who steals all precious things ; 
 
 He lives forever, and his name is Time. 
 
 He rules the world, they say ; 
 He took my babe away— 
 My precious babe — and left me in its 
 place 
 This little maiden fair, 
 With yellow curly hair. 
 Who lives on stories, and whose name 
 is Grace ! 
 
 MOSS ROSES. 
 
 White with the whiteness of the snow, 
 Pink with the faintest rosy glow. 
 
 They blossom on their sprays ; 
 They glad the borders with their bloom, 
 And sweeten with their rich perfume 
 
 The mossy garden-ways. 
 
I04 
 
 WILL. 
 
 The dew that from their brimming 
 
 leaves 
 Drips down the mignonette receives, 
 
 And sweeter grows thereby - 
 The tall June lilies stand anear, 
 In raiment white and gold, and here 
 
 The purple pansies lie. 
 
 Warm sunshine glitters over all. 
 On daisied SAard and ivied wall, 
 
 On lily, pansy, rose ; 
 While flitting round each garden-bed, 
 With joyous laugh and airy tread, 
 
 A fairer sunbeam goes. 
 
 A little human iDlossom, bright 
 With childish, innocent delight 
 
 Of life yet in its dawn ; 
 With sunshine prisoned in her hair. 
 Deep eyes unshadowed by a care. 
 
 She gambols on the lawn. 
 
 She checks the light, elastic tread. 
 And stays to hear, far overhead. 
 
 The lark's song to its close ; 
 Eyes shaded by two tiny hands — 
 We pray God bless her as she stands. 
 
 Our little daughter Rose. 
 
 Yea, bless the Rose, dear God, since vve 
 Have given the Lily back to thee 
 
 That bloomed with her awhile ; 
 Yea, bless her deeply, doubly now 
 For her dear sake, whose angel brow 
 
 Reflects thine awful smile. 
 
 How often in her childish face 
 Our hungry, longing eyes can trace 
 
 The looks of one away ; 
 How often in her merry tone 
 A music wakes, more sad than moan. 
 
 Of accents, hushed for aye ! 
 
 God bless the child to blossom here. 
 Our clinging human hearts to cheer, 
 
 Till life has reached its close ; 
 To grow in sweetest grace and bloom, 
 To beautify the dear old home, 
 
 Our precious daughter Rose ! 
 
 WILL. 
 
 Your face, my boy, when six months 
 old 
 We propped you laughing in a chair ; 
 And the sun-arlist caught the gold 
 
 Which rippled o'er your waving hair ; 
 And deftly shadowed forth the while 
 That blooming cheek, that roguish 
 smile. 
 
 Those dimples seldom still — 
 The tiny, wondering, wide-eyed elf ! 
 Now can you recognize yourself 
 
 In this small portrait. Will ? 
 
 I glance at it, then turn to you. 
 
 Where in your healthful ease you 
 stand. 
 No beauty ! but a lad as true 
 
 And pure as any in the land ; 
 For nature through fair sylvan ways 
 Hath led and gladdened all your days, 
 
 Kept free from sordid ill — 
 Hath filled your veins with blissful 
 
 fire. 
 And winged your instincts to aspire 
 Sunward and Godward, Will ! 
 
 " Can this tall youth," I sometimes 
 say, 
 "Be mine, 7ny son .f* " It surely 
 seems 
 Scarce farther backward than a day. 
 Since, watching o'er your feverish 
 dreams 
 In that child-illness of the brain, 
 I thought — O Christ ! with what keen 
 pain, 
 
 Your pulse would soon be still. 
 That all your boyish sports were o'er. 
 And I — heart-broken — never more 
 
 Should call or clasp you. Will ! 
 
 But Heaven was kind, death passed 
 you by; 
 And now upon your arm I lead, 
 My second self—oi clearer eye. 
 
 Of firmer nerve and sturdier mien — 
 In you, methinks, my long-lost youth 
 Revives, from whose sweet founts of 
 truth 
 
SCHOOL-DAYS.— THE AFTERTIME. 
 
 lOi 
 
 And joy I drink my fill. 
 I feel your every heart-throb — know 
 What inmost hopes within you glow — 
 
 One soul's between us, Will ! 
 
 Pray Heaven that this be always so ! 
 
 That ever on your soul and mine — 
 Though my thin locks grow white as 
 snow — 
 The self-same radiant trust may 
 shine. 
 Pray, that while this, my life, endures. 
 It aye may sympathize with yours, 
 
 In thought, aim, action, still, 
 That you, O son ! (till comes the end) 
 In me may find your comrade, friend. 
 And more than father, Will ! 
 
 SCHOOL-DA YS. 
 
 Once more by mount and meadow 
 side 
 
 The merry bells are ringing ; 
 Once more by vale and river wide 
 
 The school-room doors are swing- 
 in? ; 
 Forgotten books with pensive looks. 
 
 And slates come forth from cover, 
 For hand in hand to lesson-land 
 
 Go little lass and lover. 
 
 What meed of bliss were ours, my 
 friend. 
 
 If we, like these, were able 
 Our cares and discontents to spend 
 
 In vanquishing a table — 
 If we could be so lig^ht and free 
 
 Amid our garnered pleasures, 
 As those who sweet the tale repeat 
 
 Of runic weights and measures ! 
 
 Ah ! children dear, our later days 
 
 Have brought us wise anointing ; 
 We see in all your sunny ways 
 
 The Father's kind appointing ; 
 Your morning-bell is ours as well — 
 
 We go to school to duty, 
 Whose brow severe from year to year 
 
 Wears fadeless wreaths of beauty. 
 
 THE AFTERTIME. 
 
 A WEE cot house abune the knowe, 
 A snod flower yaird wi' mony a 
 posie, 
 Where lilacs bloom and myrtles grow 
 Beside a bower fu' snug and cozy ; 
 'Twas there I woo'd my winsome 
 May; 
 'Twas there I press'd her to my 
 bosom, 
 When spring keeked oot frae bank 
 and brae 
 In mony a bud and mony a blossom. 
 
 An auld kirk stands beside the stream 
 That wimples through the daisied 
 meadow, 
 Where cowslips glint and lilies gleam 
 Beneath the spreading bourtree's 
 shadow ; 
 'Twas there I wed my bonny bride, 
 When Summer light was fain to 
 ling'er ; 
 'Twas there, while nestling at my side, 
 I placed the^owd ring on her finger. 
 
 A lonely kirk-yaird i' the glen, 
 
 Where mony a pearlie tear has fallen. 
 Where silence seals the strifes o' men, 
 Whate'er their rank, whate'er their 
 callin'. 
 When Winter's blast piped i' the grove. 
 When lingering blooms had fa'n 
 and perished, 
 'Twas there I laid my early love. 
 Beside a babe we baith had cher- 
 ished. 
 
 But there's a Ian' ayont the blue 
 
 That kens naught o' our kittle 
 weather, 
 Where a' the leal and guid and true, 
 
 Though pairted lang, may yet for- 
 gather. 
 There sits she by the gowden gates — 
 
 For there I hne a tryst to meet her; 
 But love that stje^igthens while it waits 
 
 Maks a' the aftertime the sweeter. 
 
io6 
 
 POOR.-RESCUED. 
 
 FOOJ^. 
 
 What ! poor you say ? Why save you, 
 friend, 
 
 I've more than half the world can 
 show; 
 Such wealth as mine you can not boast, 
 
 Such bliss as mine you can not know, 
 I've more than keenest head can sum, 
 
 Could ever dream of night or day — 
 I've treasures hid from sordid hearts. 
 
 No cunning thief can take away. 
 
 My riches never bring distrust 
 
 Between me and my fellow-men ; 
 No evil passion stirs my breast. 
 
 To yield me hate for hate again ; 
 But pleasure, peace, and joy they 
 bring ; 
 
 They soothe my cares, they make 
 me glad, 
 They give delight I can not name, 
 
 And buy me comfort when I'm sad. 
 
 Come here and open wide your eyes ; 
 
 You see earth's glory at my feet, 
 You see the sky above my head ; 
 
 The sunshine on my garden seat ; 
 You see the love that lights my home. 
 
 The children round my cottage 
 door — 
 The birds, the bees, the grass and 
 
 flowers, 
 And you have dared to call me poor ! 
 
 Come here and open wide your ears : 
 
 And hark the music morning makes. 
 When from the hills and from the 
 woods 
 
 Her high and holy anthem breaks. 
 Come here, and catch the grand old 
 songs 
 
 That nature sings me evermore — 
 The whisperings of a thousand things, 
 
 And tell me, tell me, am I poor ? 
 
 Not rich is he, though wider far 
 
 His acres stretch than eyes can roll, 
 
 Who has no sunshine in his mind, 
 No wealth of beauty in his soul. 
 
 Not poor is he, though never known 
 His name in hall or city mart. 
 
 Who smiles content beneath his load, 
 With God and Nature in his heart. 
 
 " Little lad, slow wandering 
 
 Across the sands so yellow. 
 Leading safe a lassie small — 
 
 Oh, tell me, little fellow. 
 Whither go you, loitering 
 
 In the summer weather. 
 Chattering like sweet-voiced birds 
 
 On a bough together ? " 
 
 " I am Robert, if you please, 
 
 And this is Rose, my sister, 
 Youngest of us all " — and he bent 
 
 His curly head and kissed her. 
 " Every day we come and wait 
 
 Here till the sun is setting. 
 Waiting for cur father's ship. 
 
 For mother dear is fretting. 
 
 " Long ago he sailed away 
 
 Out of sight and hearing, 
 'Straight across the bay he went, 
 
 Into sunset steering. 
 Every day we look for him, 
 
 And hope for his returning; 
 Every night my mother 
 
 Keeps the candle burning. 
 
 " Summer goes, and Winter comes, 
 
 And Spring returns, but never 
 Father's step comes to the gate. 
 
 Oh! is he gone forever.? 
 The great grand ship that bore him off, 
 
 Think you some tempest wrecked 
 her ? '' 
 Tears shone in little Rose's eyes. 
 
 Upturned to her protector. 
 
 Eagerly the bonny boy went on, 
 
 " Oh, sir, look yonder ! 
 In the offing see the sails 
 
 That east and westward wander 
 
A PICTURE.— WHERE THE BLACKBIRD SINGS. 
 
 [07 
 
 Every hour they come and go, 
 The misty distance thronging-. 
 
 While we watch and see them fade, 
 With sorrow and with longing." 
 
 " Little Robert ! little Rose " 
 
 The stranger's eyes were glistening ; 
 At his bronzed and bearded face 
 
 Up gazed the children, listening ; 
 He knelt upon the yellow sand, 
 
 And clasped them to his bosom, 
 Robert brave, and little Rose, 
 
 As bright as any blossom. 
 
 " Father ! Father ! Is it you ? " 
 
 The still air rings with rapture ; 
 All the vanished joy of years 
 
 The waitmg ones re-capture ! 
 Finds he welcome wild and sweet, 
 
 The low thatched cottage reaching, 
 But the ship that into sunset steered. 
 
 Upon the rocks lies bleaching ! 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Two little souls, a boy and a girl. 
 
 Wandering on to the foot of the hill. 
 Bushes of green and blossoms of pearl 
 Laugh at themselves in the road-side 
 rill. 
 Crossing the lane a gorgeous jay, 
 Bathed in the light of a flattering ray, 
 Jauntily chatters, " Some day, some 
 day ! " 
 
 Two sweet souls, a man and a maid, 
 (Beechen branches twisted above). 
 Picking the daisies which sprinkle a 
 
 glade. 
 And trying their luck at a game of love. 
 " This year ? " " Next year } " What do 
 
 they say ? 
 And out of the beeches the curious jay 
 Peeps and chuckles, " Some day, some 
 
 day ! " 
 
 Two old souls, and the end of the day 
 Follows them home to the foot of 
 the hill ; 
 
 One late gleam which has wandered 
 
 astray. 
 Breaks from a copse and dimples the 
 
 rill. 
 Autumn leaves are strewing the way. 
 And hoarse from the larch the hungry 
 
 jay 
 Shouts out to the night, " Some day, 
 
 some day ! " 
 
 Two poor souls, in the dead of the 
 
 night. 
 Side by side, lie stiffened and still ; 
 And the winter's moon just softens 
 
 her light, 
 As it solemnly rests at the foot of the 
 
 hill. 
 Remembering the bees and the buds 
 
 and the May, 
 The Summer gold and the Autumn 
 
 gray, 
 And the warm, green lane where the 
 
 beetles play. 
 In the crisp cold night the shivering jay- 
 Croaks out of his dream, " Some day, 
 
 some day ! " 
 
 WHERE THE BLACKBIRD 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 Down the quiet country road, 
 
 Before you reach the lofty ridge 
 Where the birch tree first awakened 
 
 To the morning's low breath swings, 
 I ofttimes sit in silence 
 
 On the small moss-covered bridge, 
 Near the little shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
 There the spreading trees meet o'er me, 
 
 And I hear no harsh voice calling, 
 Whilst his sweetness to my fancy's 
 dream 
 
 A sacred feeling brings, 
 As it mingles with the rippling 
 
 Of the brook or pebbles falling 
 In the little shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
o8 
 
 THE SUMMER.— TENDER MEMORIES. 
 
 There the ivy climbs the highest 
 
 Of the lofty trees beside me, 
 And the bluebell like a carpet 
 
 In the early Summer springs ; 
 In the thorn I need but clamber, 
 
 And the snowy bloom would hide me 
 In the little shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
 There the trout his supper seeking, 
 
 In the sunny beam is leaping, 
 And the pool is brought to life again 
 
 In many glistening rings. 
 When the day seems growing fainter, 
 
 And the shadows onward creeping, 
 In the little shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
 There the swallows dart like spirits 
 
 Underneath the narrow arches. 
 And the air a sweetened perfume 
 
 Like the almond round me flings, 
 And I dream of holy quiet 
 
 As I watch the feathery larches 
 In the little shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
 Oh, if I could only tell you 
 
 What unbroken heart-felt pleasure 
 Ever waits me in this spot, 
 
 To which my ihougfit so fondly 
 cHngs, 
 You would follow me nor wonder 
 
 'Tis my only pleasant leisure, 
 By the Httle shady nook 
 
 Where the blackbird sings. 
 
 THE SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, happy are the children 
 
 On a pleasant summer day, 
 How it rests the weary worker 
 
 To watch them at their play ! 
 See them running, jumping, dancing. 
 
 Hear them as they shout and sing. 
 While notes of perfect gladness 
 
 In their childish voices rinsr. 
 
 The waving grass of summer. 
 
 And its skies so softly blue. 
 And the flowers, so thickly springing, 
 
 Of loveliest form and hue, 
 And the birds, whose joyous music 
 
 Floats abroad from tree to tree — 
 All these make not the sweetness 
 
 Which summer brings to me. 
 
 But to see the little children. 
 
 As they gather up the flowers. 
 To hear them calling to the birds 
 
 Up in their leafy bowers. 
 To note with what untiring zeal 
 
 They dig the dusty road. 
 The ecstasy v/ith which they greet 
 
 Each ugly " hoppy toad." 
 
 To see them stretched upon the grass 
 
 Beneath the maple-trees. 
 Telling of the wondious things 
 
 Which a childish fancy sees. 
 Receiving all the grasshoppers. 
 
 And the caterpillars, too, 
 As their chosen friends and playmates, 
 
 Without the least ado. 
 
 Oh, this to me is summer. 
 
 And in this she speaks to me, 
 With accents low and gentle 
 
 And with tend'rest sympathy. 
 And I never can forget, 
 
 Howe'er busy be the day, 
 To look out through the window 
 
 On the children at their play. 
 
 TENDER MEMORIES. 
 
 The orchard blooms in red and white. 
 
 The meadow glows with blossoms 
 fair ; 
 The river runs a stream of light 
 
 Between its banks of beauty rare. 
 The homestead seems of heaven a 
 part — 
 
 A little heaven here below. 
 Where only one is sad at heart — 
 
 The little girl that loveo you so. 
 
THE MILK-MAID.— CUDDLE DOON. 
 
 109 
 
 For now you roam through far-off 
 lands — 
 
 The distant Worlds beyond the sea ; 
 O'er snow-crowned Alps, by shining 
 sands, 
 
 Amid the dreams of Italy ; 
 Through valleys of the Grecian State, 
 
 Where heroes reigned so long ago ; 
 While here for you I sadly wait — 
 
 The little girl that loves you so. 
 
 Your letters tell of sunsets sweet 
 Beyond the Jordan's shrunken 
 streams ; 
 Of buried cities where the feet 
 
 Of Time seems caught in ancient 
 dreams. 
 How, deified, in halls of art, 
 
 Love reigns the queen where'er you 
 
 go, 
 And brings still nearer to your heart 
 The little girl that loves you so. 
 
 I know you think of me at times. 
 And long for rest, and love, and 
 home ; 
 My prayers, like old remembered 
 rhymes, 
 Must follow you where'er you roam. 
 Ah ! dearest, come what may to you — 
 Come grief or bliss, come joy or 
 woe. 
 There's one whose every thought to 
 true — 
 The little girl that loves you so. 
 
 THE MILK-MAID AND THE 
 PAIL OF MILK. 
 
 Her milk pail on her head, 
 
 Perrette set out to town. 
 No heels her low shoes had. 
 
 Nor flounce nor train her gown ; 
 And her step was liq;ht 
 On that morn so bright, 
 
 And her face had never a frown. 
 
 The milk, she said, I'll sell. 
 
 And its price for eggs will pay; 
 
 The nests, well filled, I'll guard 
 P>om harm by night and day; 
 
 And the brood once hatched, 
 
 Renard sly will be matched 
 
 By the watch that I'll keep alwav. 
 
 In time I'll sell my chicks 
 
 And buy a pig instead ; 
 The cost will not be [uuch 
 
 To keep him housed and fed. 
 He'll grow fat in a trice 
 And will bring a good price, 
 
 When I sell him, living or dead. 
 
 What now shall me prevent 
 
 A goodly cow to buy } 
 Her calf shall leap beside ; 
 
 Then who so rich as I } 
 Thereupon poor Perrette 
 Leaped too, and upset 
 
 All the milk that she carried so high. 
 
 Good-bye to cow and calf ! 
 
 Good-bye to pig as well ! 
 Good-bye, oh, nests and eggs ! 
 
 With pail and milk ye fell ! 
 
 The moral is plain 
 That castles in Spain 
 
 As doubtless you oft have heard tell. 
 Are charming and fair, 
 But are built in the air. 
 
 And therefore not wisely nor well. 
 
 CUDDLE DOON. 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
 
 Wi' muckle faucht an' din ; 
 Oh, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, 
 
 Your father's comin' in. 
 They never heed a word I speak ; 
 
 I try to gie a froon, 
 But aye I hap them up an' cry^, 
 
 " Oh bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
no 
 
 THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Wee Jamie \vi' the curly heid — 
 
 He aye sleeps next the \va' — ^ 
 Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece;" 
 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, 
 
 They stop awee the soun' ; 
 Then draw the blankets up an' cry, 
 
 "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." 
 
 But ere five minutes gang-, wee Rab 
 
 Cries oot frae 'neath the claes, 
 *' Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance— 
 
 He's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
 The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, 
 
 He'd bother half the toon : 
 But aye 1 hap them up an' cry, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 At length they hear their father's fit. 
 
 An', as he steeks the door. 
 They turn their faces to the wa', 
 
 While Tam pretends to snore. 
 "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he 
 asks, 
 
 As he pits off his shoon ; 
 *'The bairnies, John, are in their beds. 
 
 An' long since cuddled doon." 
 
 An' just afore we bed oorsel'. 
 
 We look at oor wee lambs ; 
 Tam has his arms roun' wee Rab's 
 neck. 
 
 An' Rab his airms roun' Tarn's. 
 I left wee Jamie up the bed. 
 
 An' as I straik each croon, 
 I whisper' till my heart fill up, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
 But sune the big warl's cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee, 
 Yet come what will to ilka ane, 
 
 May He who sits aboon 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be 
 bauld, 
 
 ** Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 ["I think the house beautiful ; it is so full of re- 
 
 membrances." 
 " The slow, sweet hours that bring us all things 
 good, 
 The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, 
 And all good things from evil." — Tennvson.] 
 
 I AM sitting beside my nursery fire. 
 Watching my children at play. 
 
 And my thoughts go back to the long, 
 long years 
 Whose record is — passed away. 
 
 Yes, passed away is the echo 1 hear. 
 
 As I sit within this room. 
 And think of the lives of those loved 
 ones dear 
 
 Who first made the house a home. 
 
 But these dumb old walls give no echo 
 back. 
 They have kept their secret well. 
 Fond words have they heard while 
 glad tears were shed. 
 But never a one they tell. 
 
 But there lingers about them a hallow- 
 ing charm. 
 
 And 1 feel them dearer now. 
 As, folding my children within my arm, 
 
 I kissed each fair white brow. 
 
 I think of the time when I stood by 
 your side. 
 To begin my life anew. 
 And we whispered low, till death us 
 do part 
 We will be to each other true. 
 
 And through the years that have passed 
 since then 
 Our lives have been richly blessed. 
 While our home was hers — 'twas as if 
 we had 
 Entertained an angel guest. 
 
 And what hearts were ours when first 
 to my breast 
 I folded our baby girl, 
 Then another came, little Sunbeam 
 bright, 
 Laughing eyes and flaxen curl. 
 
A CROWD OF BOYS.— AN AIR-CASTLE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And the dear old home is now ours 
 alone ! 
 As a trust it comes to me, 
 Yes, a sacred trust from those who are 
 gone, 
 Ah ! what shall otir record be ? 
 
 As sitting beside my nursery fire, 
 Watching my children at play, 
 
 I ask, Will they feel it a holy place, 
 When we, too, have passed away ? 
 
 A CROWD OF BOYS, 
 
 We live in a bit of a cottage. 
 
 With rooms neither many nor wide ; 
 Yet we're rich in possessions — at table 
 
 Our children count three on a side. 
 There are brown eyes and blue eyes 
 and hazel. 
 And with various gifts they're en- 
 dowed ; 
 But the school-boys agree that our 
 Benny 
 Is th;:; jolliest boy in the crowd. 
 
 My neighbor who has only daughters. 
 
 Came in with her sewing one day. 
 And, while we were pleasantly chatting. 
 
 The children came in from their 
 play. 
 She paused in the midst of a story. 
 
 Unused to hear voices so loud. 
 But smilingly added : " Your Benny 
 
 Is the noisiest boy in the crowd ! " 
 
 Their Grandpa drops in of a morning. 
 
 And is often invited to stop. 
 To tell them some story or other, 
 
 Or mend up a wagon or top. 
 Hi is always amused at their sayings, 
 
 And seems of them all to fee proud; 
 But he says, sot to voce, that Benny 
 
 is the smartest of all in the crowd. 
 
 A.nd Grandma, who dwells in the quiet, 
 Unmoved by earth's clamor and 
 noise. 
 
 Comes in with her sweet, placid man- 
 ners. 
 For an afternoon talk with the boys. 
 She sets them at peace, if a quarrel 
 Breaks over their joy like a cloud, 
 She is fond of them all ; but thinks 
 Benny 
 Is the prettiest one in the crowd. 
 
 Aunt Jane, from her stately old man- 
 sion, 
 
 O'ershadowed by poplar and elm. 
 Came down to the city last winter. 
 
 To visit my turbulent realm. 
 " I am glad," she assured me, at part- 
 ing, 
 " Such blessings to you are allowed ; 
 But keep a tight rein on that Benny, 
 
 He's the sauciest boy in the crowd 1 " 
 
 Ah me ! what a mixed reputation 
 
 For any one boy to possess ! 
 As the others have talents unnumbered. 
 
 We're a Babel, I frankly confess. 
 A philosopher asked to appraise them. 
 
 At the task would be puzzled and 
 cowed. 
 Though at dinner might reason that 
 Benny 
 
 Is the hungriest boy in the crowd. 
 
 At night, when they all have been 
 settled 
 
 In crib and in cradle and bed, 
 I go on a tour of inspection 
 
 And pillow each slumbering head ; 
 And, while I commend them to heaven. 
 
 With spirit in reverence bowed, 
 I am sure I can never determine 
 
 The dearest or best in the crowd. 
 
 AN AIR-CASTLE. 
 
 I BUILT a house in my youthful dreams 
 In a sunny and pleasant nook, 
 
 Where I might listen, the whole day 
 long. 
 To the voice of the gurgling brook ; 
 
112 
 
 A MUSIC LESSON ON THE BAG-PIPES. 
 
 A cottage with wide and airy rooms 
 And broad and shining floors — 
 
 A house with the hidden charms of 
 home 
 And the freedom of out-of-doors. 
 
 Fair morning-glories chmb and bloom 
 
 At will by tne eastern eaves, 
 And on the doorstep and window-sill 
 
 The roses shake their leaves ; 
 And fair old-fashioned lilacs toss 
 
 Their purple plumage high, 
 While honeysuckles drop their sweets 
 
 On every passer-by. 
 
 Down at the end of a pleasant path 
 
 Is a group of evergreen trees — 
 Pine and hemlock, and spruce and fir. 
 
 With their spicy fragrances ; 
 And, sweetest picture of calm content 
 
 That mortal ever saw. 
 Under a low-boughed apple-tree 
 
 Is a bee-hive made of straw. 
 
 I have pictured it all a hundred times — 
 
 I shall do it a hundred more ; 
 But I never shall own the pleasant 
 home, 
 
 With the roses over the door. 
 Never a dream of mine came true — 
 
 It is Fate's unbending law; 
 I never shall see che apple-tree. 
 
 Nor the bee-hive made of straw. 
 
 But yet in the airy realm of dreams, 
 
 Where all my riches be, 
 I enter into the heritage 
 
 Which is else denied to me. 
 I have but to close my eyes to find 
 
 My Eden without a flaw — 
 The home, the garden, the apple-tree. 
 
 And the bee-hive made of straw. 
 
 A MUSIC LESSON OX THE BAG- 
 FIFES. 
 
 Fingers on the holes, Johnny, 
 
 Fairly in a rovv ; 
 Lift this and then that. 
 
 And blow, blow, blow ! 
 
 That's how to play, Johnny, 
 
 On the pipes sae shrill ; 
 Never was the piper yet 
 
 But needed a' his skill. 
 
 And lang and sair he tried it, too. 
 
 Afore he won the knack 
 Of makin' bag and pipe gie 
 
 His very yearnin's back. 
 The echo to his heart-strings 
 
 Frae such a thing to come 
 Oh, is it no a wonder — 
 
 Like a voice frae out the tomb ? 
 
 Be patient noo, my Johnny lad, 
 
 Ye mustna hurry thro' — 
 Take time and try it o'er again — 
 
 Sic a blast ye blew ! 
 It's no alains by blowdn' strong. 
 
 But eke by blowin' true. 
 That ye can mak' the music 
 
 To thrill folk thro' and thro'. 
 
 The weak folk and the leamin', 
 
 'Tis them that mak's the din ; 
 But for the finished pipers 
 
 They count it as a sin ; 
 And maybe it's the very same 
 
 A' the world thro' — 
 The learners' the very ones 
 
 That mak' the most ado ! 
 
 Yc know the Southrons taunt us — 
 
 I sayna they're unfair — 
 About our squallin' music, 
 
 And their taunts have hurt me sair : 
 But if they'd heard a piper true 
 
 At night come o'er the hill, 
 Playin' up a pibroch 
 
 Upon the wind sae still ; 
 
 Rising now, and falling, 
 
 And floating on the air. 
 The sounds come softly on ye 
 
 Almost ere ye 're aware, 
 And fold themselves about the heart 
 
 That hasna yet forgot 
 The witchery of love and joy 
 
 Within some lonely spot — 
 
AN OLD HAND.— THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 113 
 
 I'm sure they wadna taunt us so, 
 
 Nor say the bagpipe's wild, 
 Nor speak o' squeakin' noises 
 
 Enougli to deave a child ; 
 They would say the bagpipe only 
 
 Is the voice of hill and glen ; 
 And would listen to it sorrowing, 
 
 Within the haunts of men. 
 
 Fingers on the holes, Johnny, 
 
 Fairly in a row ; 
 Lift this and then that. 
 
 And blow, blow, blow ! 
 That's how to play, Johnny, 
 
 On the pipes sae shrill ; 
 Never was the piper yet 
 
 But needed a' his skill. 
 
 AN OLD HAND. 
 
 Blue-veined and wrinkled, knuckly 
 and brown, 
 
 This good old hand is clasping mine ; 
 I bend above it, and looking down, 
 
 I study its aspect, line by line. 
 
 This hand has clasped a thousand 
 hands 
 That long have known no answering 
 thrill ; 
 Some have moldered in foreign lands — 
 Some in the graveyard on the hill. 
 
 Clasped a mother's hand, in the day 
 When it was little, and soft, and 
 white — 
 Mother, who kissed it, and went away, 
 To rest till the waking in God's good 
 light. 
 
 Clasped a lover's hand, years agone, 
 Who sailed away and left her in 
 tears ; 
 Under Sahara's torrid sun 
 
 Its bones have whitened years and 
 years. 
 
 Clasped the hand of a good man true. 
 Who held it softly and fell asleep. 
 
 And woke no more and never knew 
 How long that impress this would 
 keep. 
 
 Clasped so many, so many ! — so few 
 That still respond to the living will, 
 
 Or can answer this pressure so kind 
 and true ! 
 So many, that lie unmoved and still ! 
 
 Clasped, at last, this hand my own ; 
 
 And mine will molder, too, in turn ; 
 Will any clasp it when I am gone ? 
 
 In vain I study this hand to learn ! 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK. 
 
 Oh, the old, old clock of the household 
 stock, 
 Was the brightest thing and neatest ; 
 Its hands, though old, had a touch of 
 gold. 
 And its chimes rang still the sweet- 
 est. 
 'Twas a monitor, too, though its words 
 were few. 
 Yet they lived, though nations al- 
 tered ; 
 And its voice, still strong, warned old 
 and young. 
 When the voice of friendship faltered. 
 "Tick, tick," it said — "quick, quick to 
 bed. 
 For ten I've given warning; 
 Up, up, and go, or else, you know. 
 You'll never rise soon in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 A friendly voice was that old, old clock. 
 
 As it stood in the corner smiling. 
 And blessed the time with a merry 
 chime. 
 The winter hours beguiling ; 
 But a cross old voice was that tiresome 
 clock, 
 As it called the daybreak boldly. 
 
114 
 
 THE HAPPY VILLAGE.— A CLOSE, HARD MAN. 
 
 When the dawn looked gray on the 
 misty way 
 And the early air blew coldly ; 
 "Tick, tick," it said — "quick out of 
 bed, 
 For five I've given warning ; 
 You'll never have health, you'll never 
 get wealth, 
 Unless you're up soon in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Still hourly the clock goes round and 
 round. 
 With a tone that ceases never ; 
 While tears are shed for bright days 
 fled. 
 And the old friends lost forever ; 
 Its heart beats on, though hearts are 
 gone 
 That warmer beat rnd younger ; 
 Its hands still move, though hands we 
 love 
 Are clasped on earth no longer ! 
 "Tick, tick," it said — "to the church- 
 yard bed. 
 The grave hath given warning ; 
 Up, up, and rise, and look to the skies. 
 And prepare for the heavenly morn- 
 ing." 
 
 THE HAPPY VILLAGE. 
 As often I pass the roadside. 
 
 When wearily falls the day, 
 I turn to look from the hill-top 
 
 At the mountains far away. 
 
 The red sun through the forests 
 Throws hither his parting beams, 
 
 And far in the quiet valley 
 The happy village gleams. 
 
 There the lamp is lit in the cottage 
 As the husbandman's labors cease. 
 
 And I think that all things are gath- 
 ered 
 And folded in twilight peace. 
 
 But the sound of merry voices 
 Is heard in the village street. 
 
 While pleased the grandame watches 
 The play of the little feet. 
 
 And at night to many a fireside 
 
 The rosy children come : 
 To tales of the bright-eyed fairies 
 
 They listen and are dumb. 
 
 There seems it a joy forever 
 
 To labor and to learn. 
 For love, with an eye of magic, 
 
 Is patient to discern. 
 
 And the father blesses the mother. 
 And the children bless the sire, 
 
 And the cheer and joy of the hearth- 
 stone 
 Is as light from an altar fire. 
 
 Oh, flowers of rarest beauty 
 In that green valley grow ! 
 
 And whether 'twere earth or heaven, 
 Why shouldst thou care to know ? 
 
 Save that thy brow is troubled. 
 And dim is thy helpmate's eye, 
 
 And graves are green in the valley. 
 And the stars are bright in the sky. 
 
 A CLOSE, HARD MAIST. 
 
 A HARD, close man was Solomon Ray, 
 Nothing of value he gave away ; 
 
 He hoarded and saved ; 
 
 He pinched and shaved ; 
 And the more he had, the more he 
 craved. 
 
 The hard-earned dollar he tried to gain 
 Brought him little but care and pain ; 
 
 For little he spent. 
 
 And all he lent 
 He made it bring him twenty per cent. 
 
 Such was the life of Solomon Ray. 
 The years went by, and his hair grew 
 gray; 
 
 His cheeks grew thin, 
 And his soul within 
 Grew hard as the dollar he worked to 
 win. 
 
NOVEMBER.— THE COW-BELLS. 
 
 115 
 
 But he died one day, as all men must. 
 For life is fleeting and men but dust. 
 
 The heirs were gay 
 
 That laid him away. 
 And that was the end of Solomon Ray. 
 
 They quarreled now who had little 
 
 cared 
 For Solomon Ray while his life was 
 spared. 
 
 His lands were sold, 
 And his hard-earned gold 
 All went to the lawyers, I am told. 
 
 Yet men will cheat, and pinch, and 
 
 save. 
 Nor carry their treasures beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 All their gold some day 
 Will melt away, 
 Like the selfish savings of Solomon 
 Ray. 
 
 NO V EMBER. 
 
 When thistle-blows do lightly float 
 
 About the pasture-height, 
 And shrills the hawk a parting note, 
 
 And creeps the frost at night, 
 Then hilly ho ! though singing so, 
 
 And whistle as I may. 
 There comes again the old heart pain 
 
 Through all the livelong day. 
 
 In high wind creaks the leafless tree 
 
 And nods the fading fern ; 
 The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, 
 
 And cold the sun does burn. 
 Then ho, hollo ! though calling so, 
 
 I can not keep it down ; 
 The tears arise unto my eyes. 
 
 And thoughts are chill and brown. 
 
 Far in the cedars' dusky stoles. 
 
 Where the sere ground-vine weaves, 
 The partridge drums funereal rolls 
 
 Above the fallen leaves. 
 And hip, hip, ho ! though cheering so. 
 
 It stills no whit the pain •. 
 For drip, drip, drip, from bare branch- 
 tip, 
 
 I hear the year's last rain. 
 
 So drive the cold cows from the hill, 
 
 And call the wet sheep in ; 
 And let their stamping clatter fill 
 
 The barn with warming din. 
 And ho, folk, ho ! though it is so 
 
 That we no more may roam, 
 We still will find a cheerful mind 
 
 Around the fire at home ! 
 
 THE COW-BELLS. 
 
 One— in the distance, when the star 
 came out 
 Over the dark green woods upon the 
 hill- 
 One bell's low tinkle, and the farmer's 
 shout. 
 While in the pauses sang the whip- 
 poor-will. 
 
 Two, three, and more. She's coming 
 now ; but wait ! 
 She stops. There's clover in yon 
 tufts of fern. 
 Lightfoot ! Coo-coo ! Come down ; the 
 milking's late. 
 Robert, run up beyond the lane's 
 quick turn. 
 
 Two little arms stretch out to clasp a 
 cup 
 Of gentle Lightfoot 's milk. " Come 
 down. Coo-coo ! 
 The farmer, tired with haying, wants 
 to sup." 
 Hark ! on the silent air the bell peals 
 out anew. 
 
 There's silence now. She's at the hill- 
 side spring, 
 Drinking with liquid, vacant eyes, 
 her fill; 
 While upward flits on dreamy, bat-like 
 wing 
 The somber, brooding, plaintive 
 whip-poor-will. 
 
 Coo-coo ! she's coming ; hear her lull- 
 ing bell ! 
 Or does the farmer strike his empty 
 glass 
 
ii6 
 
 THE REAPERS.— THE OLD FARM-GATE. 
 
 With pewter spoon 
 der dell 
 The bell is drowned 
 dow's frrass. 
 
 Perhaps in yon- 
 amid the mea- 
 
 She's in her yard at last ; the bell is 
 still, 
 And she has done her peaceful work. 
 Ah ! me, 
 What if some higher spirits wait to fill 
 Their earthly longings from human- 
 ity ! 
 
 THE REAPERS. 
 
 The reapers bend their lusty backs ; 
 
 Their sounding sickles sway ; 
 At every stroke the golden sea 
 
 Recedes to give them way ; 
 The heavy ears fall bowing down, 
 
 And nestle at their feet. 
 Such vv/ill, such work as theirs, per- 
 force, 
 
 Must win— must homage meet. 
 
 So careless of fatigue they go. 
 
 So true, so steadily. 
 The admiring traveler on the road 
 
 Leans o'er the gate to see ; 
 With marvel of the soon-fallen breadth, 
 
 The lounging gossips tell ; 
 But the reapers labor for us all ; 
 
 'Tis need they should work well. 
 
 Ere the great sun that burns above 
 
 Shall crimson in the west, 
 And the children's poppy nosegays 
 fade. 
 
 And they lie down to rest, 
 Each golden spear that upward points 
 
 Each fall upon the field. 
 And the farmer drain a sparkling glass. 
 
 Rejoicing o'er the yield. 
 
 Ply, bonny men, your sickles bright. 
 
 And give the people bread ! 
 At every conquering stride you take, 
 
 On want and woe you tread. 
 Drop, heavy ears, and give the strength 
 
 You gathered from this plain. 
 That man may rise refreshed and firm. 
 
 And do great things again. 
 
 God bless the hands all hard and 
 brown, 
 
 That guide the cleaving plow. 
 That cast abroad the shining seed. 
 
 And build the wealthy mow ; 
 They rear the bread our children eat ; 
 
 'Tis by their toil we live ; 
 Hurrah ! give them the loudest cheer 
 
 That grateful hearts can give ! 
 
 THE OLD FARM-GA TE. 
 
 The old farm-gate hangs, sagging 
 
 down. 
 On rusty hinges, bent and brown ; 
 Its latch is gone, and here and there 
 It shows rude traces of repair. 
 
 The old farm-gate has seen each year 
 The blossoms bloom and disappear ; 
 The bright green leaves of spring un- 
 fold. 
 And turn to autumn's red and gold. 
 
 The children have upon it clung. 
 And in and out with rapture swung. 
 When their young hearts were good 
 
 and pure — 
 When hope was fair and faith was 
 
 sure. 
 
 Beside that gate have lovers true, 
 
 Told the old story always new ; 
 
 Have made their vows, have dreamed 
 
 of bliss. 
 And sealed each promise with a kiss. 
 
 The old farm-gate has opened wide 
 To welcome home the new-made 
 
 bride. 
 When lilacs bloomed, and locusts fair. 
 With their sweet fragrance filled the 
 
 air. 
 
 That gate, with rusty weight and 
 
 chain. 
 Has closed upon the solemn train 
 That bore her lifeless form away, 
 Upon a dreary autumn day. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
THE OLD BARN.— THE PATCHWORK QUILT. 
 
 117 
 
 The lichens gray and mosses green 
 Upon its rotting posts are seen ; 
 Initials, carved with youthful skill 
 Long years ago, are on it still. 
 
 Yet dear to me, above all things, 
 By reason of the thoughts it brings, 
 Is that old gate, now sagging down. 
 On rusty hinges, bent and brown. 
 
 THE OLD BARN. 
 
 Rickety, old and crazy, 
 
 Shingleless, lacking some doors ; 
 Bad in the upper story. 
 
 Wanting boards in the floors ; 
 Beams strung thick with cobwebs, 
 
 Ridge-pole yellow and gray. 
 Hanging in helpless innocence 
 
 Over the mows of hay. 
 
 How the winds turned around it — 
 
 Winds of a stormy day — 
 Scattering the fragrant hay seed. 
 
 Whisking the straws away ; 
 Streaming in at the crannies. 
 
 Spreading the clover smell. 
 Changing the dark old granary 
 
 Into a flowery dell. 
 
 Oh, how I loved the shadows. 
 
 That clung to the silent roof. 
 Day-dreams wove with the quiet. 
 
 Many a glittering woof; 
 I climbed to the highest rafters. 
 
 And watched the swallows at play. 
 Admired the knots in the boarding. 
 
 And rolled in the billows of hay. 
 
 Palace of king couldn't match it ; 
 
 The Vatican loses its charm, 
 When placed in my memory's balance. 
 
 Beside the old gray barn ! 
 And I'd rather scent the clover. 
 
 Piled in the barn's roomy mows. 
 Than sit in the breath of the highlands 
 
 Poured from Apennine prows ! 
 
 THE PATCHWORK QUILT. 
 
 Light and shadows rise and fall 
 
 In the room with the rosy-papered 
 
 wall. 
 Room to me that is best of all. 
 
 Wind, lift up the muslin screen ! 
 Let in the light that comes between 
 The maple leaves of shining green. 
 
 Fall soft upon the patchwork spread. 
 Quilt of blue and white and red. 
 Upon a carved old-fashioned bed. 
 
 Your worn-out squares are quilted 
 
 through 
 With thoughts of all I used to do. 
 When I wore the dresses now in you. 
 
 I was a girl with braided hair, — 
 I think of the time I gave the tear, 
 The zigzag rent beyond repair, — 
 
 As I went through the fields a girlish 
 
 rover. 
 In dress of white all dotted over 
 With sprigs of wheat, and sprays of 
 
 clover. 
 
 Oh, dress ! that once was mine to wear, 
 Your clover blooms are scattered 
 
 there 
 In the pink and white of that patch- 
 work square. 
 
 Wind, lift up the muslin screen ! 
 Let in the light that comes between 
 The maple leaves of shining green. 
 
 Fall soft upon the patchwork spread ; 
 For a little child that now is dead, 
 Sewed your squares of white and red. 
 
 One summer's day she wrought in you, 
 And left her needle half-way through. 
 With a knotted, twisted thread of blue. 
 
 Before she slept that summer's night. 
 She laid away, and out of sight, ^ 
 I Your folded squares of red and white. 
 
ii8 
 
 THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 She sought for blooms that fadeless 
 
 grow, 
 And left for other hands to sew 
 The clover blossoms here below. 
 
 And still the light through windows 
 
 small, 
 Throws shadows on the rosy wall, 
 On the quaint old-fashioned bedstead 
 
 tall; 
 
 And falls in waving bars of gold 
 Across each faded, wrinkled fold 
 Of clover blossoms growing old ; 
 
 While into Life's great patchwork 
 
 square, 
 With knotted threads of thought and 
 
 care, 
 I sew my dreams and fancies fair. 
 
 When night shall deeper shadows 
 
 throw, 
 I will leave my work, and softly go 
 To seek for blooms that fadeless grow. 
 
 What matters it ? I will not grieve. 
 If other hands shall interweave 
 And smooth the tangled threads I 
 leave. 
 
 Beyond the dark, in fields of bliss, 
 I'll gather flowers, and will not miss 
 The clover blossoms left in this. 
 
 I will backward look through all the 
 
 shade. 
 To see in full completeness laid 
 The patchwork squares that I have 
 
 made. 
 
 THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 A WHITE pine floor and low-ceiled 
 
 room, 
 A wheel and a reel and a great brown 
 
 loom. 
 The windows out and the world in 
 
 bloom — 
 
 A pair of "swifts " in the corner, where 
 The grandmother sat in her rush- 
 wrought chair, 
 And pulled at the distaff"'s tangled hair ; 
 
 And sang to herself as she spun the tow 
 While " the little wheel " ran as soft 
 
 and low 
 As muffled brooks where the grasses 
 
 grow 
 And lie one way with the water's flow. 
 
 As the Christ's field lilies free from 
 
 sin, 
 So she grew like them when she ceased 
 
 to spin. 
 Counted her " knots " and handed 
 
 them in. 
 
 " The great wheel " rigged in its har- 
 ness stands — 
 
 A three-legged thing with its spindle 
 bands — 
 
 And the slender spokes, like the willow 
 wands 
 
 That spring so thick in the low, wet 
 lands. 
 
 Turn dense at the touch of a woman's 
 hands. 
 
 As the wheel whirls swift, how rank 
 
 they grow ! 
 But how sparse and thin when the 
 
 wheel runs slow 
 Forward and backward and to and fro ! 
 
 There's a heap of rolls like clouds in 
 
 curl, 
 And a bright-faced, springy, barefoot 
 
 girl; 
 She gives a touch and a careless whirl. 
 
 She holds a roll in her shapely hand 
 That the sun has kissed and the wind 
 
 has fanned. 
 And its mate obeys the wheel's com- 
 mand. 
 
 There must be winds on her rosy heel ! 
 And there must be bees in the spin- 
 dled steel ! 
 A thousand spokes in the dizzy wheel ! 
 
THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 119 
 
 Have you forgotten the left - breast 
 knock 
 
 When you bagged the bee in the holly- 
 hock, 
 
 And the angry burr of an ancient clock, 
 
 All ready to strike, came out of the 
 
 mill, 
 Where covered with meal the rogue 
 
 was still. 
 Till it made your thumb and finger 
 
 thrill? 
 
 It is one, two, three — the roll is caught : 
 'Tis a backward step and the thread 
 
 is taut, 
 A hurry of wheel and the roll is wrought ! 
 
 'Tis one, two, three, and the yarn runs 
 on, 
 
 And the spindle shapes like a white- 
 pine cone. 
 
 As even and still as something grown. 
 
 The barefoot maiden follows the thread 
 Like somebody caught and tether'd 
 
 and led 
 Up to the buzz of the busy head. 
 
 With backward sweep and willov^ 
 
 bend 
 Monarch would borrow if maiden could 
 
 lend. 
 She draws out the thread to the white 
 
 wool's end. 
 
 From English sheep of the old-time 
 
 farm. 
 With their legs as fair as a woman's 
 
 arm. 
 And faces white as a girl's alarm. 
 
 She breaks her thread with an angry 
 
 twang 
 Just as if at her touch a harp-string 
 
 rang 
 And keyed to the quaint old song she 
 
 san2" 
 
 That came to a halt on her cherry lip. 
 While she tied one knot that never 
 
 could slip, 
 And thought of another, when her 
 
 ship — 
 
 All laden with dreams in splendid 
 
 guise — 
 Should sail right out of the azure skies 
 And a lover bring with great brown 
 
 eyes ! 
 
 Ah, broad the day but her work was 
 
 done — 
 Two " runs " by reel ! She had twisted 
 
 and spun 
 Her two-score "knots " by set of sun. 
 
 With her one, two, three the wheel 
 
 beside. 
 And the three, two, one, of her back- 
 ward glide, 
 ! Till the bees went home and daytime 
 I died ! 
 
 I In apron white as the white sea foam, 
 She gathered the wealth or her velvet 
 
 gloom. 
 And railed it in with a tall back-comb ; 
 
 She crushed the dew with her naked 
 
 feet. 
 The track of the sun was a golden 
 
 street, 
 The grass was cool and the air was 
 
 sweet. 
 
 The girl gazed up at the mackerel sky. 
 And it looked like a pattern lifted high ; 
 But she never dreamed of angels nigh. 
 
 i And she spoke right out : " Do just 
 
 see there ! 
 What a blue and white for the clouded 
 
 pair 
 I'm going to knit for Sunday wear ! " 
 
 The wheel is dead and the bees are 
 
 gone. 
 And the girl is dressed in a silver lawn, 
 And her feet are shod with a golden 
 
 dawn. 
 
120 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 From a wind-swung tree that waves 
 
 before, 
 A shadow is dodging in the door — 
 Flickering ghost on the white pine 
 
 floor — 
 
 And the cat, unlearned in the shadow's 
 
 law, 
 Just touched its edge with a velvet paw 
 To hold it still with an ivory claw ! 
 
 But its spectral cloak is blown about, 
 And a moment more and the ghost is 
 
 out, 
 And leaves us all in shadowy doubt. 
 
 If ever it fell on floor at all. 
 Or if ever it swung along the wall 
 Or whether a shroud or a phantom 
 shawl ! 
 
 Oh, brow that the old-time morning 
 
 kissed 
 Good-night, my girl of the double and 
 
 twist. 
 Oh, barefoot vision ! Vanishing mist ! 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Up on the breezy headland 
 
 The fisherman's grave they made. 
 Where over the daisies and clover bells, 
 
 The birchen branches swayed ; 
 Above us the lark was singing 
 
 In the cloudless skies of June, 
 And under the cliffs the billows 
 
 Were chanting their ceaseless tune : 
 For the creamy line was curving 
 
 Along the hollow shore, 
 Where the dear old tides were flowing 
 
 That he would ride no more. 
 
 The dirge of the wave, the note of the 
 bird. 
 And the priest's low tones were blent 
 In the breeze that blew from the moor- 
 land, 
 All laden with country scent ; 
 
 But never a thought of the new-mown 
 hay 
 Tossing on sunny plains. 
 Or of lilies deep in the wildwood. 
 
 Or roses gemming the lanes. 
 Woke in the hearts of the stern, bronzed 
 men 
 Who gathered around the grave 
 Where lay the mate who had fought 
 with them 
 The battle of wind and wave. 
 
 How boldly he steered the coble 
 
 Across the foaming bar. 
 When the sky was black to the east- 
 ward 
 
 And the breakers white on the Scar ! 
 How his keen eye caught the squall 
 ahead, 
 
 How his strong hand furled the sail, 
 As we drove o'er the angry waters 
 
 Before the raging gale ! 
 How cheery he kept all the long dark 
 night ; 
 
 And never a parson spoke 
 Good words, like those he said to us 
 
 When at last the morning broke ! 
 
 So thought the dead man's comrades 
 
 As silent and sad they stood. 
 While the prayer was prayed, the bless^ 
 ing said. 
 And the dull earth struck the wood ; 
 And the widow's sob, and the orphan's 
 wail. 
 Jarred through the joyous air; 
 How could the light wind o'er the sea 
 
 Blow on so fresh and fair ? 
 How could the gay waves laugh and 
 leap 
 Landward o'er sand and stone, 
 While he, who knew and loved them 
 all, ^ 
 
 Lay lapped in clay alone ? HI 
 
 But for long, when to the beetling 
 heights 
 
 The snow-tipped billows roll, 
 When the cod, and skate, and dogfish 
 
 Dart around the herring shoal : 
 
A PICTURE AND A PARABLE.— OUR YOUNG FOLKS. 121 
 
 When gear is sorted, and sails are set, 
 
 And the merry breezes blow, 
 And away to the deep-sea harvest, 
 
 The stalwart reapers go, 
 A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, 
 
 They will give to him who lies 
 Where the clover springs, and the 
 heather blooms 
 
 Beneath the northern skies. 
 
 A PICTURE AND A PARABLE. 
 
 An old-time ingle, warm and wide. 
 
 Shaming our modern manners. 
 Where backwood monarch, side by 
 side. 
 
 Fling up their rival banners. 
 And sent their gleaming cohorts fast 
 
 The flying shadows after. 
 Till warmth and comfort glow at last 
 
 From shining floor to rafter ; 
 Now glittering in the silver store 
 
 Of heirlooms with a story. 
 Now weaving saintly halos for 
 
 The elder's crown of glory ; 
 But tenderest the fire-light glows, 
 
 And merriest is glancing 
 Upon a boy with cheek of rose, 
 
 In baby frolic dancing 
 About a loving father's knee, 
 
 Whose brow of care unbending 
 To join in all the baby glee 
 
 Is father's fondness lending ; 
 While, with her loving smile for all. 
 
 The gentle household mother 
 Moves queenly through her kingdom 
 small, 
 
 Nor longs for any other. 
 But muses, in a happy way, 
 
 Whether on earth there may be 
 Another such papa to play 
 
 Bo-peep with such a baby. 
 Full well the picture I recall 
 
 My childish fancy greeted, 
 And which the scene that most of all 
 
 I liked to have repeated : 
 How, when his father's hiding-place 
 
 The boy could not discover, 
 A while he stood with puzzled face | 
 
 Thinking the matter over, I 
 
 Then stooped with sudden roguery 
 
 And airs of mock confiding. 
 And peeped beneath a chip to see 
 
 If there papa was hiding; 
 And how the trick brought papa out 
 
 With sudden peal of laughter, 
 And joyous was the baby's shout. 
 
 And wild the frolic after. 
 
 And still my fancy lingers in 
 
 The pretty, childish story. 
 And thinks a deeper sense to win. 
 
 As from an allegory ; 
 For what do we with childish wits- 
 More witless children rather — 
 Seeking beneath our chips and bits 
 
 Of truth to find the Father— 
 " Lo here, lo there" — when every- 
 where 
 
 His walls of home do hold us, 
 The warmth and love-light of his care 
 
 By day and night infold ws} 
 And when we lay us down to sleep. 
 
 And scenes of earth forsake us. 
 His presence still our souls shall keep. 
 
 His morning kiss shall wake us. 
 Does not the Father's pity yearn 
 
 To comfort them that fear Him, 
 Until within His arms they learn 
 
 That they are always near Him ? 
 
 OUR YOUNG FOLKS. 
 
 There's a little face at the window 
 And two dimpled hands on the pane ; 
 
 And somebody's eyes are fixed upon 
 The gate at the end of the lane. 
 
 The hills have caught the shadow 
 
 Which heralds the coming night, 
 And the lane, with its flowering fringe, 
 
 grows dim 
 To the watcher's anxious sight. 
 
 Where, half way down. 
 Like a glittering crown, 
 
 A fire-fly band have clustered 
 round an aster's leaf — 
 A royal chief— 
 
 A driven herd are mustered. 
 
122 
 
 MISCHIEF-MAKERS.— UNDER THE MAPLE. 
 
 Away behind, 
 
 With busy mind, 
 But a step that is light and free, 
 
 And a sun-burnt face 
 
 On which the trace 
 Of a hard day's work you see, 
 
 Comes the farmer home from toil, 
 
 Driving the cows before him ; 
 And the child-eyes strained at the win- 
 dow there. 
 Were the first in the house that saw 
 him. 
 
 Ah ! would, when the day is done 
 And I leave my cares behind me, 
 
 I could have such a pair of winsome 
 eyes 
 Searching the night to find me ! 
 
 MISCHIEF-MAKERS. 
 
 Oh ! could there in this world be found 
 Some little spot of happy ground. 
 
 Without the village tattling ! 
 How doubly blest that spot would be 
 Where all might dwell in liberty, 
 Free from the bitter misery, 
 
 Of gossip's endless prattling. 
 
 If such a spot were really known. 
 Dame Peace might call it all her own, 
 And in it she might fix her throne, 
 
 Forever and forever. 
 There like a queen might reign and 
 
 live. 
 While every one would soon forgive 
 The little slights they might receive. 
 
 And be offended never. 
 
 'Tis mischief-makers that remove 
 Far from our hearts that warmth of 
 
 love. 
 And lead us all to disapprove 
 
 What gives another pleasure ; 
 They seem to take one's part — but 
 
 when 
 They've heard our cares, unkindly then 
 They soon retail them out again. 
 Mixed up with poisonous measure. 
 
 And then they've such a cunning way 
 Of telHng ill-meant tales ; they say, 
 "Don't mention it, I pray, 
 
 I would not tell another : " 
 Straight to your neighbors then they 
 
 Narrating ever^'thing they know ; 
 And break the peace of high and low. 
 Wife, husband, friend, and brother. 
 
 Oh ! that the mischief-making crew 
 Were all reduced to one or two, 
 And they were painted red or blue. 
 
 That every one might know them ! 
 Then would our villagers forget 
 To rage and quarrel, fume and fret, 
 And falling into an angry pet 
 
 With things so much below them. 
 
 For 'tis a sad degrading part 
 To make another's bosom smart. 
 And plant a dagger in the heart 
 
 We ought to love and cherish. 
 Then let us evermore be found 
 In quietness with all around. 
 While friendship, joy, and peace abound 
 
 And angry feelings perish. 
 
 UNDER THE MAPLE. 
 
 The start it gave me just now to see. 
 As I stood in the door-way looking 
 out, 
 
 Rob Greene at play by the maple-tree, 
 Throwing the scarlet leaves about ! 
 
 It carried me back a long, long way ; 
 Ten years ago — how the time runs 
 by! 
 There was nobody left at home that 
 day 
 But Httle Jimmy and father and I. 
 
 My husband's father, an old, old man, 
 Close on to eighty, but still so smart : 
 
 It was only of late that he began 
 To stay in the house and doze apart. 
 
UNDER THE MAPLE. 
 
 123 
 
 But the fancy took him that afternoon 
 To go to the meadow to watch the 
 men ; 
 
 And as fast as I argued, just so soon 
 He went right over it all again ; 
 
 Till, seeing how set he seemed to be, 
 I thought, with the air so warm and 
 still. 
 
 It could not hurt him to go with me 
 And sit for a little under the hill. 
 
 So, lending my arm to his feeble tread. 
 Together slowly we crossed the road, 
 
 While Jim and his cart ran on ahead 
 With a heap of pillows for wagon 
 load. 
 
 We made him a soft seat, cushioned 
 about. 
 Of an old chair out of the barn close 
 by: 
 Then Jim went off with a caper and 
 shout. 
 While we sat silent, father and I. 
 
 For me, I was watching the men at 
 work, 
 And looking at Jack, my oldest son — 
 So like his father ! he never would 
 shirk, 
 But kept straight on till the stint 
 was done. 
 
 Seventeen was Jack that last July : 
 A great stout fellow, so tall and 
 strong ! 
 
 And I spoke to the old man by and by, 
 To see how fast he was getting along. 
 
 But father had turned away his head, 
 
 A-following Jimmy's busy game 
 With the maple leaves, whose bloody 
 red 
 Flared up in the sun like so much 
 flame. 
 
 His lips, as he looked, began to move. 
 And I heard him mutter a word or 
 two : 
 
 " Yes, Joe ! A fire in the Weston 
 grove ? 
 Just wait — one minute — I'll go with 
 you ! " 
 
 "Why, father," I cried, "what do you 
 mean ? " 
 For I knew he talked of his brother 
 Joe, 
 The twin that was drowned at scarce 
 fifteen. 
 Sixty summers and more ago. 
 
 " The sun has dazzled you : don't you 
 see 
 
 That isn't a fire a-blazing there ? 
 It's only Jim, by the maple-tree, 
 
 Tossing the red leaves into the air." 
 
 But still he nodded and looked and 
 smiled. 
 Whispering something I could not 
 hear ; 
 Till, fairly frightened, I called the child, 
 Who left his play and came frolick- 
 ing near. 
 
 The old man started out of his seat : 
 " Yes, Joe, yes ; I'm coming," said he. 
 
 A moment he kept his tottering feet 
 And then his weight grew heavy on 
 me. 
 
 " Father ! " I screamed ; but he did not 
 mind. 
 Though they all came running about 
 us then : 
 The poor old body was left behind. 
 And the twins were young together 
 again. 
 
 And I wonder sometimes, when I wake 
 at night. 
 Was it his eyes or my own were 
 dim ? 
 Did something stand beyond my sight, 
 Among the leaves, and beckon to 
 him ? 
 
124 WE CAN MAKE HOME HAPPY.— ON THE STAIRWAY. 
 
 Well, there comes Jim up the interval 
 road ; 
 
 Ten summers ago? yes, all often : 
 That's Baby Jack on the pumpkin load, 
 
 And Jim is as old as Jack was then. 
 
 jvjS can make home happy. 
 
 Though we may not change the cot- 
 tage 
 For a mansion tall and grand. 
 Or exchange a little grass-plat 
 
 For a boundless stretch of land — • 
 Yet there's something brighter, dearer, 
 Than the wealth we'd thus com- 
 mand. 
 
 Though we have no means to purchase 
 Costly pictures, rich and rare — 
 
 Though we have no silken hangings 
 For the walls so cold and bare — 
 
 We can hang them o'er with garlands. 
 For flowers bloom everywhere. 
 
 We can always make home cheerful. 
 If the right course we begin ; 
 
 We can make its inmates happy. 
 And their truest blessings win ; 
 
 It will make the small room brighter 
 If we let the sunlight in. 
 
 We can gather round the fireside 
 When the evening hours are long ; 
 
 We can blend our hearts and voices 
 In a 1 appy social song ; 
 
 We can guide some, erring brother. 
 Lead him from the path of wrong. 
 
 We may fill our home with music. 
 And with sunshine brimming o'er. 
 
 If against all dark intruders 
 
 We will firmly close the door — 
 
 Yet should evil shadows enter, 
 We must love each other more. 
 
 There are treasures for the lowly 
 Which the grandest fail to find ; 
 
 There is a chain of sweet affection 
 Binding friends of kindred mind — - 
 
 We may reap the choicest blessings 
 From the poorest lot assigned. 
 
 HOME again. 
 
 Home again ; mother, your boy v/ill 
 rest 
 
 For a time, at least, in the old home 
 nest. 
 
 How good to see you in your cor- 
 nered nook 
 
 With knitting, or sewing, or paper, or 
 book. 
 
 The same sweet mother my boyhood 
 knew. 
 
 The faithful, the patient, the tender 
 and true. 
 
 You have little changed ; ah, well 
 
 maybe 
 A few gray hairs in the brown I see ; 
 A mark or two, under smiling eyes. 
 So lovingly bent in your glad surprise ; 
 'Tis I who have changed ; ah, mother 
 
 mine, 
 From a teasing lad, to manhood's 
 
 prime. 
 
 No longer I climb on your knee at 
 
 night 
 For a story told in the soft firelight ; 
 No broken slate or book all torn, 
 Do I bring to you with its edges worn; 
 But I'll come to you with my graver 
 
 cares. 
 You'll help me bear them with tender 
 
 prayers. 
 
 I'll come again as of old — and you 
 Will help the man to be brave and 
 
 true ; 
 For the man's the boy, only older 
 
 growm. 
 And the world has many a stumbling 
 
 stone. 
 Ah, mother mine, there is ahvays rest 
 When I find you here in the old home 
 
 nest. 
 
 ON THE STAIRWAY. 
 
 The little children on the stairway. 
 Cased in a slippery glare of sleet. 
 
 By post and railing vainly clamber- 
 Slight hold is there for baby feet. 
 
NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP." 
 
 125 
 
 High in the cold air swings the school- 
 bell, 
 " Come up ! come up ! " its clang 
 commands ; 
 A quick thought flies from lips to fin- 
 gers, 
 " 'Tis easier taking hold of hands." 
 
 Low laughter lights their rosy faces ; 
 Stout arms the faltering strugglers 
 lift; 
 Now all at last have won the threshold, 
 
 And out of sight within they drift, 
 Flinging back bloom upon the snow- 
 wreaths ; 
 The blank, white world reflects their 
 
 smile ; 
 Their word has cleared for us a path- 
 way. 
 Though Alps of ice the high-road 
 pile. 
 
 We all are children on a stairway. 
 
 Weary of vain attempts to climb. 
 Or, strong ourselves, forgetting others — 
 
 While silver peals of Duty chime 
 High in the echoing heaven above us, 
 
 And, welcome we or dread the call, 
 Upon the steps we may not linger — 
 
 Ascend we must, slide back, or fall. 
 
 Whose is the fault if this one stumbles? 
 
 If that laments a hopeless bruise? 
 Or if any other sits despairing? 
 
 Yours, mine, who timely aid refuse. 
 Small honor to go up unhindered 
 
 While a tired brother by us stands ; 
 The little children, they shall teach us, 
 
 " 'Tis easier taking hold of hands." 
 
 Still up and down on Virtue's ladder 
 
 Unnumbered beings come and go. 
 With faces turned to nether darkness, 
 
 Or sunned with a celestial glow. 
 The truants out of Duty's heaven. 
 
 The white and dazzling seraph- 
 bands, 
 Are brethren still ; and, struggling up- 
 ward, 
 
 " 'Tis easier taking hold of hands." 
 
 ''NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO 
 SLEEP." 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep " — 
 So the baby learned her prayer 
 Kneeling by her mother's chair ; 
 In her little bed-gown white. 
 Said it over every night ; 
 Learning, in her childish way. 
 How a little child could pray. 
 
 ■ Now I lay me down to sleep " — 
 Said the child a maiden grown : 
 Thinking, with a backward glance, 
 How the happy past had flown. 
 Since, beside her mother's knee, 
 With a child's humility. 
 She had said her simple prayer. 
 Feeling safe in Jesus' care. 
 
 ' I pray the Lord my soul to keep "- 
 Yet the words were careless said : 
 Lightly had the hand of Time 
 Laid his fingers on her head ; 
 On Life's golden afternoon 
 Gay the bells and sweet the tune, 
 And upon her wedding-day 
 She had half forgot to pray. 
 
 Now I lay me down to sleep " — 
 How the words come back again. 
 With a measure that was born 
 Half of pleasure, half of pain : 
 Kneeling by a' cradle bed. 
 With a hand upon each head. 
 Rose the old prayer, soft and slow, 
 As a brooklet in its flow. 
 
 All alone, with bended head. 
 She has nothing but her dead; 
 Yet with heart so full of care. 
 Still her lips repeat the prayer ; 
 Rest at last ! oh, storm-tossed soul ! 
 Safe beyond the breakers' roll : 
 He, the Lord, her soul shall keep. 
 Now she lays her down to sleep. 
 
126 
 
 EVENING HYMN.— LEARNING TO PRAY. 
 
 A CHILD'S FACE AT THE 
 
 WIN DO IV. 
 
 I COULD not comprehend 
 
 The preacher nor his text ; 
 I walked with downcast head, 
 
 And brooded thoughts perplext. 
 In things too deep for me 
 
 My footing soon I lost, 
 'Twixt doubt and faithless cavil 
 
 Swaying wind-blown and tossed. 
 
 At last my eyes I lifted ; 
 
 A face looked down at me, 
 A child's face at the window ; — 
 
 Could there evangel be 
 More swift ? ashamed I said. 
 
 And must I so forget 
 That lesson old, the child 
 
 Who in the midst was set? 
 
 As innocent and simple, 
 
 As fearless, if I'd be. 
 Quiet-behaved I'd fret not, 
 
 Nor start, at mystery. 
 The child's face at the window 
 
 Shall, like a masterpiece. 
 Be, henceforth, mine to copy ; 
 
 O Lord, my skill increase ! 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 Close, little weary eyes. 
 
 The day at last is over ; 
 To-night no more surprise 
 
 Shall they discover. 
 Nor bird, nor butterfly, 
 
 Nor unfamiliar flower. 
 Nor picture in the sky. 
 
 Nor fairy in the bower. 
 
 Rest, little weary feet. 
 
 The woods are dark and lonely 
 The little birds rest sweet, 
 
 The owl is watching only ; 
 No buttercup is seen, 
 
 Nor daisy in the meadow ; 
 Their gold, and white, and green 
 
 Are turned to purple shadow. 
 
 Fold, little busy hands, 
 
 Day is the time for doing ; 
 The boats lie on the sands. 
 
 The mill-wheels are not going. 
 Within the darksome mine 
 
 Are hushed the spade and hammer ; 
 The cattle rest supine. 
 
 The cock withholds his clamor. 
 
 Still, little restless heart. 
 
 Be still until the morrow ; 
 Till then thou hast no part 
 
 In either joy or sorrow. 
 To new and joyous day 
 
 Shall little birds awake thee ; 
 Again to work and play, 
 
 With strength renewed betake thee. 
 
 LEARNING TO PRA Y. 
 
 Kneeling fair in the twilight gray, 
 A beautiful child was trying to pray ; 
 His cheek was on his mother's knee. 
 His little bare feet half hidden, 
 His smile still coming unbidden, 
 And his heart brimful of glee. 
 
 " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say ! 
 
 Oh mamma ! I've had such fun to-day, 
 
 I hardly can say my prayers. 
 
 I don't feel just like praying ; 
 
 1 want to be outdoors playing. 
 
 And run all undressed down-stairj, 
 
 " I can see the flowers in the garden- 
 bed, 
 Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red. 
 And Sammy is swinging, I guess. 
 Oh ! everything is so fine out there, 
 I want to put it all in my prayer. 
 Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ! ' 
 
 " When I say * Now I lay me,' v/orJ 
 
 for word, 
 It seems to me as if nobody heard, 
 Would ' Thank you, dear God,' be 
 right } 
 He gave me a mamma. 
 And papa, and Sammy — 
 Oh, mamma, you nodded 1 might." 
 
AUNT POLLY'S ADVICE— ROWING AGAINST THE TIDE. 
 
 127 
 
 Clasping his hands and hiding his face, 
 Unconsciously yearning for help and 
 for grace, 
 The little one now began. 
 
 His mother's nod and sanction 
 Had led him close to the dear 
 Lord's feet, 
 And his words like music ran. 
 
 * Thank you for making this home so 
 
 nice, 
 The flowers, and folks, and my two 
 white mice, 
 (I wish I could keep right on) 
 I thank you, too, for every day. 
 Only I'm most too glad to pray ; 
 Dear God, I'm done. 
 
 "Now, mamma, rock me — just a 
 
 minute — 
 And sing the hymn with 'darling' 
 in it ; 
 I wish I could say my prayers ! 
 When I get big I know I can. 
 Oh ! won't it be nice to be a man, 
 And stay all night down-stairs.^ " 
 
 The mother singing, clasping him tight. 
 Kissing and cooing a fond " Good- 
 night," 
 Had treasured his every word ; 
 For well she knew the artless joy 
 And love of her precious, innocent 
 boy, 
 Were a prayer that her Lord had 
 heard. 
 
 A UNT POLL Y'S AD VLCE. 
 
 If things go wrong in the household 
 (As they often will, you know). 
 
 Or you're worried out with cares that 
 vex. 
 And the children try you so ; 
 
 Don't sit in the vale of shadows, 
 Or stoop to be a scold ; 
 
 'Twill only make bad worse, you see, 
 
 While you grow gray and old. 
 
 I know how things will bother. 
 
 While work seems mountain high. 
 And the adding of a feather's weight 
 
 Makes you feel as if you'd die ; 
 And then perhaps your husband 
 
 Says something quite unkind, 
 (He has his worries, too, poor man), 
 
 So pray, then, never mind. 
 
 A sharp retort is best unsaid. 
 
 Though censure's hard to bear ; 
 But John may think you're most to 
 blame 
 
 If you his spirit share. 
 Then keep your temper, gentle Nell, 
 
 Just do the best you can ; 
 And by and by God will unfold 
 
 The secret of His plan. 
 
 I've had my troubles, too, dear Nell, 
 
 And many and many a day. 
 If the Lord had not been with me, 
 
 I'd have fainted by the way. 
 Then let Faith fold her brooding wing 
 
 O'er all your doubts and fears. 
 And God will give thee needed strength 
 
 For all the coming years. 
 
 ROWLNG AGALNST THE TIDE. 
 
 It is easy to glide with its ripples, 
 
 Adown the stream of time. 
 To flow with the course of the river. 
 
 Like music to some old rhyme ; 
 But, ah ! it takes courage and patience, 
 
 Against its current to ride. 
 And we must have strength from 
 Heaven, 
 
 When rowing against \he tide. 
 
 We may float on the river's surface. 
 
 While our oars scarce touch the 
 stream. 
 And visions of earthly glory 
 
 On our dazzled sight may gleam ; 
 We forget that on before us 
 
 The dashing torrents roar. 
 And while we are idly dreaming. 
 
 Its waters will carry us o'er. 
 
128 
 
 MY OLD SILVER THIMBLE. 
 
 But a few — ah! would there were 
 many — 
 
 Row up the " Stream of Life," 
 They struggle against its surges, 
 
 And mind neither toil nor strife ; 
 Though weary and faint with labor. 
 
 Singing triumphant they ride. 
 For Christ is the hero's captain 
 
 When rowing against the tide. 
 
 Far on through the hazy distance. 
 
 Like the mist on a distant shore, 
 They see the walls of a city, 
 
 With its banners floating o'er. 
 Seen through a glass so darkly, 
 
 They almost mistake their way ; 
 But Faith throws light on their labor 
 
 When darkness shuts out their day. 
 
 And shall we be one of that number. 
 
 Who mind not toil nor pain ? 
 Shall we moan the loss of earth's 
 pleasures. 
 
 When we have a crown to gain ? 
 Or shall we glide on with the river. 
 
 With Death at the end of the ride. 
 While our brother, with Heaven before 
 him, 
 
 Is rowing against the tide ? 
 
 THE MO THER WANTS HER BO V. 
 
 There's a homestead waiting for you, 
 my boy, 
 In a quaint old-fashioned town ; 
 The gray moss clings to the garden 
 wall. 
 And the dwelling is low and brown ; 
 But a vacant chair by the fireside 
 stands, 
 And never a grace is said ; 
 But a mother prays that her absent son 
 Soon may be homeward led, 
 For the mother wants her boy. 
 
 She trains the vines and tends the 
 flowers, 
 
 For she says, " My boy will come ; 
 And I want the quiet, humble place 
 
 To be just the dear old home 
 
 That it seemed when he, a gentle lad, 
 Used to pluck the orchard's gold. 
 
 And gather of roses and lilies tall, 
 Far more than his hands could hold, 
 And still 1 want my boy." 
 
 How well she knows the very place, 
 
 When you played at bat and ball : 
 And the violet cap you wore to school. 
 
 Still hangs on its hook in the hall ; 
 And when the twilight hour draws near 
 
 She steals adown the lane 
 To cosset the lambs you used to pet. 
 
 And dream you were home again ; 
 For the mother wants her boy. 
 
 She is growing old, and her eyes are 
 dim 
 With watching day by day, 
 For the children nurtured at her breast 
 
 Have slipt from her arms away ; 
 Alone and lonely, she names the hours 
 
 As the dear ones come and go : 
 Their coming she calls " The time of 
 flowers ! " 
 Their going, " The hours of snow ! " 
 And ever she wants her boy. 
 
 Walk on, toil on ; giv^e strength and 
 mind 
 To the task in your chosen place ; 
 But never forget the dear old hom.e. 
 
 And the mother's loving face ! 
 You may count your blessings score 
 on score. 
 You may heap your golden grain, 
 But remember when her grave is made. 
 Your coming will be in vain. 
 And now she wants her boy. 
 
 MY OLD SILVER THIMBLE. 
 
 The old silver thimble I've worn for 
 years, 
 How much it has helped me to do !^ 
 In mending the rents in little ones' 
 clothes, 
 Or making them clothes that were 
 new. 
 
IN THE GARRET ARE OUR BOYS." 
 
 I2g 
 
 At mom it has shone on my finger, 
 When the dew still sprinkled the 
 flowers, 
 And has taken the gleam of the lamp- 
 light 
 'Mid latest of night's quiet hours. 
 
 It helped me to fashion the trousers 
 Which Johnnie was proud to display, 
 
 And the fairy-like dresses that clung to 
 The delicate form of dear May. 
 
 In the dark room it quietly glittered. 
 When our sweet little baby lay 
 dead ; 
 Whilst it pressed in the needle that 
 broidered 
 The tiny lace cap for its head. 
 
 And again, in the time of a bridal, 
 'Twas ready to help us its best. 
 
 In forming the robes of the birdling 
 Then leaving the warm parent nest. 
 
 And so it has proven trustworthy 
 For what it was called on to do, 
 
 No flaws have come o'er its clear sur- 
 face. 
 Its silver is sterling and true. 
 
 And though for the " latest invention," 
 That takes up the stitches so fast. 
 
 It is sometimes unused and neglected, 
 'Tis bright as it was in the past. 
 
 If we, who have souls in our bodies. 
 Were staunch as this thimble has 
 been. 
 On earth would be more of God's peo- 
 ple. 
 And less of cormption and sin. 
 
 Then, standing at last with freed 
 spirits, 
 At the great gates of jasper and 
 gold, 
 The angels would warmly inclose us 
 In God's ever-fflorious fold. 
 
 ''IN THE GARRET ARE OUR 
 
 BO Ysr 
 
 Here I'm sitting, stitching, darning 
 
 Little stockings, toes and heels, 
 While above my head the racket 
 
 Sounds like distant thunder-peals. 
 What on earth can mean this tumult. 
 
 Whence comes this distracting 
 noise ? 
 Ah, I know it ; yes, I hear them, — 
 
 " In the garret are our boys." 
 
 There is Grayson, " dead in earnest," 
 
 Wanting things to go "just so ; " 
 Banging all the boards together, 
 
 Placing boxes in a row ; 
 " Make believe " his having auction. 
 
 Selling worn-out broken toys. 
 Do you wonder at the clatter ? 
 
 " In the garret are our boys." 
 
 Now the barrel from the corner 
 
 Fast is rolling o'er and o'er. 
 And the croquet balls are bounding 
 
 Here and there across the floor. 
 "Seize a mallet," "quick," "get 
 ready," 
 
 "There's your ball," "here mine 
 goes," 
 " I can beat you if I try it," 
 
 " I can strike the hardest blows." 
 
 Hark, a shout of merry laughter — 
 
 Hammond's joyful, jolly glee ! 
 "Brother, don't you see I'm beating? 
 
 Better clear the track for me." 
 Bang, bafig, bang! Oh, dear, 'tis 
 deafening. 
 
 Have you ever heard this noise ? 
 Not unless you are the mother 
 
 Of just three such darling boys. 
 
 Now I hear a shout from Milton — 
 He's the youngest of the three — 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing, if I missed it," 
 "Take care, brother, don't hit me." 
 
 " Mamma, mamma ! call to Beamie," * 
 " Here's my book and there's my 
 ball," 
 
 * " Bca.iiiic " is a pot name given to HaciDioncu 
 
130 
 
 STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 "Let me be, or I'll go tell her, 
 Mamma, Beamie made me fall." 
 
 Yes, I'm sitting, stitching, mending 
 
 Pants and jackets, quiie a sight ; 
 Need I grieve o'er countless stitches. 
 
 If they cover hearts all right ? 
 Should the bustle in the garret 
 
 E'er disturb ray sweetest joys. 
 If my heart is yearning heavenward, 
 
 For the welfare of our boys ? 
 
 If when years have brought them man- 
 hood, 
 
 And the broad world is their field ; 
 "When this heart that so much loves 
 them, 
 
 lis first place is forced to yield; 
 When I ponder o'er the bygones, 
 
 "Will these days be reckoned joys ? 
 "Will I wish that I could say then, 
 
 " In the garret are our boys ? " 
 
 STILL DAY LV AUTUMN. 
 
 1 LOVE to wander through the wood- 
 land hoary, 
 In the soft gloom of an autumnal 
 day, 
 
 When summer gathers up her robes 
 of glory. 
 
 And, like a dream of beauty, glides 
 away. 
 
 How through each loved, familiar path 
 she lingers, 
 Serenely smiling through the golden 
 mist. 
 Tinting the wild grape with her dewy 
 fingers. 
 Till the cool emerald turns to ame- 
 thyst. 
 
 Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, 
 shining 
 To light the gloom of autumn's 
 mouldering halls. 
 With hoary plumes the clematis en- 
 twining. 
 Where o'er the rock her withered 
 garland falls. 
 
 Warm lights are on the sleepy up- 
 lands waning 
 Beneath dark clouds along the hori- 
 zon rolled. 
 Till the slant sunbeams through their 
 fringes raining 
 Bathe all the hills in melancholy 
 gold. 
 
 The moist wind breathes of crisped 
 leaves and tlowers 
 In the damp hollows of the wood- 
 land sown, 
 Mingling the freshness of autumnal 
 showers 
 With spicy airs from cedar alleys 
 blown. 
 
 Beside the brook and on the cum- 
 bered meadow. 
 Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the 
 faded ground. 
 With folded lids beneath their palmy 
 shadow. 
 The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers 
 bound. 
 
 Upon those soft-fringed hds the bee 
 sits brooding. 
 Like a fond lover loth to say fare- 
 well. 
 Or, with shut wings, through silken 
 folds intruding. 
 Creeps near her heart his drowsy 
 tale to tell. 
 
 The little birds upon the hillside 
 
 lonely 
 Flit noiselessly along from spray to 
 
 spray. 
 Silent as a sweet wandering thought, 
 
 that only 
 Shows its bright wings and softly 
 
 glides away. 
 
 The scentless flowers, in the warm 
 sunlight dreaming, 
 Forget to breathe their fullness of 
 delisrht : 
 
THE COUNTRY SERMON. 
 
 131 
 
 And through the tranced wood soft 
 airs are streaming, 
 Still as the dew-lall of the summer 
 night. 
 
 So in my heart a sweet unwonted 
 feeling , , 1 
 
 Stirs hke the wind in ocean s hol- 
 low shell , , ^,, 
 
 Through all its secret chambers sadly 
 
 stealing, . , 
 
 Yet finds no words its mystic charm 
 
 to tell. 
 
 THE COUNTRY SERMON. 
 It was a shining Sunday morn, 
 Out of a week of thunder born ; 
 And soothing bells their summons 
 
 For country folk, o'er farm and field. 
 
 I sought the church that on the hill 
 Towered in the sunUght pure and still , 
 I sat upon a grave-slab gray, ^ 
 To breathe the balm of that bright day. 
 
 I watched the people gathering slow 
 From the far parish spread below, 
 From gabled grange, historic hall. 
 From many a cottage rude and small. 
 
 They came in choicer Sunday guise, 
 With Sabbath peace in patient eyes, 
 As those who doubtless looked to find 
 Some holy boon for life and mind. 
 
 I had not thought to leave the stone 
 Whereon I sat and mused alone, 
 But something in me seemed to say 
 That theirs might be the better way. 
 
 I rose and joined the church-bound 
 
 train ; , . u + ^i 
 
 My voice blent with their chanted 
 
 strain ; .^^ ■ . 
 
 And one spake words not ill in tune 
 With beauty of that summer noon : 
 "How all of brightest, best we see 
 Must shadows of the heavenly be ; 
 
 " How the blue dawn, and morning's 
 
 glow 
 And the vast sunset's fiery show, 
 Soft pearly moon, and stars of night, 
 Are'shadows of the heavenly light ; 
 
 " How all the sweetest sounds of earth. 
 Music of winds, birds, infants' mirth, 
 Anthems that float church-aisles along, 
 Are shadows of the heavenly song ; 
 
 "How mother's fondness, rich and 
 
 fair, , ^ , , 
 
 Large trust of child and father s care. 
 The selfless loves that deepliest move. 
 Are shadows of the heavenly love ; 
 
 " How the delights that kindle here. 
 How gay heart-laughter ringing clear, 
 How ecstasies without alloy 
 Are shadows of the heavenly joy ; 
 
 - How blessed moods of quiet deep. 
 How placid dream and death-like 
 
 How%^leep-like death in snow shroud 
 
 drest, , 
 
 Are shadows of the heavenly rest : 
 
 "And how, if leal— through sufl-ering, 
 
 loss, , ^ 
 
 And thrift more perilous to the Cross, 
 In our inferior measure, we 
 May shadows of the heavenly be : 
 
 " Until at last, when Time is o er, 
 And its vain visions vex no more, 
 All the pale shadows we shal miss,^^ 
 In sheer, supreme, substantial bliss. 
 
 The simple words with feeling fraught, 
 A warmer faith and juster wrought , 
 And forth I went with brighter eye. 
 To find a fairer life and sky. 
 
 For things about, within me, wore 
 Divine, new meanings, hid before , 
 Xnd unto life, thought, work was given 
 The sacred light of final heaven. 
 
132 
 
 HOME.- IDLE WORDS.— RECOMPENSE. 
 
 HOME, 
 
 IDLE WORDS. 
 
 Over dark fields, and rivers deep and 
 
 Once I said, 
 
 cold. 
 
 Seeing two soft starry eyes. 
 
 And fen-land waste and drear, 
 
 Darkly bright as midnight skies — 
 
 Flies the glad message on a wire of 
 
 Eyes prophetic of the power 
 
 gold, 
 
 Sure to be thy woman's dower, 
 
 " Home and true hearts are here ! " 
 
 When the years should crown thee 
 
 
 queen 
 
 Fain would I hide me from the icy blast, 
 
 Of the realm as yet unseen ; 
 
 But yet it may not be ; 
 
 " Sometimes, sweet, those eyes shall 
 
 So, with averted eyes, I hurry past 
 
 make 
 
 The firelight and the glee — 
 
 Lovers mad for their sweet sake ! " 
 
 Home ! gasps my home-sick spirit, and 
 I bound 
 Onward and onward still ; 
 Glad when in distance dies the siren 
 sound. 
 That might have warped my will. 
 
 And as at length I fling the wintry 
 gloom 
 And perils far behind ; 
 The twinkling point becomes a fire-lit 
 room. 
 And rest, and peace of mind. 
 
 And happy faces, and a loyal wife. 
 
 Whose pulses ever beat 
 One tune amid the treacherous chords 
 of life, 
 
 Unchanging, true, and sweet. 
 
 So, from the lattice in the sapphire 
 keep, 
 
 (Where lie the treasures true) 
 A line of glory threads the mazy deep, 
 
 A voice comes out to woo. 
 
 Pure is the lamp that guides our feet 
 on high, 
 
 And sweet the gentle call. 
 So soft around Love's silken fetters lie, 
 
 There is no sense of thrall. 
 
 As to one goal we move, a pilgrim 
 band, 
 Chastened by tears and pain. 
 Thorns hedging up the way on either 
 hand. 
 Lest we should run in vain. 
 
 Once I said. 
 Seeing tresses, golden brown, 
 In a bright shower falling down 
 Over neck and bosom fair. 
 As yon sculptured angels are — 
 Odorous tresses, drooping low 
 O'er a forehead pure as snow ; 
 " Sometimes, sweet, in thy soft hair. 
 Love shall set a shining snare ! " 
 
 Once I said, 
 Seeing lips, whose crimson glow 
 Mock the roses wet with dew — 
 Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was 
 
 balm, 
 Pure, proud lips, serenely calm — 
 Tender lips, whose smiling grace 
 Lit with splendor all the tace ; 
 " Sweet, for kiss of thine, some day. 
 Men will barter souls away !" 
 
 Idly said ! 
 God hath taken care of all 
 Joy or pain that might befall ; 
 Lover's lip shall never thrill 
 At thy kisses, soft and still ; 
 Lover's heart shall never break 
 In sore anguish for thy sake ; 
 Lover's soul lor thee shall know 
 Nor love's rapture, nor its woe. 
 
 All is said ! 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 In Spring, two robins from the warmer 
 lands 
 Builded a nest upon an unsafe limb 
 
THE FISHERMAN'S WIDOW. 
 
 133 
 
 Of the tall tree that by my window 
 
 stands, ^ . 1 r- i 
 
 And every morn tney praised CjOcI 
 
 with a hymn. 
 
 And when a certain season passed 
 
 away, 
 Five light-green eggs within the build- 
 ing lay. 
 Above the rush and clatter of the street 
 Devotedly was guarded each green 
 trust. 
 And the round house was an abode 
 most sweet, 
 Roofed with awaiting wings. Better 
 to rust 
 With iron patience than forego a hope, 
 And pent life in the shells was felt to 
 
 grope. 
 But one dread day, before the sun went 
 down, 
 A cloud arose, a black and monstrous 
 hand, 
 That robbed the sunset of its golden 
 crown. 
 A windy shudder shook the fright- 
 ened land. 
 And portals of the storm were opened 
 
 wide. 
 And pealing thunder rolled on every 
 
 side. 
 Then was it some unchained malicious 
 gust 
 Troubled the spray whereon the nest 
 was made. 
 And to the ground the soft -floored 
 dwelling thrust. 
 And wrecked its hapless store. The 
 birds, dismayed, 
 Shrilled their unusual grief, and beat 
 
 the air 
 With wings whose very whir was like 
 despair. 
 
 At dawn, my neighbors, living o'er the 
 
 way. 
 Sent me the whisper that their babe 
 
 was dead ; 
 And when they led me where the body 
 
 lay- 
 
 The free, winged spirit's shell, un- 
 timely shed — 
 
 And the wild cries of their distress I 
 heard, 
 
 I thought with pity of each parent bird. 
 
 Yet o-rief is but a cloud that soon is 
 
 past ; 
 For there the mated robins came 
 once more, 
 And built again a nest, compact and 
 fast. 
 Upon the tree that grows before my 
 door ; 
 And in it, from the window, could be 
 
 seen 
 Five sources of sweet music, new and 
 clean. 
 
 Time passed, and to the good home 
 opposite 
 Another babe was born, and all the 
 love 
 That was bereft that fierce and stormy 
 night. 
 Fell to the latter child as from above ; 
 And in the nest five yellow mouths, 
 
 one day, j ,. 1 
 
 Of their impatient hunger made display. 
 
 We love our dead, and hold their mem- 
 ories dear ; 
 But living love is sweeter than re- 
 gret ; 
 
 God's ways are just, and though they 
 seem severe. 
 He can give back with blessings 
 greater yet 
 
 Than we have lost. He chastens for 
 some good, 
 
 That in our weakness is not understood. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S WIDOW. 
 The tears are standing upon her 
 cheeks. 
 And her eyes are weary and dim- 
 She has sat at the window for weeks 
 and weeks. 
 For a sight of his boat and him. 
 
134 
 
 THE SEA'S ANSWER.— AT THE OLD FARM. 
 
 She takes the youngest child on her 
 
 knee, 
 
 And turns its face to her breast — 
 
 "O God," she says, "that my babe 
 
 and me 
 
 Were laid in our grave to rest ! " 
 
 The boats come saihng in over the bay, 
 And the women run down to the 
 shore ; 
 But, though she sits there till the judg- 
 ment day. 
 His boat will come in no more. 
 
 THE SEA 'S ANS WER. 
 
 The pale moon rushed along the stormy 
 sky, 
 
 Now hid, now seen, like some belated 
 bark, 
 
 That drives among the breakers aim- 
 lessly. 
 
 Their white crests gleaming silver 
 through the dark. 
 
 Pale as the moon, beneath the light- 
 house cowered 
 
 The silent watcher on the great stone 
 pier; 
 
 She saw how black the gathering cloud- 
 rack lowered. 
 
 She heard the gale's hoarse warning 
 muttering near ; 
 
 She felt the kindred tumult in her 
 breast, 
 
 With nature's angry mood was prompt 
 to blend ; 
 
 Yet the sea answered, stilling her un- 
 rest, 
 
 " The hardest hap comes ever to the 
 end." 
 
 Though the great waves roll thunder- 
 ing to the shore. 
 
 And o'er the reef the cruel surf-clouds 
 foam. 
 
 Though fierce and high the crashing 
 breakers roar 
 
 Between the weary fisherman and 
 
 home ; 
 Calm to its depths the tide will ebb at 
 
 night, 
 The waves keep whispering backward 
 
 from the Scar, 
 And as the cottage-hearth shows wel- 
 come light. 
 The laden coble leaps the harbor bar. 
 Ears that can hear, hearts that can 
 
 understand. 
 Know Ocean tells us, like a staunch 
 
 old friend, 
 " God holds the future in His loving 
 
 hand, 
 The hardest hap comes ever to the 
 
 end." 
 
 The red-roofed houses piled beneath 
 
 the head 
 In silent separate lights began to shine, 
 The struggling moon her tearful radi- 
 ance shed 
 On the grand beauty of the ruined 
 
 shrine ; 
 From the quay-side, laugh, snatch of 
 
 song, and call. 
 Came fitful to the pier upon the breeze, 
 And, regular as pulse's rise and fall. 
 Boomed the long echo of the breaking 
 
 seas. 
 And still the watcher on the great stone 
 
 pier 
 Lingered above the eternal waves to 
 
 bend. 
 Taking their answer home to hush 
 
 and cheer, 
 " The hardest hap comes ever to the 
 
 end." 
 
 A T THE OLD FARM. 
 
 Yes, 'tis true. The blinds are closed, 
 
 And the front door streams with 
 crape. 
 Surely through the house last eve 
 
 Stole a vague and awful shape. 
 Dimly seen by only one — 
 
 Viewless, soundless to the rest ; 
 Only one descried the arrow 
 
 Ere its death pang pierced his breast. 
 
HUSH! 
 
 135 
 
 Why, they say he kissed his wife ! 
 
 She was sitting by the door. 
 With her patient, work-worn hands 
 
 Folded, for the day was o'er. 
 And the twihght wind stirred softly, 
 
 Tapped the lilacs on the pane, 
 While belated bees swung slowly 
 
 Homeward through the lane. 
 
 " Ruth," he said, and touched her brow, 
 
 Gently as a lover might, 
 Stooped and kissed her, sitting there. 
 
 She was struck with sudden fright. 
 " Ah ! what is it, John ! " she cried. 
 
 " Do you think I'm going to die ? " 
 " No ! " he answered ; " no, dear wife. 
 
 If 'tis any one 'tis I." 
 
 Full ten years or more had passed 
 
 Since he'd given her a word 
 Thoughtful, feeling-like, caressing. 
 
 She could scarce believe she heard 
 Rightly now. Their talk, you see. 
 
 Was, most part, about the farm — 
 Butter, eggs, the new Alderney, 
 
 Making hay ; they meant no harm — 
 
 Kindly, honest, Christian folk. 
 
 Both the deacon and his wife ; 
 Only, somehow, they had lost 
 
 All the romance out of life, 
 And the love which they began with, 
 
 Like a flower o'ergrown with weeds. 
 Struggled on, half choked, half buried, 
 
 In the strife for worldly needs. 
 
 Well, the night came on apace. 
 
 All the usual chores were done, 
 And they went to bed as usual ; 
 
 Rising always with the sun, 
 'Twas not worth while burning candles; 
 
 And at midnight, lo ! a call 
 Woke the sleepers. One was taken. 
 
 One was left — and that was all. 
 
 Lucy told me of the kiss. 
 
 On her way to meet the choir, 
 She had stopped to see Aunt Ruth, 
 
 She and Neighbor Brown's Desire. 
 
 They were not surprised this morning 
 When they heard that he was dead ; 
 
 That he must have had a warning 
 Was what our Lucy said. 
 
 But I think the real love, 
 
 The true love, that never dies, » 
 
 Once two loyal hearts have known it, 
 
 Wakened 'neath those evening skies, 
 And 'twill be a comfort sweet, 
 
 In her lonely time to be, 
 That before he went he spoke 
 
 To the " dear wife " tenderly. 
 
 HUSH! 
 
 " I CAN scarcely hear," she murmured, 
 
 "For my heart beats loud and fast, 
 But surely, in the far, far distance 
 I can hear a sound at last." 
 " It is only the reapers singing, 
 As they carry home their sheaves ; 
 And the evening breeze has risen, 
 And rustles the dying leaves." 
 
 " Listen ! there are voices talking," 
 
 Calmly still she strove to speak. 
 Yet her voice grew faint and trembling, 
 And the red flushed in her cheek. 
 " It is only the children playing 
 Below, now their work is done, 
 And they laugh that their eyes are 
 
 dazzled 
 By the rays of the setting sun." 
 
 Fainter grew her voice, and weaker, 
 
 As with anxious eyes she cried, 
 " Down the avenue of chestnuts 
 I can hear a horseman ride," 
 
 " It is only the deer that were 
 
 feeding 
 In the herd on the clover-grass, 
 They were startled and fled to the 
 
 thicket 
 As they saw the reapers pass." 
 
 Now the night arose in silence, 
 Birds lay in their leafy nest 
 
 And the deer couched in the forest. 
 And the children were at rest ; 
 
136 THANKSGIVING TURKEY.— HER MOTHER'S EAR. 
 
 There was only a sound of weeping 
 From watchers around a bed, 
 But Rest to the weary spirit, 
 Peace to the quiet Dead ! 
 
 THANKSGIVING TURKEY, 
 
 Valleys lay in sunny vapor, 
 And a radiance mild was shed 
 
 From each tree that like a taper 
 At a feast stood. Then we said, 
 " Our feast, too, shall soon be spread. 
 Of good Thanksgiving turkey." 
 
 And already still November 
 
 Drapes her snowy table here. 
 Fetch a log, then ; coax the ember ; 
 Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; 
 Heaven be thanked for one more 
 year. 
 
 And our Thanksgiving turkey ! 
 
 Welcome, brothers — all our party 
 Gathered in the homestead old ! 
 
 Shake the snow off, and with hearty 
 Hand-shakes drive away the cold ; 
 Else your plate you'll hardly hold 
 Of good Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 When the skies are sad and murky, 
 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet 
 
 Round this homely roast of turkey — 
 Pilgrims, pausing just to greet. 
 Then, with earnest grace, to eat 
 A new Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 And the merr}^' feast is freighted 
 
 With its meanings true and deep. 
 Those we've loved and those we've 
 hated. 
 All, to-day, the rite will keep. 
 All, to-day, their dishes heap 
 
 With plump Thanksgiving tur- 
 key. 
 
 But how many hearts must tingle 
 Now with mournful mem.ories ! 
 In the festal wine shall mingle 
 Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes 
 That look beyond the board where 
 lies 
 
 Our plain Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 See around us drawing nearer 
 
 Those faint yearning shapes of air — 
 Friends than whom earth holds none 
 dearer ! 
 No — alas ! they are not there ; 
 Have they then forgot to share 
 
 Our good Thanksgiving iurkey .? 
 
 Some have gone away and tarried 
 Strangely long by some strange 
 wave ; 
 Some have turned to foes ; we carried 
 Some unto the pine-girt grave ; 
 They'll come no more so joyous- 
 brave 
 
 To take Thanksgiving turkey. 
 
 Nay, repine not. Let our laughter 
 
 Leap like tire-light up again. 
 Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, 
 Snow-field yet untrod of men ; 
 Shall we meet once more — and 
 when } 
 
 To eat Thanksgiving turkey ? 
 
 And though not, 'twere still ungrate- 
 ful 
 'Mid such warm companionhood 
 To forecast the future fateful. 
 Finding there no balanced good, 
 'Tis but a type of finer food. 
 
 This plain Thanksgiving turkey; 
 
 Of higher gifts a quaint reminder. 
 Then let the bounty do its best 
 
 To make us gladder, stronger, kinder. 
 Bid no ghost to be our guest. 
 But eat as those now gone to rest 
 Once ate Thanksgiving turkey. . 
 
 HER MOTHER'S EAR. 
 
 They sat at the spinning together. 
 And they spun the fine white thread ; 
 
 One face was old and the other young, 
 A golden and silver head. 
 
THOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. 
 
 37 
 
 And at times the young voice broke in 
 song 
 That was wonderfully sweet, 
 And the mother's heart beat deep and 
 calm. 
 For her joy was most complete. 
 
 And at times the mother counseled 
 
 In a voice so soft and low. 
 How the untried feet of her daughter 
 
 Through this strange, rough life 
 should go. 
 
 There was many a holy lesson 
 Inwoven with silent prayer. 
 
 Taught to her gentle, listening child. 
 As they two sat spinning there. 
 
 *' And of all that I speak, my darling, 
 From my older head and heart, 
 
 God giveth me one last thing to say, 
 And with it thoa shalt not part : 
 
 "ThDU wilt listen to many voices — 
 And, ah woe, that this must be ! — 
 
 The voice of praise and the voice of 
 love 
 And the voice of flattery ; 
 
 " But listen to me, my little one : 
 There's one thing that thou shalt 
 fear. 
 
 Let never a word to my love be said 
 Which her mother may not hear. 
 
 " No matter how true, my darling one. 
 The words may seem to thee, 
 
 They are not fit for my child to hear 
 If they can not be told to me. 
 
 " If thou'lt ever keep thy young heart 
 pure, 
 
 And thy mother's heart from fear, 
 Bring all that is told to thee by day 
 
 At night to thy mother's ear." 
 
 And thus they sat spinning together. 
 
 And an angel bent to see 
 The mother and child whose happy 
 life 
 
 Went on so lovingly. 
 
 And a record was made by his golden 
 pen, 
 And this on his page he said. 
 That the mother who counseled her 
 child so well 
 Need never to feel afraid ; 
 
 For God would keep the heart of the 
 child 
 Who with tender love and fear, 
 Should kneel at her mother's side at 
 night, 
 With lips to her mother's ear ! 
 
 THO U WIL T NE VER GRO W OLD. 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old. 
 
 Nor weary, nor sad, in the home of 
 thy birth ; 
 My beautiful lily, thy leaves will unfold 
 In a clime that is purer and brighter 
 than earth. 
 Oh, holy and fair, I rejoice thou art 
 there, 
 In that kingdom of light, with its 
 cities of gold ; 
 Where the air thrills with angel ho- 
 sannas, and where 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old, 
 sweet — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin 
 Haunting my footsteps wherever I 
 go; 
 Life is a warfare my title to win : 
 
 Well will it be if it end not in woe ! 
 Pray for me, sweet ; I am laden with 
 care ; 
 Dark are my garments with mildew 
 and mold ; 
 Thou, my bright angel, art sinless and 
 fair, 
 
 And will never grow old, sweet — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 Now, canst thou hear from thy home 
 in the skies. 
 All the fond words I am whispering 
 to thee.f* 
 
138 
 
 THE FARMER FEEDETH ALL.— MY BROOK. 
 
 Dost thou look down on me with the 
 soft eyes 
 Greeting me oft ere thy spirit was 
 free i 
 So I believe, though the shadow of 
 time 
 Hide the bright spirit I yet shall be- 
 hold : 
 Thou wilt still love me, and, pleasure 
 sublime, 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old, 
 sweet — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, 
 grown gray. 
 Weeps when the vines from the 
 hearthstone are riven ; 
 Faith shall behold thee, as pure as the 
 day 
 Thou wert torn from the earth and 
 transplanted to heaven. 
 Oh, holy and fair, I rejoice thou art 
 there. 
 In that kingdom of light, with its 
 cities of gold ; 
 Where the air thrills with angel ho- 
 sannas, and where 
 Thou wilt never grow old, 
 sweet — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 THE FARMER FEEDETH ALL. 
 
 My lord rides through his palace gate, 
 My lady sweeps along in state ; 
 The sage thinks long on many a thing, 
 And the maiden muses on marrying ; 
 The minstrel harpeth merrily, 
 The sailor plows the foaming sea. 
 The huntsman kills the good red deer. 
 And the soldier wars without e'en fear ; 
 But fall to each whate'er befall. 
 The farmer he must feed them all. 
 
 Smith hammereth cherry red the sword, 
 Priest preacheth pure the Holy Word ; 
 Dame Alice worketh 'broidery well, 
 Clerk Richard tales of love can tell ; 
 
 The tap-wife sells her foaming beer, 
 Dan Fisher fisheth in the mere ; 
 And courtiers ruffle, strut, and shine. 
 While pages bring the Gascon wine. 
 But fall to each whate'er befall. 
 The farmer he must feed them all. 
 
 Man builds his castles, fair and high, 
 Wherever river runneth by ; 
 Great cities rise in every land. 
 Great churches show the builder's hand; 
 Great arches, monuments, and towers, 
 Fair palaces and pleasing bowers ; 
 Great work is done, be it here or there, 
 And well man worketh everywhere : 
 But work or rest, whate'er befall, 
 The farmer he must feed them all. 
 
 MY BROOK. 
 
 Sing, little Brook, and bid me sleep. 
 In thy cool shadows, dark and deep ; 
 For soon within the noisy town. 
 Sleep from my eyelids will have flown : 
 And I, with wear)' heart and sore. 
 Shall long to hear thy voice once more. 
 
 In early days 'twas said to me, 
 " The earth has not a home for thee." 
 Lightly I smiled to hear my doom ; 
 Then turned away to seek my home : 
 And ever since, on every side. 
 Have sought it vainly, far and wide. 
 
 The memory of thy music sweet 
 May find me in the rocky street ; 
 So thou, dear Brook, may'st soothe 
 
 again 
 As oft before, the dreary pain. 
 That, like old ocean's ceaseless moan, 
 Is aye my heart's deep undertone. 
 
 Sing on between the banks of flowers 
 Where I have passed the summer hours, 
 In waving lines of light and shade 
 By mighty elms and willows made, 
 By Balm of Gilead, blessed tree ! 
 
 I Sing on, and teach thy careless glee, 
 
 1 Thy ceaseless melody to me. 
 
THE PINE AND THE WALNUT.— " NOW I LAY ME. 
 
 139 
 
 Thou hast, like me, no other home 
 Than God's blue, overarching dome ; 
 And thou art hastening- on like me. 
 And soon we both shall reach the sea. 
 1 fain would sing through all my days. 
 As thou dost, to our Maker's praise. 
 
 THE PINE AND THE WALNUT. 
 
 A MILE or so from the gray little town 
 Of Newcastle, perched like a gull by 
 the sea. 
 On the Kittery side (where the banks 
 
 shelve down 
 To the lovely river's golden brown). 
 There towered, long since, an old 
 pine tree. 
 
 And across the stream, in a right bee- 
 line. 
 Like a sentry guarding the ruined 
 fort. 
 Was a large-limbed walnut, where the 
 
 kine 
 Huddled together in shower and shine. 
 Nibbling the herbage, sparse and 
 short. 
 
 Summer and winter those brave old 
 trees 
 Watched the blue river that slipped 
 between — 
 Leaned to the sunshine and drank the 
 
 breeze, 
 Clothed like emperors, taking their 
 ease 
 Now in ermine and now in green. 
 
 Many a time, when I was a lad, 
 
 I drifted by with suspended oar, 
 The wind in the walnut sesmed so sad ! 
 But, ah ! what a blustering voice it 
 had 
 In the rugged pine on the other 
 shore. 
 
 And often, in restless slumber tost, 
 1 seemed to be drifting down the 
 tide, 
 
 Hearing the strident wind as it crost — 
 To die away like a murmuring ghost 
 In the drooping boughs on the far- 
 ther side. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas a boyish fantasy — 
 The dream of a dreamer, half 
 afraid — 
 That the wind grew sad in the walnut 
 
 tree. 
 But surged through the pine like the 
 surging sea. 
 With a sound of distant cannonade ! 
 
 Only a fantasy ! Who can tell } 
 But I think 'twill haunt me to the 
 end. 
 Seeing what curious things befell 
 The walnut tree and the pine as well — 
 For they went together, friend and 
 friend ! 
 
 From a sullen cloud broke war at last, 
 And a grim sea-dog of the quarter 
 deck 
 Took the gaunt old pine for a mizzen- 
 
 mast : 
 In the flame of battle his spirit past. 
 And the mizzen dragged by the 
 shattered wreck. 
 
 With the Union Jack across him laid, 
 They bore him back to the town by 
 the sea ; 
 The guns at the yard his requiem 
 
 played. 
 And the admiral's coffin, it is said, 
 W^as shaped of the planks of the wal- 
 nut tree ! 
 
 'NOW I LAY me:' 
 
 Bed-time for the twittering birdies, 
 
 Mother Wren has hushed to rest ; 
 Bed-time for my little birdie, 
 
 Nestled closely to my breast. 
 Now beside me lowly kneeling, 
 
 Hear the lisping tongue repeat- 
 Dear old prayer of tender memory— 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep." 
 
140 
 
 MY MOTHER'S WHEEL.— UNFINISHED STILL. 
 
 With what trusting grace, and tender, 
 
 Rosy lips petition make : 
 " Pray the Lord to take my spirit. 
 
 If I die before I wake." 
 And no thought of dread comes o'er 
 me, 
 
 As I kiss her sweet " good-night." 
 We're so careless of our darlings 
 
 Till we lay them out of sight ! 
 
 Once again 'tis birdie's bed-time ; 
 
 Little neighbors in the tree 
 Hush their baby bird to slumber. 
 
 With no thought of lonely m.e. 
 Ah ! my mother's arms are empty. 
 
 Draped in sadness all the room, 
 And no whispered " Now 1 lay me " 
 
 Breaks upon the twilight gloom. 
 
 Smooth and white the little pillow. 
 
 Undisturbed the pretty bed, 
 On the table lie her playthings, 
 
 Mute reminder of my dead. 
 For no more my little treasure 
 
 My sad mother's heart may keep ; 
 In the heavenly Father's bosom 
 
 I have laid her down to sleep. 
 
 Down to sleep ! Ah, yearning mother. 
 
 Murmuring and sick at heart, 
 Full of joy shall be the waking. 
 
 Where no sorrovv finds a part. 
 There we'll find our garnered treasures. 
 
 From all pain and earth cares free, 
 Where no sad good-bye shall pain us 
 
 Through a long eternity. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S WHEEL. 
 
 In the shadows creeping o'er 
 
 Narrow pane and attic floor, 
 
 Stands a wheel with mould'ring band. 
 
 Turned no more by foot or hand ; 
 
 Dust upon it deeply lies. 
 
 Tiny specks that cloud the eyes ; 
 
 Over it the spiders spin 
 
 Daylight out and evening in. 
 
 As I sit beside it now. 
 Weary heart and aching brow. 
 Years go backward as the tide 
 From the silver seasons glide. 
 Life again is passing fair. 
 Sunshine glints my face and hair. 
 And a simple child I kneel, 
 Happy by this little wheel. 
 
 Once again I hear its hum, 
 While the moments go and come; 
 See the tireless fingers hold 
 Finest threads like shining gold ; 
 Busy till the sunset-red. 
 Till the last faint beam is fled ! 
 Spinning all the livelong day, 
 Hours of pain and joy away. 
 
 Faithful hands that toiled so long, 
 Lips that sung my cradle song, 
 Come and hush my sighs once more. 
 Lighten burdens as before ! 
 Softly through the silent room 
 Floats a brightness through the gloom, 
 While her presence seems to steal 
 Back to me beside this wheel. 
 
 UNFINISHED STILL. 
 
 A baby's boot, and a skein of wool. 
 
 Faded and soiled, and soft ; 
 Odd things, you say, and no doubt 
 
 you're right, 
 Round a seaman's neck this stormy 
 night. 
 Up in the yards aloft. 
 
 Most like it's folly ; but, mate, look 
 here ; 
 When first I went to sea, 
 A woman stood on the far-ofl" strand, 
 With a wedding-ring on the small, 
 soft hand 
 Which clung so close to me. 
 
 My wife, God bless her ! The day be- 
 fore 
 She sat beside my foot ; 
 And the sunlight kissed her yellov/ 
 
 hair. 
 And the dainty fingers, deft and fair. 
 Knitted a baby's boot. 
 
A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.— FARMER JOHN. 
 
 141 
 
 The voyage was over ; I came ashore ; 
 
 What, think you, found I there ? 
 A grave the daisies had sprinkled white ; 
 A cottage empty, and dark as night, 
 
 And this beside the chair. 
 
 The httle boot, 'twas unfinished still ; 
 
 The tangled skein lay near ; 
 But the knitter had gone 'away to rest. 
 With the babe asleep on her quiet 
 breast, 
 
 Down in the churchyard drear. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL IVOMAN. 
 
 In a little white house on a hillside 
 
 green. 
 Lives a beautiful woman as ever was 
 
 seen ; 
 In the sixty-five years that she's lived, 
 
 I may say, 
 She's been growing more beautiful 
 
 every day. 
 You do not believe it ? Ask Susie, m.y 
 
 sister, 
 She's the very first person that ever 
 
 had kissed her. 
 And if she's not nursed her by night 
 
 and by day. 
 Poor Sue would have been in a very 
 
 bad way. 
 I can bring other witnesses whom you 
 
 may face. 
 They will tell you the same — they were 
 
 in the same case. 
 " Has she lovers ? " Yes, surely ! No 
 
 less than eleven ! 
 She has seven on earth, and four more 
 
 up in heaven. 
 Her hair is so beautiful — faded and 
 
 thin, 
 There are beautiful wrinkles, from 
 
 forehead to chin, 
 Her eyes are as charming as charming 
 
 can be. 
 When she looks o'er her glasses so 
 
 fondly at me. 
 
 And I know by her hfe, which has 
 
 beautiful been. 
 She is like "the king's daughter" — 
 
 " all glorious within." 
 Ah, you've guessed who it is ! It could 
 
 be no other, 
 I'm sure, than my beautiful, darling 
 
 old mother. 
 
 FARMER JOHN'. 
 
 Home from his journey Farmer John 
 
 Arrived this morning safe and sound. 
 His black coat off, and his old clothes 
 
 on, 
 " Now I'm myself," says Farmer John; 
 
 And he thinks, " I'll look around." 
 Up leaps the dog : " Get down, you pup ; 
 Are you so glad you would eat me up ? " 
 The old cow lows at thi gate to greet 
 
 him ; 
 The horses prick up their ears to meet 
 
 him ; 
 
 " Well, well, old Bay ! 
 Ha, ha, old Gray ! 
 Do you get good feed when I am 
 
 away?" 
 
 " You haven't a rib ! " says Farmer 
 John ; 
 " The cattle are looking round and 
 sleek ; 
 The colt is going to be a roan. 
 And a beauty, too ; how he has grown ! 
 
 We'll wean the calf next week," 
 Says Farmer John. " When I've been 
 
 off. 
 To call you again about the trough, 
 And watch you, and pet you, while you 
 
 drink. 
 Is a greater comfort than you can 
 think ! " 
 
 And he pats old Bay, 
 And he slaps old Gray ; — 
 " Ah, this is the comfort of going 
 away ! " 
 
 " For, after all," said Farmer John, 
 " The best of tne journey is getting 
 home ! 
 
14: 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 I've seen great sights, — but would I 
 
 give 
 This spot, and the peaceful life I live. 
 
 For all their Paris and Rome ? 
 These hills for the city's stifled air, 
 And big hotels, all bustle and glare ; 
 Land all houses, and road all stones, 
 That deafen your ears and batter your 
 bones? 
 
 Would you, old Bay? 
 Would you, old Gray ? 
 That's what one gets by going away ! " 
 
 "There money is king," says Farmer 
 
 John ; 
 " And fashion is queen ; and it's 
 
 mighty queer 
 To see how, sometimes, while the man 
 Is raking and scraping all he can, 
 
 The wife spends, every year. 
 Enough, you would think, for a score 
 
 of wives, 
 To keep them in luxury all their lives. 
 The town is a perfect Babylon 
 To a quiet chap," says Farmer John. 
 
 " You see, old Bay, 
 You see, old Gray, — 
 I'm wiser than when I went away." 
 
 "I've found out this," says Farmer 
 
 John, — 
 " That happiness is not bought and 
 
 sold. 
 And clutched in a life of waste and 
 
 hurry. 
 In nights of pleasure and days of 
 
 worry ; 
 And wealth isn't all in gold. 
 Mortgage and stocks and ten per 
 
 cent. — 
 But in simple ways, and sweet content. 
 Few wants, pure hopes, and noble 
 
 ends, 
 Some lands to till, and a few good 
 
 friends, 
 
 Like you, old Bay, 
 And you, old Gray ! 
 That's what I've learned by going 
 
 away." 
 
 And a happy man is Farmer John, — 
 
 Oh, a rich and happy man is he ! 
 He sees the peas and pumpkins grov/- 
 
 The corn in tassel, the buckwheat 
 blowing. 
 And fruit on vine and tree ; 
 The large, kind oxen look their thanks 
 As he rubs their foreheads and strokes 
 
 their flanks ; 
 The doves light round him, and strut 
 
 and coo ; 
 Says Farmer John, " Ell take you 
 too, — 
 
 And you, old Bay, 
 And you, old Gray ! 
 Next time I travel so far away ! " 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 Wonder of wonders in my stroll 
 
 I met to-dav 
 A woman with a loyal soul. 
 And deeply read in wisdom's scroll ; 
 And I will try to tell the whole 
 
 This queen did say. 
 
 " 'Tis true no carpet decks my floor, 
 • But what of that ? 
 God's warmest sunbeams on it pour, 
 With love spots fleck it o'er and o'er ; 
 And small feet through the open door 
 Come pit-a-pat. 
 
 " No silken webs of rare design 
 
 And tints grotesque 
 My windows shade ; but clinging vine 
 And flow'ring plant there intertwine, 
 And sun and leaves and stems combine 
 
 Sweet arabesque. 
 
 " Our frugal hearth knows not the 
 
 storm 
 That makes a part 
 Of many lives ; our true loves form 
 Our brightest joys and home's sweet 
 
 charm. 
 
 ireside ' 
 
 A lonely heart. 
 
ONE." 
 
 143 
 
 " Of no great deed my mind to test 
 
 You'll ever hear. 
 Who seeks for fame seeks not the best ; 
 Who toils for wealth gains but unrest ; 
 A babe's soft lips upon my breast 
 
 Were far more dear. 
 
 " Too many children — spoke your 
 mirth — 
 
 To me are given ? 
 Thank God, I'm of such honor worth ! i 
 1 gladly say with each new birth, 
 Not men alone we bear to earth. 
 
 Angels for Heaven. 
 
 " A slave ? No, friend, you can not see ; 
 
 You do not know. 
 I'd give him all ; he'd all give me. 
 Our wills must each the other's be. 
 When we love most, then most we're 
 free ! 
 
 This must be so. 
 
 " No sweeter, nobler lot in life 
 
 For you or me ; 
 To be a good man's loving wife, 
 To guard him when temptation's rife, 
 Rest on his strong arm when the strife 
 
 Shall fiercest be. 
 
 " And, leaning on his faithful breast, 
 
 Look calmly out ; 
 Secure no evil can infest, 
 No jealous fears thy peace molest ; 
 For perfect love is perfect rest, 
 
 And dead is doubt." 
 
 I gazed upon this woman bright 
 
 In mute surprise. 
 I felt a coward in her sight. 
 I knew her glowing words were right. 
 Of truth the everlasting light 
 
 Was in her eyes. 
 
 N Er 
 
 " For of him, and through him, and to him are 
 all things." 
 
 The worn, scarred veteran from his 
 wars returning. 
 Hastes with swift feet, to seek the 
 welcome door, 
 
 His eager heart within him fondly 
 yearning 
 For that asylum whence he'll roam 
 no more. 
 
 Still, as his weak hands press the latch, 
 restraining 
 The flooding tears that will unbid- 
 den gush — 
 As the pent waters 'gainst the barrier 
 straining. 
 Bear all before them in their mighty 
 rush, — 
 
 While, as he enters, her thin hand up- 
 lifting. 
 She shades her eyes that she may 
 better see 
 The timid children to her quickly drift- 
 ing 
 Stand in mute questioning at their 
 mother's knee. 
 
 "Does Mary Morton live here .''" cries 
 he faltering. 
 With voice all tremulous with sup- 
 pressed joy, 
 The mighty current of his true love 
 altering 
 The alien tone his sweet guile would 
 employ. 
 
 Ah, useless ambushment ! ah, vain en- 
 deavor ! 
 Her fond love fathoms all thy poor 
 disguise ; 
 No cunning cloak concealing thee 
 could ever 
 Foil the sharp scrutiny of her keen 
 eyes. 
 
 Quick she enfolds him in her warm 
 embraces 
 On that swift-throbbing breast where 
 he sat 'shrined 
 All those long years that with their 
 laggard paces 
 Crept slowly on, and left no joy be- 
 hind. 
 
144 THE ANXIOUS MOTHER.-NOT ONE TO SPARE. 
 
 Then as the fullness of her great emo- 
 tion 
 Floods with bright beauty all the 
 earth and air, 
 With the great earnestness of true de- 
 votion. 
 She softly breathes for both the com- 
 mon prayer. 
 
 "Father, forgive these years of sad 
 
 repining, 
 The dark mistrust of Thy kind, 
 
 watchful care. 
 E'en while Thy gentle, loving hands 
 
 were tv;ining 
 This crown of joy for our poor brows 
 
 to wear. 
 
 " Help us, as here we humbly kneel 
 before Thee, 
 True man and wife whom nothing 
 e'er can part, 
 While for Thy great love we can but 
 adore Thee, 
 To pledge the service of our single 
 heart." 
 
 While, as they kneel, the golden day 
 advancing. 
 The morn's rich splendors all the 
 heavens illume. 
 Through the scant window the swift 
 sunbeams glancing, 
 Light with glad radiance all that 
 lonely room. 
 
 THE ANXIOUS MOTHER. 
 
 Never did a kinder mother 
 Nurse her child upon her knee ; 
 
 Yet I knew somehow or other 
 That she always feared for me. 
 
 When at school my teacher told her 
 
 I was busy as a bee — 
 Learning more than others older — 
 
 She was pleased — yet feared for me. 
 
 All the summer woods were ringing 
 With my shouts of joyous glee, 
 
 Through the house she heard me sing- 
 ing- 
 Yet she always feared for me. 
 
 Was she whimsical, or fretted ? 
 
 That the dear one could not be! 
 Was I selfish, false, or ]:etteQ ? 
 
 That she always feared for me. 
 
 Did she think I did not love her, 
 Nor at heart with her agree } 
 
 Vain such question to discover, 
 Why she always feared for me ! 
 
 But one morn, in anguish waking 
 
 With a dreadful agony, 
 She said, in hers my small hand taking, 
 
 "He was drowned this day at sea." 
 
 And she told how but one other 
 
 Branch grew irom her household 
 tree. 
 
 And lest I, the last, should wither. 
 That was why she ftared for me ! 
 
 Then convulsi. ely she snatched me ; 
 
 Setting me upon her knee — 
 To her beating heart she clasped me, 
 
 While I sobbed, " Why fear for me } 
 
 " For you told me I must walk, too. 
 In the path my lather trod, 
 
 And that he, with none to talk to, 
 On the ocean walked with God. 
 
 " Often did you tell me, mother. 
 That our father's God was near — 
 
 That his Saviour was my brother — 
 Therefore I should never fear." 
 
 NOT ONE TO SPARE! 
 
 [A father and mother, in straitened circum- 
 stances, with seven children, were offered hy a 
 wealthy, but childless, neighbor a comfortable 
 provision, on condition that they would give him 
 one of their children. This beautiful poem tells 
 the result.] 
 
 " Which shall it be ? Which shall it 
 
 be ? " 
 I looked at John — John looked at me, 
 (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet, 
 As well as though my locks were jet). 
 And when I found that 1 must speak. 
 My voice seemed strangely low and 
 
 weak ; 
 
MY WIFE AND CHILD. 
 
 H5 
 
 " Tell me again what Robert said ! " 
 And then I listening bent my head : 
 " This is his letter, — 'I will give 
 A house and land while you shall live, 
 If, in retun^ from out your seven, 
 One child to me for aye is given.' " 
 I looked at John's old garments worn, 
 I thought of all that John had borne 
 Of poverty, and work, and care. 
 Which I, though willing, could not 
 
 share ; 
 I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
 Of seven little children's need, 
 And then of this. — " Come, John," 
 
 said I, 
 " We'll choose among them as they lie 
 Asleep ; " so, walking hand in hand, 
 Dear John and I surveyed our band, — 
 First to the cradle lightly stepped. 
 Where Lilian the baby slept. 
 A glory 'gainst the pillow white ; 
 Sottly the father stooped to lay 
 His rough hand down in loving way. 
 When dream or whisper made her stir, 
 And huskily he said : " Not her, not 
 
 her." 
 We stooped beside the trundle-bed. 
 And one long ray of lamplight shed 
 Athv/art the boyish faces there. 
 In sleep so pitiful and fair ; 
 I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek, 
 A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 
 " He's but a baby, too/' said I, 
 And kissed him as we hurried- by. 
 Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 
 Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 
 "No, for a thousand crowns, not him," 
 He whispered, while our eyes were dim ; 
 Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward 
 
 son. 
 Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 
 Could he be spared ? " Nay, He who 
 
 gave 
 Bid us befriend him to his grave ; 
 Only a mother's heart can be 
 Patient enough for such as he. 
 And so," said John, " I would not dare 
 To send him from her bedside prayer." 
 I'hen stole we softly up above 
 And knelt by Mary, child of love. 
 
 not 
 
 " Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 
 I said to John. Quite silently 
 He lifted up a curl that lay 
 Across her cheek in willful way. 
 And shook his head, " Nay, love 
 
 thee," 
 
 The while my heart beat audibly. 
 Only one more, our eldest lad, 
 Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 
 So like his father. " No, John, no — 
 I can not, will not let him go." 
 And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
 We could not drive one child away ; 
 And afterward toil lighter seemed. 
 Thinking of that of which we dreamed, 
 Happy in truth that not one face 
 Was missed from its accustomed place; 
 Thankful to work for all the seven. 
 Trusting the rest to One in heaven ! 
 
 MV WIFE AND CHILD. 
 
 The tattoo beats— the lights are gone, 
 The camp around m slumber lies ; 
 
 The night with solemn pace moves on, 
 The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; 
 
 But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, 
 And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 
 
 I think of thee, O dearest one. 
 
 Whose love my earthly life hath 
 blest— 
 
 Of thee and him — our baby son — 
 Who slumbers on thy gentle breast ; 
 
 God of the tender, frail, and lone. 
 Oh, guard the gentle sleepers' rest. 
 
 And hover, gently hover near, 
 
 To her whose watchful eye is wet — 
 
 To mother-wife— the double dear. 
 In whose young heart have freshly 
 met 
 
 Two streams of love so deep and clear — 
 And cheer her drooping spirits yet. 
 
 Now, while she kneels before Thy 
 throne, 
 Oh, teach her. Ruler of the skies, 
 
146 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE.— THE " COMING MAN. 
 
 That while by Thy behest alone 
 
 Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
 
 No tear is wept to Thee unknown, 
 No hair is lost, no sparrow dies. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Cod bless the little stockings 
 
 All over the land to-night, 
 Hung in the choicest corners. 
 
 In the glow of crimson light ! 
 The tiny, scarlet stocking. 
 
 With a hole in the heel and toe, 
 Worn by wonderful journeys 
 
 The darlings have had to go. 
 
 And Heaven pity the children, 
 
 Wherever their home may be. 
 Who wake at the first gray dawning. 
 
 An empty stocking to see. 
 Left, in the faith of childhood. 
 
 Hanging against the wall. 
 Just where the dazzling glory 
 
 Of Santa's light will fall ! 
 
 Alas ! for the lonely mother. 
 
 Whose cradle is empty still, 
 With never a shoe nor a stocking 
 
 With dainty toys to fill ! 
 Who sits in the swarthy twilight 
 
 There, sobbing against the pane, 
 And thinks of the little baby 
 
 Whose grave lies out in the rain ! 
 
 Oh, the empty shoes and stockings 
 
 Forever laid aside ! 
 Oh, the tangled, broken shoe-strings. 
 
 Never more to be tied ! 
 Ch, the httle graves at the mercy 
 
 Of the cold December rain ! 
 Oh, the feet in the snow-white sandals, 
 
 That never can trip again ! 
 
 But happier they who slumber, 
 
 With marble at foot and head. 
 Than the child who had no shelter, 
 
 No raiment, nor food, nor a bed ! 
 Then heaven help the LIVING ! 
 
 Children of want and pain. 
 Knowing no fold nor pasture, 
 
 Out, to-night, in the rain ! 
 
 THE " COMING MAN.'* 
 
 A PAIR of very chubby legs, 
 
 Encased in scarlet hose ; 
 A pair of little stubby boots. 
 
 With rather doubtful toes; 
 A little kilt, a little coat. 
 
 Cut as a mother can — 
 And lo ! before us strides, in state. 
 
 The future "coming man." 
 
 His eyes perchance will read the stars, 
 
 And search their unknown ways ; 
 Perchance the human heart and soul 
 
 Will open to their gaze ; 
 Perchance their keen and flashing 
 glance 
 
 Will be a nation's light — 
 Those eyes, that now are wistful bent 
 
 On some " big fellow's" kite. 
 
 That brow, where mighty thoughts 
 will dwell 
 
 In solemn, secret state. 
 Where fierce Ambition's restless 
 strength 
 
 Shall war with future fate : 
 Where Science from now hidden caves 
 
 New treasures shall outpour — 
 'Tis knit now, with a troubled doubt. 
 
 Are two or three cents more ? 
 
 Those lips that, in the coming years, 
 
 Will plead, or pray, or teach ; 
 Whose whispered words, on lightning 
 flash. 
 
 From world to world may reach ; 
 That, sternly grave, may speak com- 
 mand 
 
 Or, smiling, win control — 
 Are coaxing now for ginger-bread 
 
 With all a baby's soul ? 
 
 Those hands — those little busy hands — 
 
 So sticky, small, and brown ; 
 Those hands, whose only mission 
 seems 
 
 To tear all order down — 
 Who knows what hidden strength 
 may lie 
 
 Within their chubby grasp, 
 Though now 'tis but a taffy-stick 
 
 In sturdy hold they clasp } 
 
THE HOME CONCERT. 
 
 147 
 
 Ah, blessings on those little hands, 
 
 Whose work is not undone ! 
 And blessings on those little feet, 
 
 Whose race is yet unrun ! 
 And blessings on the little brain 
 
 That has not learned to plan ! 
 Whate'er the Future holds in store, 
 
 God bless the " coming man." 
 
 THE HOME CONCERT. 
 
 Well, Tom, my boy, I must say good- 
 bye, 
 I've had a wonderful visit here ; 
 Enjoyed it, too, as well as I could 
 Away from all that my heart holds 
 dear. 
 Maybe I have been a trifle rough — 
 A little awkward, your wife would 
 say — 
 And very likely I've missed the hint 
 Of your city polish day by day. 
 
 Yes, the concert was grand last night. 
 The singing splendid ; but, do you 
 know. 
 My heart kept longing, the evening 
 through, 
 For another concert, so sweet and 
 low, 
 That maybe it wouldn't please the ear 
 Of one so cultured and grand as you ; 
 But to its music — laugh if you wil.- — 
 My heart and thoughts must ever be 
 true. 
 
 I shut my eyes in the hall last night 
 (For the clash of the music wearied 
 me), 
 And close to my heart this vision 
 
 came — 
 The same sweet picture 
 see : 
 In the vine-clad porch of a 
 home. 
 
 Half in shadow and half in sun, 
 A mother chanting her lullaby. 
 Rocking to rest her little one. 
 
 I always 
 cottage 
 
 But somehow, Tom, though the same 
 old roof 
 Sheltered us both when we were 
 boys, 
 And the same dear mother - love 
 watched us both. 
 Sharing our childish griefs and joys, 
 Yet you are almost a stranger now ; 
 
 Your ways and mine are as far apart 
 As though we had never thrown an 
 arm 
 AL jut each other with loving heart. 
 
 Your city iiome is a palace, Tom ; 
 Your wife and children are fair to 
 see ; 
 Yoii couldn't breathe in the little cot. 
 The little home, that belongs to me. 
 And I am lo^t in your grand large 
 house. 
 And dazed with the wealth on every 
 side. 
 And I hardly know my brother, Tom, 
 In .he midst of so much stately pride. 
 
 And soft and sweet as the music fell 
 From the mother's lips, I heard the 
 coo 
 Of my baby girl, as with drowsy tongue 
 She echoed the song with " Goo-a- 
 goo." 
 Together they sang, the mother and 
 babe, 
 My wife and child, by the cottage 
 door ; 
 Ah ! that is the concert, brother Tom, 
 My ears are aching to hear once 
 more. 
 
 So now good-bye. And I wish you 
 well. 
 
 And many a year of wealth and gain. 
 Yoii were born to be rich and gay ; 
 
 I am content to be poor and plain ; 
 And I go back to my country home 
 
 With a love that absence has 
 strengthened too, 
 Back to the concert all my own — 
 
 Mother's singing and baby's coo. 
 
148 
 
 THE OLD STONE WALL.— SCOTCH HYMN. 
 
 THE OLD STONE WALL. 
 
 It stands as it stood in " Auld Lang 
 Syne," 
 By the side of the lane that leads to 
 the spring, 
 Over it clambers the running vine, 
 And about it the mosses and lichens 
 cling. 
 In the bushes that grow on either 
 hand 
 The robins chirp and the bluejays 
 call, 
 While stately cedars, a giant band, 
 Their shadows throw o'er the old 
 stone wall. 
 
 What sounds it has echoed in other 
 years, 
 Perchance the savage war-whoop 
 shrill, 
 While the homestead blazed amid 
 shrieks and tears, 
 And the cannons booming on 
 Bunker Hill. 
 The bear may have roamed through 
 the sunny glade, 
 The deer may have fled from the 
 hunter's ball. 
 And the fox by the moonlight have 
 slyly strayed 
 Since strong hands builded the old 
 stone wall. 
 
 I wonder sometimes what his name 
 might be 
 Whose workmen gathered these an- 
 cient stones. 
 Did his firelock stand 'gainst the near- 
 est tree, 
 Was he Smith, or Thompson, or 
 Brown, or Jones ? 
 Did he wear a queue and a three-cor- 
 nered hat ? 
 Did he live in a cottage, or fine old 
 hall? 
 Was he long or short ? was he lean or 
 fat? 
 This man who builded the gray 
 stone wall. 
 
 Perhaps he landed on Plymouth Rock 
 From the Mayflower's boat, with 
 
 the Pilgrim band. 
 And w^andered away from the litlle 
 
 flock 
 To make him a home in this rugged 
 
 land. 
 Perhaps he had children, who climbed 
 
 his knee 
 When the shades of evening began 
 
 to fall. 
 While he told of his childhood beyond 
 
 the sea. 
 And rested from building my old stone 
 
 wall. 
 
 Hundreds of winters and snows since 
 then 
 Have whitened the hills of the still 
 old town ; 
 The builder has gone from the haunts 
 of men. 
 In the valley of death he has laid 
 him down. 
 But the fruit of his labor is staunch 
 and strong ; 
 'Twill be well when for us the Reap- 
 er shall call. 
 If the work we leave shall endure as long 
 As his who builded the old stone wall. 
 
 SCOTCH HYMN. 
 
 There are blossoms that hae budded, 
 
 Been blighted i' the cauld. 
 An' lammies that hae perished. 
 
 Because they left the fauld ; 
 But cower ye in aneath His wings 
 
 Wha died upon the tree, 
 An' gathers in His bosom 
 
 Helpless weans like you and me. 
 
 In the warld there's tribulation ; 
 
 In the warld there is wae ; 
 But the warld it is bonnie, 
 
 For our Father made it sae ; 
 Then brichten up your armor, 
 
 An' be liappy as ye gang. 
 Though your sky be aiften clouded. 
 
 It winna be for lang. 
 
MY GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER. 
 
 149 
 
 ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? 
 
 Each day when the glow of sunset 
 
 Fades in the western sky, 
 And the wee ones, tired ot playing", 
 
 Go tripping lightly by, 
 1 steal away from my husl^and. 
 
 Asleep in his easy-chair, 
 And watch from the open doorway 
 
 Their faces fresh and fair. 
 
 Alone in the dear old homestead 
 
 That once was full of life. 
 Ringing with girlish laughter, 
 
 Echoing boyish strife, 
 We two are waz/ing trgether; 
 
 And oft, as the shadows come, 
 With tremulous voice he calls me, 
 
 " It is night ! are the children home ? " 
 
 " Yes, love ! " I answer him gently, 
 
 " They're all ho7ne long ago; " 
 And I sing, in my quivering treble, 
 
 A song so soft and \q\n, 
 Till the old man drops to slumber. 
 
 With his head upon his hand. 
 And I tell to myself the number 
 
 Home in the better land. 
 
 Home, where never a sorrow 
 
 Shall dim their eyes with tears. 
 Where the smile of God is on them 
 
 Through all the summer years ! 
 I know ! — yet my arms are empty. 
 
 That fondly folded seven. 
 And the mother heart within me 
 
 Is almost starved for heaven. 
 
 Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, 
 
 I only shut my eyes. 
 And the children are all about me, 
 
 A vision from the skies ! 
 The babes whose dimpled fingers 
 
 Lost the way to my breast. 
 And the beautiful ones, the angels. 
 
 Passed to the world of the blest. 
 
 With never a cloud upon them, 
 
 I see their radiant brows ; 
 My boys that I gave to freedom — 
 
 The red sword sealed their vows ! 
 
 In a tangled Southern forest. 
 Twin brothers, bold and brave. 
 
 They fell ; and the flag they died for. 
 Thank God, floats over their grave. 
 
 A breath, and the vision is lifted 
 
 Away on wings of light. 
 And again we two are together. 
 
 All alone in the night. 
 They tell me his mind is failing, 
 
 But I smile at idle fears. 
 He is only back with the children, 
 
 In the dear and peaceful years. 
 
 And still as the summer sunset 
 
 Fades away in the west, 
 And the wee ones, tired of playing, 
 
 Go trooping home to rest, 
 My husband calls from his corner, 
 
 " Say, love ! have the children come ?' 
 And 1 answer, with eyes uplifted, 
 
 " Yes, dear ! they are all at home ! ' 
 
 MY GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED 
 MOTHER. 
 
 They brought home the portrait last 
 night to me ; 
 On the parlor walls it is hung. 
 I gave to the artist a picture small. 
 Which was taken when she was 
 young. 
 It's true to Hfe — and here's a look in 
 the eyes 
 I never saw in another, 
 And the same sweet smile that she 
 always wore — 
 'Tis my good, old-fashioned mother. 
 
 The hair in the picture's wavy and 
 dark, 
 
 'Twas taken before she was gray. 
 And the same short curls, at the side, 
 hang down. 
 
 For she always wore it that way. 
 Her hand on the Bible easily rests. 
 
 As when, with sisters and brother, 
 I knelt at her knee, reciting my verse. 
 
 To my good, old-fashioned mother. 
 
I50 
 
 READY TO DEPART.— BUILDING ON THE SAND. 
 
 Her dress it is plain and quite out of 
 style, 
 
 Not a puff or ruffle is there ; 
 And no jewels or gold glitter and 
 shine — 
 
 She never had any to wear. 
 Ambition for wealth, or love of display, 
 
 We could not even discover. 
 For poor in spirit and humble in heart, 
 
 Was my good, old-fashioned mother. 
 
 Her life was crowded with work and 
 with care — 
 How did she accomplish it all ! 
 I do not remember she ever com- 
 plained. 
 And yet she was slender and small. 
 Motives of life that were selfish or 
 wrong, 
 With Christian 
 smother, 
 
 And lived for her God, the loved ones 
 at home — 
 My true, good, old-fashioned mother. 
 
 The years of her life were only three- 
 score, 
 When the messenger whispered, low, 
 " The Master has come and calleth for 
 thee." 
 She answered, "I'm ready to go." 
 I gaze alone on her portrait to-night, 
 
 And more than ever I love her. 
 And I thank the Lord that He gave to 
 me 
 Such a good, old-fashioned mother. 
 
 grace 
 
 did she 
 
 READY TO DEPART. 
 
 Her step grows slower on the flowery I 
 
 sward ; 
 Friend after friend draws nigh with 
 
 aching heart, 
 And whispers, " Lo, the handmaid of 
 
 the Lord is ready to depart." 
 
 They ask her if she weeps for summers 
 
 flown. 
 For the old hopes — the old loves tried I 
 
 and true? 
 
 She answers, " He that sitteth on the 
 throne 
 Saith, • 1 make all things new.' " 
 
 They ask her if she feels no vain regret, 
 For joys that stand like earth's ungath- 
 
 ered grain } 
 She answers, " Christ hath richer har- 
 vests yet ; 
 For me to die is gain." 
 
 They ask her if she has no tears to 
 
 shed, 
 For her old home amid the pleasant 
 
 lands } 
 She ansv^-ers, " God shall give me in 
 
 its stead 
 A house not made with hands." 
 
 Thus calmly trusting in the Saviour's 
 
 grace, 
 She rests upon the margin of the tide, 
 And sees the light of her fair dwelling- 
 place 
 Upon the other side. 
 
 BUILDING ON THE SAND. 
 
 'TiS well to woo, 'tis well to wed, 
 
 For so the world hath done 
 Since myrtles grew and roses blew. 
 
 And morning brought the sun. 
 But have a care, } e young and fair. 
 
 Be sure ye pledge with truth ; 
 Be certain that your love will wear 
 
 Beyond the days of youth ! 
 For if you give not heart for heart. 
 
 As well as hand for hand. 
 You'll find you've played the unwise 
 part, 
 
 And " built upon the sand." 
 
 'Tis well to save, 'tis well to have 
 
 A goodly store of gold, 
 And hold enough of shining stuff, 
 
 For charity is cold. 
 But place not all your hope and trust 
 
 In what the deep mine brings ; 
 We can not live on yellow dust 
 
 Unmixed with purer things ; 
 
THE PSALM-BOOK IN THE GARRET. 
 
 151 
 
 And he who piles up wealth alone 
 
 Will often have to stand 
 Beside his coffer chest, and own 
 
 'Tis " built upon the sand." 
 
 'Tis good to speak in kindly guise. 
 
 And soothe where'er we can ; 
 Fair speech should bind the human 
 mind, 
 
 And love link man to man. 
 But stop not at the gentle words ; 
 
 Let deeds wdth language dwell ; 
 The one who pities starving birds 
 
 Should scatter crumbs as well ; 
 The mercy that is warm and true, 
 
 Must lend a helping hand. 
 For those that talk, yet fail to do, 
 
 Bat " build upon the sand." 
 
 THE PSALM-BOOK IN THE 
 GARRET. 
 
 A GARRET grows a human thing 
 
 With lonely oriental eyes, 
 To whom confiding fingers bring 
 
 The world in yesterday's disguise. 
 
 Ah, richer far than noontide blaze 
 The soft gray silence of the air, 
 
 As if long years of ended daj^s 
 
 Had garnered all their twilights there. 
 
 The h°art can see so clear and far 
 In such a place, with such a light — 
 
 God counts His heavens star by star. 
 And rains them down unclouded 
 night. 
 
 Ah, dotted tribe with ebon heads 
 That climb the slender fence alom 
 
 As black as ink, as thick as weeds. 
 Ye little Africans of sonsr ! 
 
 Who wrote upon this page, " Forget 
 Me Not ? " These cruel leaves of old 
 
 Have crushed to death a violet — 
 See here, its spectre's pallid gold. 
 
 A penciled whisper during prayer 
 Is that poor f^^"m and girlish word ; 
 
 But ah, I linger longest where 
 It opens of its own accord. 
 
 These spotted leaves ! how they once 
 basked 
 
 Beneath the glance of girlhood's eyes, 
 And parted to the gaze unasked, 
 
 As spread the wings of butterflies. 
 
 The book falls open where it will — 
 Broad on the page runs " Silver 
 Street ! " 
 
 That shining way to " Zion's Hill " 
 Where base and treble used to meet. 
 
 I shake the leaves. They part at 
 " Mear " — 
 
 Again they strike the good old tune; 
 The village church is builded here ; 
 
 The twulight turns to afternoon. 
 
 Old house of Puritanic wood, 
 
 Through whose unpainted windows 
 streamed 
 On seats as primitive and rude 
 
 As Jacob's pillow when he dreamed, 
 
 Where rafters set their cobwebb'd feet 
 Upon the rugged oaken ledge, 
 
 I found a flock of singers sweet. 
 
 Like snow-bound sparrows in a 
 hedge. 
 
 In silk of spider's spinning hid, 
 
 A long and narrow psalm-book lay ; 
 
 I wrote a name upon the lid, 
 
 Then brushed the idle dust away. 
 
 The white and un-liluted day ! 
 
 Thy naked aisle no roses ;n-ace 
 That blossomed at the shuttle's play; 
 
 Nor saints distempered bless the 
 place. 
 
 Like feudal castles, front to front, 
 In timbered oak of Saxon Thor, 
 
 To brave the siege and bear the brunt 
 Of Bunyan's endless Holy War. 
 
152 
 
 A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 The pulpit and the gallery stand — 
 Between the twain a peaceful space. 
 
 The prayer and praise on either hand, 
 And girls and Gospel face to face. 
 
 I hear the reverend elder say, 
 
 " Hymn fifty-hrst, long meter, sing ! " 
 
 I hear the psalm-books' fluttered play, 
 Like flocks of sparrows taking wing. 
 
 Armed with a fork to pitch the tune, 
 I hear the deacon call " Dundee ; " 
 
 And mount as brisk as " Bonny Doon " 
 His "fa, sol, la," and scent the key. 
 
 He " trees " the note for Sister Gray : 
 The old Scotch warbling strains be- 
 gin; 
 
 The bass of Bashan leads the way. 
 And all the girls fall sweetly in. 
 
 How swells the hymn of heavenly love, 
 As rise the tides in P^mdy's Bay ! 
 
 Till all the air below, above. 
 
 Is sweet with song and caraway ! 
 
 A fugue let loose cheers up the place 
 With bass and tenor, alto, air ; 
 
 The parts strike in with measured 
 grace. 
 And something sweet is everywhere ! 
 
 As if some warbling brood should 
 build 
 Of bits of tunes a singing nest, 
 Each bringing that with which it 
 thrilled 
 And weaving it with all the rest ! 
 
 The congregation rise and stand ; 
 
 "Old Hundred's" reeling thunder 
 comes 
 In heavy surges, slow and grand. 
 
 As beats the surf its solemn drums. 
 
 Now comes the times when " China's " 
 wail 
 
 Is blended with the faint perfume 
 Of whispering crape and cloudy veil, 
 
 That fold within their rustling gloom 
 
 Some wounded human mourning dove. 
 And fall around some stricken one 
 
 With nothing lett alive to love 
 Below the unregarded sun ! 
 
 And now they sing a star in sight. 
 The blessed " Star of Bethlehem ; " 
 
 And now the air is royal bright 
 With " Coronation's " diadem. 
 
 They show me spots of dimpled sod, 
 They say the girls of old are there — 
 
 Oh, no, they swell the choirs of God ; 
 The dear old songs are everywhere ! 
 
 A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 You placed this flower in her hand, 
 
 you said ? 
 This pure, pale rose in her hand of 
 
 clay ? 
 Methinks could she lift her sealed eyes 
 They would meet your own with a 
 
 grieved surprise ! 
 
 She has been your wife for many a year, 
 
 When clouds hung low and when skies 
 were clear; 
 
 At your feet she laid her life's glad 
 spring. 
 
 And her summer's glorious blossom- 
 ing. 
 
 Her whole heart went with the hand 
 
 you won ; 
 If its warm love waned as the years 
 
 went on. 
 If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell. 
 What was the reason ? I pray you tell. 
 
 You can not ? I can ! and beside her 
 
 bier 
 My soul must speak, and your soul 
 
 must hear : 
 If she was not all that she might have 
 
 been. 
 Hers was the sorrow — yours the sin ! 
 
TREASURES. 
 
 153 
 
 Whose was the fault if she did not grow 
 Like a rose in the summer ? Do you 
 
 know ? 
 Does a lily grow when its leaves are 
 
 chilled ? 
 Does it bloom when its root is wmter 
 
 killed ? 
 
 For a little while, when you first were 
 
 Your love was like sunshme round her 
 
 shed ; 
 Then something crept between you 
 
 two, 
 You led where she could not follow 
 
 you. 
 With a man's firm tread you went and 
 
 You lived' for wealth, for power, for 
 
 fame ; 
 Shut into her woman's works and ways, 
 She heard the nation chant your praise. 
 
 But ah ! you had dropped her hand the 
 
 while. 
 What time had you for a kiss, a smile ? 
 You two, with the same roof overhead, 
 Were as far apart as the sundered dead. 
 
 You, in your manhood's strength and 
 
 prime ; 
 She— worn and faded before her time, 
 'Tis a common story. This rose, you 
 
 say, 
 You laid in her pallid hand to-day ? 
 
 When did you give her a flower before ? 
 Ah, well ! What matter, when all is 
 
 o'er ? 
 Yet stay a moment ; you'll wed again. 
 I mean no reproach ; 'tis the way of 
 
 men. 
 
 But I pray you think, when some fairer 
 
 face 
 Shines like a star from her wonted 
 
 place. 
 That love will starve if it is not fed, 
 That true hearts pray for their daily 
 
 bread. 
 
 TREASURES. 
 
 I HAVE some withered flowers 
 
 That are softly laid away, 
 Not because they were so beautiful 
 
 And fragrant in their day— 
 But little fingers crisped them. 
 
 And little lips caressed, 
 And little hands so tenderly 
 
 Placed them on a "mother's" 
 breast. 
 The paper that enfolds them 
 
 Was white in other years — 
 But 'tis rumpled now and crumpled. 
 
 And stained with many tears. 
 Yet, though they looked so worthless. 
 
 This paper and the flowers. 
 They clasp and hold, like links ot gold, 
 
 Memories of jewel-hours. 
 
 I have some little ringlets, 
 
 They are softly laid away, 
 Their lustre and their beauty 
 
 Are like the sun's glad ray. 
 But 'tis not for this I prize them — 
 
 It is that they restore 
 The tender grace of loving face 
 
 That gladdens earth no more 
 As the shipwrecked men at midnight 
 
 Have oft been known to cling. 
 With a silent prayer, in wild despair, 
 
 To some frail, floating thing. 
 So I, in darkened moment, 
 
 Clasp, with a voiceless prayer. 
 While wandering wide on grief's deep 
 tide 
 
 These locks of golden hair. 
 
 I have some broken playthings 
 
 That are softly laid away, 
 With some dainty little garments 
 
 Made in a long-past day : 
 To each there is a history, 
 But this I may not tell, 
 Lest the old, old flood of sorrow 
 
 Again should rise and swell. 
 I Now that the skies are brightened 
 \ And the fearful storm is o'er, 
 i Let me sit in tender calmness, 
 i On memory's silent shore, 
 
154 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING.— MY BLOSSOM. 
 
 And count the simple treasures 
 
 That still remain to show 
 Where Hope's fair freight, by saddest 
 fate, 
 
 Was shipwrecked long ago. 
 
 I have another treasure 
 
 That is* softly laid away, 
 And though I have not seen it 
 
 This many a weary day. 
 From every thing around me 
 
 Comes a token and a sign 
 That 'tis fondly watched and guarded, 
 
 And that it still is mine. 
 When the flowers lie dead in winter. 
 
 In their wmding-sheets of snow, 
 We know they'll rise to charm our 
 eyes 
 
 Again in summer's glow, 
 Thus I, in this chill season. 
 
 When frost and darkness reign. 
 Wait the blest spring whose warmth 
 shall bring 
 
 Life to my flower again. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 Into a ward of the whitewashed walls, 
 Where the dead and the dying lay — 
 Wounded by bayonets, shells, and 
 balls. 
 Somebody's darling was borne one 
 day. 
 Somebody's darling ! So young and so 
 brave, 
 Wearing still on his pale, sweet face, 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 
 The lingering light of his boyhood's 
 grace. 
 
 Matted and damp are the curls of gold 
 Kissing the snow of that fair young 
 brow : 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mold — 
 Somebody's darling is dying now. 
 Back from the beautiful blue-veined 
 face 
 Brush every wandering silken 
 thread ; 
 Cross his hands as a sign of grace — 
 Somebody's darling is still and dead. 
 
 Kiss him once for Somebody's sake. 
 
 Murmur a prayer now sof*. and lov/, 
 One bright curl from the cluster take — 
 
 They were Somebody's pride, you 
 know. 
 Somebody's hand hath rested there ; 
 
 Was it a mother's, soft and white.'* 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptised in those waves of 
 light ? 
 
 God knows best. He was Somebody's 
 love, 
 Somebody's heart enshrined him 
 there ; 
 Somebody wafted his name above, 
 Night and morn, on the wings of 
 prayer, 
 Somebody wept when he marched 
 away. 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and 
 grand ; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay ; 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 Somebody's watching and waiting for 
 him. 
 Yearning to hold him again to her 
 heart. 
 There he lies — with the blue eyes dim, 
 
 And smiUng, childlike lips apart. 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 
 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
 Carve on the wooden slab at his head — 
 " Somebody's darling lies buried 
 here I" 
 
 MY BLOSSOM. 
 
 Once in my quiet garden 
 A precious blossom grew ; 
 
 Pink with the morning sunshine, 
 And bright with early dew. 
 
 But the Master of the garden 
 
 Carried me far away, 
 And with my precious blossom 
 
 No longer could I stay. 
 
"REQUIESCAT IN PACE." 
 
 155 
 
 Oh ! bitter was the parting-, 
 And my tears fell fast like rain 
 
 As 1 kissed the budding blossom 
 1 might not see again. 
 
 Like Eve, in her woful passion. 
 From the garden gate I passed ; 
 
 One look of love and longing 
 Sent backward for the last. 
 
 But I said to the gracious Master, 
 When my breath came back once 
 more — 
 
 " I know Thy hand is righteous 
 Though my heart be smitten sore. 
 
 " I can not tend my blossom 
 
 With water and with sun ; 
 I gave it to Thee, my Master, 
 
 To see the work be done ! 
 
 " Though I die by the wayside. 
 Or wander in the showers ; 
 
 Keep Thou my tender blossom 
 Among Thy dearest flowers." 
 
 And the long, long days went by me, 
 
 But never for a day. 
 Though rolling up to hundreds, 
 
 This prayer I cease to pray. 
 
 And now I hear her praises 
 
 Wafted on every air ; 
 How sweet my lily groweth. 
 
 How gentle and how fair. 
 
 And I know the mighty Master 
 Hath heard me day and night. 
 
 And blessed her with His blessing 
 Of beauty and delight. 
 
 And my life sings iike the water 
 
 That runneth to the sea. 
 For the Lord hath been to my lily 
 
 All that I could not be. 
 
 So now I wait with patience 
 Till all the storm be passed. 
 
 And He shall bring my blossom 
 To Him — and me — at last. 
 
 '' REQ UIESCA T IN PA CE. " 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 To earth's kind bosom do we tearful 
 take thee ; 
 
 No mortal sound again from rest shall 
 wake thee ; 
 
 No fever-thirst, no grief that needs as- 
 suaging. 
 
 No tempest burst above thy head loud- 
 raging. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 No more thou'lt know the sun's glad 
 morning shining ; 
 
 No more the glory of the day's declin- 
 ing; 
 
 No more the night that stoops serene 
 above thee, 
 
 Watching thy rest like tender eyes 
 that love thee. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 Unknown to thee the spring will come 
 
 with blessing. 
 The turf above thee in soft verdure 
 
 dressing ! 
 Unknown will come the autumn rich 
 
 and mellow, 
 Sprinkling thy couch with foliage golden 
 
 yellow. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 This is earth's rest for all her broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 Where she has garnered up our dear 
 departed ; 
 
 The prattling babe, the wife, the old 
 man hoary, 
 
 The tired of human life, the crowned 
 with glory. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 This is the gate for thee to walk im- 
 mortal ; 
 
 This is the entrance to the pearly por- 
 tal, 
 
156 
 
 A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 
 
 The pathway trod by saints and sages 
 
 olden, 
 Whose feet shall walk Jerusalem the 
 
 golden. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 For not on earth shall be man's rest 
 eternal ; 
 
 Faith's morn shall come. Each set- 
 ting sun diurnal, 
 
 Each human sleeping and each human 
 waking, 
 
 Hastens the day that shall on earth be 
 breaking. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 Faith's mom shall come when He, our 
 Lord and Maker, 
 
 Shall claim His own that slumber in 
 God's acre ; 
 
 When He who once for man death's 
 anguish tasted. 
 
 Shall show death's gloomy realm de- 
 spoiled and wasted. 
 
 Sleep here in peace ! 
 
 A QUIET JSFEIGHBORHOOD. 
 
 A SUNNY slope where the first daisies 
 
 blow. 
 And purple asters meet November 
 
 snow ; 
 Where somber-hued amid the brightest 
 
 green. 
 The smooth, brown road winds down 
 
 between 
 Fair dwelling - places, some found it 
 
 good 
 Slow gathering here, to form a neigh- 
 
 borhoodc 
 
 Weary of noise perhaps, and glad to 
 
 come 
 To the deep stillness of this hill-side 
 
 home 
 Or worn with heavy labor, and in need 
 
 of rest, 
 
 Or racked with pain, or burdened and 
 
 sore pressed 
 With years, but finding quietude. 
 Solace, and peace in this good neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 For once these dwellings entered, the 
 closed door 
 
 Shuts out the burdens one has borne 
 before ; 
 
 If he were poor, now is he rich indeed, 
 
 Roof overhead, and land for all his 
 need ; 
 
 None here upon his tellows' rights in- 
 trude ; 
 
 Each is content in this good neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 And brown and bare, or green with 
 
 summer showers. 
 Aglow with autumn tints, or bright 
 
 with flowers ; 
 Or folded close in robe of snowy white. 
 At morn, at eve, or in the solemn night 
 Stars looking down, a silent multitude; 
 God's peace is resting en this neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 See, one lies waiting tc be carried 
 
 there. 
 Whose life but now v/as full of vexing 
 
 care ; 
 The day too short for all she found 
 
 to do, 
 " Tired to death" — her hard tasks 
 
 never through ; 
 Now tranquil, restful — every sense 
 
 subdued 
 To the sweet stillness of the neigh- 
 
 boihood. 
 
 Wonderful change ! Oh, happy, kind 
 
 release ! 
 On the worn face a look of Sabbath 
 
 peace ; 
 To tired hands rest, and to the eyes 
 
 that weep 
 Or v/ake for sorrow, deepest, sweetest 
 
 sleep. 
 
THE CHOICE.— HARVEST. 
 
 157 
 
 Best — sleep — Ah, if we only under- 
 stood 
 
 How safe our dear ones in that neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 So every morning, my day's work 
 begun, 
 
 I smile to think that all their work is 
 done : 
 
 Cheerfully bear the burden and the 
 heat ; 
 
 Knowing their rest is very calm and 
 sweet — 
 
 But, O my Father, when it seemeth 
 good. 
 
 Let me, too, join that blessed neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Ben Ezra, mourning wild 
 
 Above the body of his child. 
 
 His taith with fate unreconciled, 
 
 Complained, and could not understand 
 
 Why Death's relentless hand 
 
 A thousand common lives should spare 
 
 To snatch a life so fair. 
 
 " The old outlive the young ; 
 
 The sweetest song is hushed ere it be 
 
 sung; 
 The loveliest bud," he thought, 
 " Is come to naught ; 
 The page of brightest promise falls 
 
 unread ; 
 Oh, cruel jest ! " he said. 
 
 At last 
 
 His soul flew back into the past. 
 
 Again he smiled above his new-born 
 
 son. 
 And was aware of One 
 Who, standing by the cradle, spake : 
 " This gift again I take 
 
 When but a few swift years are sped. 
 Now choose ! " the Presence said ; 
 " Since by the changeless, fathomless 
 
 decree. 
 This bitter loss must be, 
 Were it not better I should touch 
 
 The child, and mar it, lest it grow to 
 
 such 
 As, losing, thou wouldst mourn too 
 
 much } 
 
 " Or shall I crown it with my rarest 
 
 crown 
 Of glory, to bring down 
 A deeper shadow when it fades 
 Than common shades ? 
 So wouldst thou have — and miss — 
 The greater bliss! " 
 
 " Nay ! " cried Ben Ezra ; "since this 
 grace 
 
 Bides but so little space, 
 
 Keep back no gift of treasures mani- 
 fold 
 
 That heaven doth hold ; 
 
 But pour the brightness of all spheres 
 
 Into my child's few years. 
 
 That I may drink of joy's full measure 
 first. 
 
 Though afterward I thirst ! " 
 
 The vision fled, 
 
 Ben Ezra was alone beside his dead ; 
 And, while afresh he grieved. 
 Praised God, with tears, that such a 
 child had lived ! 
 
 HARVEST, 
 
 Tho' weel I lo'e the budding spring, 
 
 I'll no misca' John Frost, 
 Nor will I roose the summer days 
 
 At gowden autumn's cost ; 
 For a' the seasons in their turn 
 
 Some wished-for pleasures bring. 
 And hand in hand they jink aboot. 
 
 Like weans at jingo-ring. 
 
 Fu' weel I mind how aft ye said. 
 When winter nights were lang, 
 
 " I weary for the summer woods, 
 The lintie's tittering sang." 
 
 But when the woods grew gay and 
 green. 
 And birds sang sweet and clear. 
 
 It then was, " When will hairst-time 
 come. 
 
 The gloaming o' the year } " 
 
158 
 
 SUMMER'S DONE.— BETTER IN THE MORNING. 
 
 Oh ! hairst-time's like a lipping cup 
 
 That's gi'en \vi' furthy glee ! 
 The fields are fu' o' yellow corn. 
 
 Red apples bend the tree ; 
 f The geaty air, sae lady-like ! 
 
 Has on a scented gown, 
 And wi' an airy string she leads 
 
 The thistle-seed balloon. 
 
 The yellow corn will porridge mak', 
 
 The apples taste your mou'. 
 And ower the stibble riggs I'll chase 
 
 The thistle-down wi' you ; 
 I'll pu' the haw frae aff the thorn. 
 
 The red hip frae the brier — 
 For wealth hangs in each tangled nook 
 
 In the gloaming o' the year. 
 
 Sweet Hope ! ye biggit ha'e a nest 
 
 Within my bairnie's breast — 
 Oh ! may his trusting heart ne'er trow 
 
 That whiles ye sing in jest ; 
 Soon coming joys are dancing aye 
 
 Before his langing een 
 He sees the flower that isna blawn. 
 
 And birds that ne'er were seen ; 
 
 The stibble rigg is aye ahin', 
 
 The gowden gram afore. 
 And apples drop into his lap, 
 
 Or row in at the door ! 
 Come, hairst-time, then, unto my bairn, 
 
 Drest in your gayest gear, 
 Wi' saft and winnowing win's to cool 
 
 The gloaming o' the year ! 
 
 SUMMER'S DONE. 
 
 Thinner the leaves of the larches 
 show. 
 Motionless held in the languid air ; 
 Fainter by waysides the sweet-briers 
 grow. 
 Wide bloom laying their gold hearts 
 bare. 
 
 Languishing one by one : 
 Summer is almost done. 
 
 Deeper-hued roses have long since 
 died ; 
 Silent the birds through the white 
 mist fly ; 
 Down of the thistles by hot sun dried. 
 Covers with pale fleece vines grow- 
 ing nigh ; 
 
 Little brooks calmer run : 
 Summer is almost done. 
 
 Later the flush of the sunrise sweeps, 
 Shortening the reign of the slow- 
 coming day ; 
 Earlier shade of the twilight creeps 
 Over the swallows skimming away ; 
 Crickets their notes have begun ; 
 Summer is almost done. 
 
 Darkened to mourning the sad-col- 
 ored beech ; 
 Empty the nests in its purple boughs 
 he; 
 Something elusive we never can reach 
 Deepens the glory of days going by ; 
 Aftermath lies in the sun : 
 Summer is almost done. 
 
 Child ! why regret that the summer 
 must go ? 
 Sweet lies the aftermath left in the 
 sun; 
 Lives that are earnest more beautiful 
 grow 
 Out of a childhood in beauty begun: 
 Harvests of gold can be won 
 Only — when summer is done. 
 
 BETTER IN THE MORNING. 
 
 " You can't help the baby, parson. 
 
 But still I want ye to go 
 Down an' look in upon her. 
 
 An' read an' pray, you know. 
 Only last week she was skippin' round 
 
 A puUin' my whiskers and hair, 
 A climbin' up to the table 
 
 Into her little high-chair. 
 
BELOVED OF GOD. 
 
 159 
 
 *' The first night that she took it, 
 
 When her little cheeks grew red, 
 When she kissed good-night to papa, 
 
 And went away to bed — 
 Sez she, * 'Tis headache, papa. 
 
 Be better in mornin' — bye'; 
 An' somethin' in how she said it 
 
 Jest made me want to cry. 
 
 " But the mornin' brought the fever, 
 
 And her little hands were hot, 
 An' the pretty red of her little cheeks 
 
 Grew into a crimson spot. 
 But she laid there jest ez patient 
 
 Ez ever a woman could, 
 Takin' whatever we give her 
 
 Better'n a grown woman would. 
 
 " The days are terrible long an' slow, 
 
 An' she's growin' wus in each ; 
 An' now she's jest a slippin' 
 
 Clear away out ov our reach. 
 Every night when I kiss her, 
 
 Tryin' hard not to cry, 
 She says in a way that kills me — 
 
 ' Be better in the mornin' — bye ! ' 
 
 "She can't get thro' the night, parson. 
 
 So I want ye to come an' pray, 
 And talk with mother a little — 
 
 You'll know jest what to say. 
 Not that the baby needs it, 
 
 Nor that we make any complaint 
 That God seems to think He's needin' 
 
 The smile uv the little saint." 
 
 I walked along with the corporal. 
 
 To the door of his humble home. 
 To which the silent messenger 
 
 Before me had already come ; 
 And if he had been a titled prince, 
 
 I would not have been honored more. 
 Than I was with his heartfelt welcome 
 
 To his lowly cottage-door. 
 
 Night falls again in the cottage ; 
 
 They move in silence and dread 
 Around the room where the baby 
 
 Lies panting upon her bed. 
 
 " Does baby know papa, darling? " 
 And she moves her little face, 
 With answer that shows she knows 
 him ; 
 But scarcely a visible trace 
 
 All her wonderful infantile beauty 
 
 Remains as it was before 
 The unseen, silent messenger 
 
 Had waited at the door. 
 " Papa — kiss — baby ; — I's — so — tired." 
 
 The man bows low his face, 
 And two swollen hands are lifted 
 
 In baby s last embrace. 
 
 And into her father's grizzled beard 
 
 The little red fingers cling. 
 While her husky whispered tenderness 
 
 Tears from a rock would wring. 
 " Baby is so sick papa — 
 
 But — don't — want — you — to — cry ? " 
 The little hands fall on the coverlet — 
 
 " Be — better — in — mornin' bye ! " 
 
 And night around baby is falling. 
 
 Settling down dark and dense ; 
 Does God need their darling in heaven 
 
 That He must carry her hence ? 
 I prayed, with tears in my \oice, 
 
 As the corporal solemnly knelt, 
 With such griei as never before 
 
 His great warm heart had felt. 
 
 Oh ! frivolous men and women ! 
 
 Do you know that around you, and 
 nigh- 
 Alike from the humble and haughty 
 
 Goeth up evermore the cry : 
 " My child, my precious, my darling, 
 
 How can I let you die? " 
 j Oh ! hear ye the white lips whisper — 
 I " Be— better — in — mornin' bye!" 
 
 BELOVED OF GOD, 
 
 She was so fair. 
 The rose and lily vied not with her face. 
 Whereon Time dared not set his 
 seal of care ; 
 
i6o 
 
 NO MORE SEA." 
 
 Oh, soul well-lodged in such an inborn 
 grace — 
 
 So young and fair. 
 
 She was so kind, 
 VII things grew kind beneath her touch 
 and tone ; 
 Her breath gave softness to the win- 
 try wind ; 
 Her words like rose leaves o'er our 
 path were strown ; 
 Oh, nature kind ! 
 
 So little taint 
 Of ills primeval marked her birth 
 Men thought they saw the glory of 
 a saint 
 Fence her around from all the grosser 
 earth. 
 
 And every taint. 
 
 Such lowliness 
 Was hers, her heart but throbbed to 
 bow her down 
 To choose her friends 'mid sorrow 
 and distress : 
 The heavens smiled, for much they 
 love to crown 
 Such lowliness. 
 
 And so much love 
 Came from lier, as from flow'rs their 
 odorous breath, 
 We stole its sweetness with us, till 
 above 
 The angels bore her through the Gates 
 of Death, 
 
 Where all is love. 
 
 Yet o'er her grave 
 No cunning hand hath raised a gilded 
 tomb ; 
 True hearts enshrine her — souls she- 
 wrought to save : 
 The " lilies of the field " above her 
 bloom ; 
 
 Heav'n decks her grave. 
 
 " NO MORE SEA." 
 
 Ay, artists come to paint it ; 
 
 And writers to put in a book, 
 How grand in storm, and fair in calrr^ 
 
 The old North Sea can look. 
 
 I've wondered to hear them talking. 
 How to mimic in music or song, 
 
 The voice fills the brooding air 
 With its thunder low and long ; 
 
 Since never aught but itself, I wot, 
 Could sound like its angry roar. 
 
 When its breakers rise to the east 
 winds' call. 
 To crash on the rocky shore. 
 
 But rough or smooth, in shade or shine. 
 The face of the mighty main 
 
 Can speak of little else to me 
 But memory, fear, or pain. 
 
 Father and husband, and bold, bright 
 boy, 
 It has taken them one by one ; 
 I shall lie alone in the church-yard 
 there, 
 When my v^eary days are done. 
 
 God never sent me a maiden bairn 
 
 To stay by me to the last,. 
 So I sit by the restless tides alone, 
 
 By the grave of all my past ; 
 
 By the waves so strong and pitiless. 
 That have drowned life's joys for me, 
 
 And think of "the land where all shall 
 meet, 
 The land where is no more sea." 
 
 Yet I can not rest in meadow or fell, 
 
 Or the quiet inland lanes. 
 Where the great trees spread their 
 rustling arms 
 
 Over the smiling plains. 
 
 I can't draw breath in the country, 
 All shadowed, and green, and dumb, 
 
 The want of the sea is at my heart, 
 I hear it calling, " Come." 
 
MY NEIGHBORS. A WOMAN'S SONG TO WOMAN. l6l 
 
 I hearken, and rise and follow , 
 Perhaps my n:-n down there, 
 
 Where the bright shells gleam, and the 
 tishes dart 
 'Mid seaweeds' tangle fair. 
 
 Will find me best, if still on earth, 
 
 When the angel's trump is blown, 
 On the sand-reach, or the 
 side, 
 Ere we pass to the great white 
 throne. 
 
 The sunbeams fall from the golden 
 sky. 
 And merrily play and shine 
 The livelong day on the little pair 
 Who have builded their home near 
 mine. 
 
 So summer and winter, all alone, 
 
 By the breaker's lip I wait. 
 Till I see the red Ught flush the clouds. 
 
 As he opens the golden gate ; 
 
 And though at the sound of the rising 
 waves 
 I ofttimes tremble and weep. 
 When the air is void of their glorious 
 voice 
 I can neither rest nor sleep. 
 
 And the strangest of all the promises 
 
 Writ in the Book, to me. 
 Is how on the shores of Paradise, 
 
 " There shall be no more sea." 
 
 MY NEIGHBORS. 
 
 1 SIT at the window at early eve, 
 
 Rocking my baby to h,.eep ; 
 While the twilight shadows with sun- 
 set beams 
 Are playing at hide and peep. 
 And, crooning a time-worn slumber- 
 song 
 Dreamingly o'er and o'er, 
 I watch my neighbors who live near 
 
 by. 
 
 As I've watched them often before. 
 
 ! We are very happy, my neighbors and I ; 
 tall cliff- \ Intimate friends are we ; 
 
 1 1 sing them a song of my own some- 
 times. 
 And they merrily sing to me. 
 And now, as 1 sit by the window here. 
 
 My neighbor is on her nest. 
 And both of us watch with tender 
 love 
 Our little ones in their rest. 
 
 She folds her wings with a warble low 
 
 Over her babies three ; 
 And my arms are clasping my baby 
 girl 
 And holding her close to me. 
 And the twilight shadows are falling 
 
 fast 
 Over the mountain side ; 
 And the breeze which has rustled the 
 elm-tree leaves 
 Grows still with the even-tide. 
 
 Oh ! little brown neighbor, 'twill not 
 be long 
 Ere your children will fly away ; 
 While my wee girl to the dear home- 
 nest 
 Will cling for many a day. 
 There will come a time when the little 
 nest 
 Will have blown from the old elm- 
 tree ; 
 Will you come again, dear little brown 
 bird, 
 To build your nest near me ? 
 
 My neighbors live in the old elm-tree. 
 
 Whose branches many and strong, WOMAN'S SONG TO WOMAN 
 
 At morning and night have nodded 
 
 to me Pull the needle, swing the broom. 
 
 Full many a summer long. I Tidy up the littered room, 
 
1 62 
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
 
 Patch the trousers, darn the shirt, 
 Fight the daily dust and dirt ; 
 All around you trust your skill. 
 Confident ot kindness still. 
 
 Stir the gruel, knead the bread, 
 Tax your hands, and heart, and head : 
 Children sick and household hungry ; 
 (Though some thoughtless words have 
 
 stung you). 
 All are waiting on your will, 
 Contident of kindness still. 
 
 Never mind the glance oblique. 
 Never cause of coldness seek. 
 Never notice slight or frown, 
 By your conduct live them down : 
 Alt at last will seek your skill, 
 Confident of kindness still. 
 
 Lift your heart and lift your eyes. 
 Let continual prayer arise ; 
 Think of all the Saviour's woe 
 When He walked with man below, 
 How poor sinners sought His skill. 
 Confident of kindness still. 
 
 Sing the song and tell the story 
 Of the Saviour's coming glory, 
 To the children whom He blesses 
 "With your guidance and caresses. 
 Who for all things wait } our will, 
 Confident of kindness still. 
 
 Feed the hungry and the weak. 
 Words of cheer and comfort speak, 
 Be the angel of the poor, 
 Teach them bravely to endure ; , 
 Show them this, the Father's will, 
 Confident of kindness still. 
 
 Gratitude may be your lot, 
 Then be thankful ; but, if not. 
 Are you better than your Lord 
 Who endured the cross and sword 
 From those very hands whose skill 
 Waited ever on His will ? 
 
 Noble is a life of care 
 If a holy zeal be there ; 
 All your little deeds of love 
 Heavenward helps at last may prove. 
 
 If you seek your Father's will. 
 Trusting in His kindness still. 
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
 
 For us, O Lord, the year has brought 
 
 Its bloom and harvest glory ; 
 To us, through changing seasons, 
 taught 
 
 Thy truth, in gospel story. 
 Again our voices join in song. 
 
 And bring their glad thanksgiving 
 To Thee, to whom all years belong, 
 
 To Thee, the ever-living. 
 
 We meet with gladness on each lip, 
 
 And kindly warmth ot greeting. 
 And in thy boundless fellowship, 
 
 Each heart to heart is beating. 
 And for this day, and for this hour. 
 
 We bring our glad thanksgiving 
 To Thee, the ever-gracious Lord, 
 
 To Thee, the ever-living. 
 
 We oft have sung with jcy-crowned 
 brow 
 
 Of thy new love upspringing. 
 And some who joined our songs, are 
 now 
 
 Amid the angels singing. 
 But friends below and friends above 
 
 Unite in glad thanksgiving, 
 To Thee, whom all Thy children love. 
 
 To Thee, the ever-living. 
 
 Thy power in prayer we oft have felt, 
 
 Thy sympathy most tender. 
 And seemed to see, as we have knelt, 
 
 Thy face, in veiled splendor. 
 For all these joys from Paradise, 
 
 We bring our glad thanksgiving 
 To Thee, who every good supplies. 
 
 To Thee, ths ever-living. 
 
 So may we join from year to year. 
 
 Thy goodness ever singing, 
 And each at last with rapture hear 
 
 The beils of glory ringing. 
 Then, safe with Thee, again we'll raise 
 
 Our voices in thanksgiving 
 To Thee, in more exalted praise. 
 
 To Thee, the ever-living. 
 
UNDER THE LILACS.— THE SHOEING FORGE. 
 
 163 
 
 UNDER THE LILACS. 
 
 Under the lilacs we talked and sat, 
 Sat and talked through the sunny- 
 day ; 
 Birds were flying- this way and that, 
 And the fragrant air was soft with 
 May. 
 This was the burden of all we said : 
 " Oh what would life be if love were 
 dead ? " 
 
 The oriole shot its ribboned flame 
 From tree to meadow, from mead- 
 ow to tree. 
 Out of the hills a clear brook came 
 
 Crooning a tender melody ; 
 But, hearing its murmur, I heard it 
 
 said, 
 " Oh what would life be if love were 
 dead } " 
 
 The bumble-bee hurried along his way ; 
 The grass was showing its purest 
 green ; 
 We felt the soulful pulse of May 
 
 On the fairest day that was ever seen. 
 And this was the burden of all it said, 
 " Oh what would life be if love were 
 dead ? " 
 
 Under the lilacs Elsa and I 
 
 Sat and talked from hour to hour, 
 Looking up to the azure sky 
 
 And looking down to the tiniest 
 flower ; 
 But this was the burden each fair 
 
 thing said : 
 " Oh what would life be if love were 
 dead ? " 
 
 We saw at length the moon arise 
 And print her crescent in the west : 
 
 I looked in Elsa's shining eyes ; 
 But who cannot foretell the rest } 
 
 Two beating hearts that plainly said, 
 
 " Oh what would life be if love were 
 dead ? " 
 
 BESSIE' S ENGA GEM EN T. 
 
 Oh, grandma sits in her oaken chair. 
 
 And in flies Bessie with tangled hair ; 
 
 " I'm going to be married, oh, grand- 
 mamma, 
 
 I'm going to be married ! Ha, ha ! 
 ha, ha ! " 
 
 Oh, grandma smoothes out her apron- 
 string : 
 
 " Do you know, my dear, 'tis a solemn 
 thing? " 
 
 " 'Tis solemner not to, grandmamma, 
 
 I'm going to be married ! Ha, ha ! 
 ha, ha ! " 
 
 Oh, grandma smoothes out her apron- 
 string. 
 And gazes down at her wedding-ring. 
 And still she smiles as she drops a tear ; 
 " ' 'Tis solemner not to.' Yes, my dear." 
 
 THE SHOEING FORGE. 
 
 A STONE's-THROW from the market- 
 town. 
 Close on the lane that wanders down 
 Between tall trees and hedge rows 
 
 green, 
 The famous shoeing forge is seen ; 
 Open it stands upon the road, 
 That day and night is overflowed 
 By ruddy light that leaps and falls 
 Along the rafters on the walls. 
 
 And often, halting on his way, 
 The idler from the town will stay 
 To hear the sharp, clear, ringing sound, 
 And watch the red sparks raining 
 
 round, 
 And the bright, fiery metal glow. 
 While the strong smith, with blow on 
 
 blow. 
 Hammers it into shape, a sight 
 To rouse his wonder and delight. 
 
 Now in the smouldering fire once more 
 The bar is thrust; the bellows roar 
 
[64 VACATION SONG.— THE FARMER'S SEVENTY YEARS. 
 
 And fan the flame to fiercer light, 
 Until the metal waxes white ; 
 Then on the anvil placed again, 
 Ding-dong, the strokes descend amain ; 
 Strong is the arm, the vision true, 
 Ot him who shapes the iron shoe. 
 
 For thee, O reader, is the thought 
 That great success in life is wrought 
 Not by the idler as he stands 
 With wondering looks and empty 
 
 hands. 
 But by the toiler, who can take 
 Each ad\erse circumstance and make 
 It bend beneath the force and fire 
 Of firm resolve and high desire. 
 
 VACATION SONG. 
 
 I HAVE closed my books and hidden my 
 
 slate. 
 And thrown my satchel across the gate, 
 My school is out for a season of rest, 
 And now for the school-room I love 
 
 the best ! 
 
 My school-room lies on the meadow 
 
 wide. 
 Where under the clover the sunbeams 
 
 hide; 
 Where the long vines cling to the 
 
 mossy bars. 
 And the daisies twinkle like fallen stars : 
 
 Where clusters of buttercups gild the 
 
 scene, 
 Like showers of gold-dust thrown over 
 
 the green, 
 And the wind's flying footsteps are 
 
 traced, as they pass, 
 By the dance of the sorrel and dip of 
 
 the grass. 
 
 My lessons are written in clouds and 
 
 trees. 
 And no one whispers, except the 
 
 breeze, 
 Who sometimes blows, from a secret 
 
 place, 
 A stray, sweet blossom against my face. 
 
 My school-bell rings in the rippling 
 
 stream 
 Which hides itself, like a school-boy's 
 
 dream, 
 Under the shadow and out of sight, 
 But laughing still for its own dehght. 
 
 My schoolmates there are the birds 
 
 and bees 
 And the saucy squirrel, less wise than 
 
 these. 
 For he only learns, in all the weeks, 
 How many chestnuts will fill his cheeks. 
 
 My teacher is patient, and never yet 
 A lesson of hers did I once forget. 
 For wonderful love do her lips impart. 
 And all her lessons are learned by heart. 
 
 Oh, come ! oh, come ! or we shall be 
 
 late, 
 And Autumn will fasten the golden 
 
 gate: 
 Of all the school-rooms, in East or 
 
 West, 
 The school of nature I love the best. 
 
 THE FARMER'S SEVENTY 
 YEARS. 
 
 Ah, there he is, lad, at the plow ; 
 
 He beats the boys for work, 
 And whatsoe'er the task might be. 
 
 None ever saw him shirk. 
 And he can laugh, too, till his eyes 
 
 Run o'er with mirthful tears. 
 And sing full many an old-time song 
 
 In spite of seventy years. 
 
 " Good-morning, friends ! 'tis twelve 
 o'clock ; 
 
 Time for a half-hour's rest." 
 And farmer John took out his lunch 
 
 And ate it with the rest. 
 " A harder task it is," he said, 
 
 " Than following up these steers 
 Or mending fences, far, for me 
 
 To feel my seventy years. 
 
THE THAW. 
 
 i6; 
 
 " You ask me why I feel so young ; 
 
 I'm sure, friends, 1 can't tell, 
 But think it is my good wife's fault 
 
 Who's kept me up so well ; 
 For women such as she are scarce 
 
 In this poor vale of tears ; 
 She's given me love and hope and 
 strength 
 
 For more than forty years. 
 
 "And then, my boys have all done 
 well, 
 
 As far as they have gone, 
 And that thing warms an old man's 
 blood, 
 
 And helps him up and on. 
 My girls have never caused a pang, 
 
 Or raised up anxious fears ; 
 Then wonder not that I feel young 
 
 And hale at seventy years. 
 
 " Why don't my good boys do my work 
 
 And let me sit and rest ? 
 Ah ! friends, that wouldn't do forme ; 
 
 I like my own way best. 
 They have their duty ; I have mine ; 
 
 And till the end appears, 
 I mean to smell the soil, my friends," 
 
 Said the man of seventy years. 
 
 THE THAW. 
 
 The clouds had softened when we came 
 
 from school, 
 And here and there some small, dis- 
 colored pool 
 Or plashy torrent, bursting from the 
 
 snow. 
 Prognosticated what the morn would 
 
 show. 
 Then all the night, while we were snug 
 
 in bed. 
 It poured a flood, — so dear, good 
 
 grandma said, — 
 !hat drenched the fields, the gardens 
 
 overflowed, 
 \nd plowed deep furrows in the miry 
 
 road. 
 
 It ceased at morning, and a mist began^ 
 Whose coursing drops down all the 
 
 windows ran. 
 But peering forth what change we saw 
 
 around — 
 " Look ! look ! " we cried, " see, grand- 
 ma, there's the ground ! " 
 The simple turf it was, but childhood's 
 
 mind 
 In common things can growing marvels 
 
 find. 
 Our weeks were long, and we had half 
 
 forgot 
 How looked the earth when drift and 
 
 glare were not. 
 
 We saw our snow-men " dead " about 
 
 the yard, 
 O'erthrown and headless on the spongy 
 
 sward ; 
 The sodden leaves, by Indian summer 
 
 cast, 
 Lay thick about us as we knew them 
 
 last ; 
 The steamy sheep went wandering forth 
 
 at will. 
 The barn fowls strayed with crow and 
 
 cackle shrill ; 
 Deep down the cattle set their blacken- 
 ed hoofs. 
 And pigeons thronged the bare and 
 
 smoking roofs. 
 
 Here crept a brook, there poured a 
 
 maelstrom down — 
 *' The world's made new ! " we cried, 
 
 " and oh, how brown ! " 
 It seemed so strange, this brownness 
 
 everywhere. 
 This coming forth of earth to light and 
 
 air. 
 Maud found her mitten, sought for high 
 
 and low. 
 And Tom his hatchet, missing since 
 
 the snow. 
 And grandma, when our wondering 
 
 looks she saw. 
 Said, "Yes, dears, 'tis the January 
 
 thaw." 
 
i66 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 So had she seen it times threescore and 
 
 ten, 
 While o^irls to matrons grew and boys 
 
 to men ; 
 And well she warned us of bespattered 
 
 suits, 
 Of coughs and colds, wet feet and 
 
 ruined boots. 
 " With thaws," she said, " diseases oft 
 
 begin — 
 Dear me ! the mud that you are track- 
 ing in ! 
 You'll run and race from early morn till 
 
 dark. 
 And then all night you'll bark and bark 
 
 and bark ! " 
 
 Ah, grandma had experience at her 
 
 back. 
 True was her judgment as her alm.anac. 
 Long weeks the thaw delayed its pass- 
 ing off, 
 Maud caught the measles, Tom the 
 
 whooping-cough ; 
 Poor Bounce, our pet, was chid for 
 
 miry paws, 
 And pussy's feet offended household 
 
 laws ; 
 The door-mat suffered and the broom 
 
 was twirled, 
 And Mud usurped the empire of our 
 
 world. 
 
 MARGARET, 
 
 Through the doorway shone the sum- 
 mer morning. 
 Rich with bloom to tempt the honey 
 bees, 
 Small blue waves ran whispering to the 
 sedges, 
 White sails curved to feel the eager 
 breeze. 
 
 I remember still the loon's weird 
 laughter. 
 And the gray gulls wheeling over- 
 head, 
 
 Then a low voice, full of p1ty, saying, 
 " Did they tell you little Margaret 
 was dead } 
 
 " Little Margaret. You see the daisies 
 Growing, knee deep, on the windy 
 hill : 
 How she loved the bonny roadside 
 blossoms ! 
 She is dead, and they are growing 
 still. 
 
 " If a bird dropped, sudden, into silence, 
 One with ear attent would miss its 
 lay ; 
 Is there anywhere a heart of nature 
 That can grieve for music passed 
 away .'' 
 
 " You remember all her winsome 
 beauty ; 
 God had made her very sweet and 
 fair ; 
 Are such graces wholly lost in dying ? 
 Do you think she can be sweeter 
 over there } 
 
 " And if you and I some day should 
 meet her. 
 Crowned and radiant, by the river 
 side. 
 Do you think that we should surely 
 know her 
 For the self-same little Margaret 
 who died ? " 
 
 Only tears for answer — while the 
 thrushes 
 
 Filled the leafy covert with their glee ; 
 Idle butterflies went drifting past us. 
 
 Golden blossoms blown along the lea. 
 
 In its green cup lay the shining water, 
 All its blue waves blossomed into 
 spray ; 
 On the hill the crowding ranks of 
 daisies 
 Tossed their heads like children at 
 their play. 
 
A GOOD-NIGHT.— FOR A WARNING. 
 
 167 
 
 Through the doorway shone the sum- 
 mer morning, 
 Not a tint of all its freshness fled ; 
 Only we two sitting in our sadness, 
 Mourned that little Margaret was 
 dead. 
 
 A GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 By-and-by, the evening falls, 
 
 Sons of labor rest, 
 Weary cattle seek the stalls, 
 
 Birds are in the nest. 
 By-and-by the tide will turn, 
 
 Change come o'er the sky. 
 Life's hard task the child will learn, 
 
 By-and-by. 
 
 By-and-by, the din will cease, 
 
 Day's long hours be past, 
 By-and-by in holy peace 
 
 We shall sleep at last. 
 Calm will be the sea-wind's roar, 
 
 Calm we too shall lie. 
 Toil and moil and weep no more, 
 
 By-and-by. 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 All day the white-haired woman sits 
 Beside the open door and knits ; 
 No living thing her dim eye sees. 
 As busy wdth old memories 
 She dreams her dreams of what has 
 
 been. 
 And knits her old-time fancies in. 
 
 She thinks of those who long ago 
 Went out across the threshold low ; 
 How many times her listening ear 
 Had thought familiar footsteps near, 
 And when she started up to find 
 A dead leaf rustling in the wind ; 
 
 But never as of those who lie 
 Beneath the wide and tender sky, 
 With folded han Js on quiet breast 
 All wrapped about with peace and rest. 
 
 She thinks of them. For her they tread 
 The gieen earth with her. None are 
 dead. 
 
 Though years have fallen like the leaves 
 About the graves where summer weaves 
 Her grass-fringed coverlet, to keep 
 Safe hid from all the ones asleep, 
 She sees them all. No grass nor mold 
 Can hide the ones she loved of old. 
 
 She talks with them. When brown- 
 winged bee 
 Makes merry in the locust tree. 
 She thinks he comes and sits with her, 
 Whose voice was love's interpreter. 
 O dreamer ! young again to-day. 
 What matter if your hair is gray ? 
 
 Sometimes she thinks that round her 
 
 knee 
 Her children play in happy glee. 
 And when they tired and sleepy grow, 
 She sings some songs of long ago. 
 And on her mother's loving breast 
 She rocks her little ones to rest. 
 
 O dreamer ! knitting all the day 
 Your dreams in with your stitches gray. 
 Yours is a happ}^, happy heart — 
 A haunted world from ours apart ; 
 The years that turn your tresses gray, 
 Have given you back your youth to-day. 
 
 FOR A WARNING. 
 
 I CAN tell just how it happened, though 
 
 it's fifty years ago, 
 And I sometimes think it's curious that 
 
 1 can remember so ; 
 For though things that lately happened 
 
 slip my mind, and fade away, 
 I am sure that I shall never lose the 
 
 memory of that day. 
 
 Job was coming to Thanksgiving — so 
 
 he wrote us in the Fall ; 
 He was Ezra's oldest brother, and his 
 
 favorite of them all. 
 
i63 
 
 FOR A WARNING. 
 
 We'd been keeping house since April, 
 but I couldn't always tell 
 
 When my pie-crust would be flak}', or 
 the poultry roasted well ; 
 
 So I felt a little worried — if the truth 
 must be confessed — 
 
 At the thought of Ezra's brother com- 
 ing as our household guest. 
 
 Just a week before Thanksgiving Ezra 
 
 rode one day to town, 
 As I needed things for cooking — flour, 
 
 and sugar, white and brown ; 
 And I worked like any beaver, all the 
 
 time he was away, 
 Making mince and stewing apple for 
 
 the coming holiday. 
 I was hot, and tired, and nervous, when 
 
 he galloped home at night — 
 All that day my work had plagued me, 
 
 nothing seemed to go just right. 
 
 " Here's the flour, Lucindy," said he ; 
 
 "it's the best there is in town ; 
 I forgot the other sugar, but I've 
 
 brought enough of brown." 
 " You're a fool ! " I cried in fury, and 
 
 the tears began to fall ; 
 " Ride ten miles to do an errand, and 
 
 forget it after all ! " 
 
 I was cross and clean discouraged, as 
 
 I thought he ought to know ; 
 But he turned as white as marble when 
 
 he heard me speaking so. 
 Not a word he said in answer, but he 
 
 started for the door. 
 And in less than half a minute galloped 
 
 down the road once more. 
 
 Then I nearly cried my eyes out, what 
 
 with grief and fear and shame ; 
 He was good and kind and patient ; I 
 
 was all the one to blame. 
 And the hours wore on till midnight, and 
 
 my heart seemed turned to stone, 
 As I listened for his coming while I sat 
 
 there all alone. 
 
 With the daylight came a neighbor; 
 
 •' Ezra has been hurt," he said ; 
 "Found beside the road unconscious; 
 
 taken up at first for dead." 
 Just behind him came four others, with 
 
 a burden slowly brought ; 
 As I stood and dumbly watched them 
 
 you can guess of all I thought ! 
 
 Oh, the days and nights that followed I 
 
 Ezra lived, but that was all ; 
 And with tearless eyes I waited for the 
 
 worst that might befall. 
 Wandering in a wild delirium, broken 
 
 phrases now and then 
 Dropped from fevered lips, and told me 
 
 what his painful thoughts had been. 
 
 So Thanksgiving dawned upon us. Job 
 came early, shocked to meet 
 
 Such a broken-hearted woman for the 
 bride he hoped to greet. 
 
 Not a word we spoke together in that 
 hushed and shadowed room, 
 
 Where we waited for the twilight dark- 
 ening down to deeper gloom ; 
 
 For the doctor said that morning, 
 " There is nothing more to do ; 
 
 If he lives till after sunset, I, perhaps, 
 can pull him through." 
 
 Just as five o'clock was striking, Ezra 
 
 woke and feebly stirred ; 
 " Did you get the sugar, darling ? " 
 
 were the words I faintly heard. 
 How I cried ! You can't imagine how 
 
 I felt to hear him speak. 
 Or to see his look of wonder as I bent 
 
 to kiss his cheek. 
 W^ell, I've told a long, long story — 
 
 Ezra's coming up the walk — 
 But I've had a purpose in it ; 'twasn't 
 
 just for idle talk. 
 Don't you think, my dear, you'd better 
 
 make your quarrel up with Gray } 
 It may save a world of trouble, and it's 
 
 near Thanksgiving Day. 
 
LILACS.— THE FRIEND'S BURIAL. 
 
 169 
 
 LILACS. 
 
 Dame Margery has a lilac bush 
 That grows by her cottage door, 
 And there it has blossomed its purple 
 flush 
 Full twenty-five years or more. 
 For she says, and a quiver goes over 
 her lip, 
 " John planted it here for me, 
 That morning before he sailed in the 
 ship 
 That never came home from sea." 
 
 To every boy and girl that goes 
 
 To school by the kind dame's door, 
 She gives a bunch of the purple blows. 
 
 Till blosoming time is o'er, 
 She loves to have, and she loves to 
 give, 
 
 And the good dame says, " You 
 know 
 The way to keep, you'll see, if you live 
 
 Next Spring, is to bestow." 
 
 Ma'am Allison lives across the street, 
 
 And her lilac tree grows high : 
 But away she drives the little feet 
 
 When they come her lilacs nigh, 
 " Dame Margery's blooms will soon 
 be gone — 
 
 She's foolish, seems to me ; 
 I'll not be breaking my lilacs down 
 
 For every child," says she. 
 
 Spring came. Dame Margery's bush 
 was full 
 Of wonderful, perfect bloom ; 
 In royal purple beautiful, 
 
 And sweet with its fresh perfume. 
 Ma'am Allison's tree had of blooms 
 not one ! 
 The last year's seeds were there ; 
 But vain she watched till the May was 
 gone. 
 For purple blossoms fair. 
 
 Dame Margery said, " Ah ! don't you 
 know 
 If last year's blossoms stav, 
 
 The next year's buds will fail to grow 
 Till these are broken away ? 
 
 For this year's lilacs cannot live 
 With seeds of last year's Spring." 
 
 Ma'am Allison learned that she must 
 give. 
 If she would have a thing. 1 
 
 THE FRIEND'S BURIAL. 
 
 My thoughts are all in yonder town, 
 Where, wept by many tears. 
 
 To-day my mother's friend lays down 
 The burden of her years. 
 
 True as in life, no poor disguise 
 
 Of death with her is seen, 
 And on her simple casket lies 
 
 No wreath of bloom and green. 
 
 O, not for her the florist's art, 
 The mocking weeds of woe, 
 
 But blessings of the voiceless heart, 
 The love that passeth show ! 
 
 Yet all about the softening air 
 Of new-born sweetness tells, 
 
 And the ungathered May-flowers wear 
 The tints of ocean shells. 
 
 The old, assuring miracle 
 
 Is fresh as heretofore ; 
 And earth takes up its parable 
 
 Of life from death once more. 
 
 Here organ swell and church-bell toll 
 Methinks but discordant were, 
 
 The prayerful silence of the soul 
 Is best befitting her. 
 
 No sound should break the quietude 
 
 Alike of earth and sky ; 
 O wandering wind in Seabrook wood. 
 
 Breathe but a half-heard sigh ! 
 
 I 
 Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake. 
 
 And thou, not distant sea, 
 Lapse lightly, as if Jesus spake, 
 
 And thou wert Galilee ! 
 
I/O 
 
 WINTER— A LAMENT. 
 
 For all her quiet life flowed on 
 As meadow streamlets flow, 
 
 Where fresher green reveals alone 
 The noiseless ways they go. 
 
 From her loved place of prayer I see 
 The plain-robed mourners pass, 
 
 With slow feet treading reverently 
 The graveyard's springing grass. 
 
 Make room, O mourning ones, for me. 
 Where, like the friends of Paul, 
 
 That you no more her face shall see 
 You sorrow most of all. 
 
 Her path shall brighten more and more 
 
 Unto the perfect day ; 
 She cannot fail of peace who bore 
 
 Such peace with her away. 
 
 O sweet, calm face that seemed to 
 wear 
 
 The look of sins forgiven ! 
 O voice of prayer that seemed to bear 
 
 Our own needs up to heaven ! 
 
 How reverent in our midst she stood, 
 Or knelt in grateful praise ! 
 
 What grace of Christian womanhood 
 Was in her household ways ! 
 
 For still her holy living meant 
 
 No duty left undone ; 
 The heavenly and the human blent 
 
 Their kindred loves in one. 
 
 And if her life small leisure found 
 
 For feasting ear and eye. 
 And pleasure, on her daily round. 
 
 She passed unpausing by, 
 
 Yet with her went a secret sense 
 Of all things sweet and fair. 
 
 And beauty's gracious providence 
 Refreshed her unaware. 
 
 She kept her line of rectitude 
 With love's unconscious ease ; 
 
 Her kindly instincts understood 
 All gentle courtesies. 
 
 An inborn charm of graciousness 
 Made sweet her smile and tone. 
 
 And glorified her farm-wife dress 
 With beauty not its own. 
 
 The dear Lord's best interpreters 
 
 Are humble human souls ; 
 The Gospel of a life like hers 
 
 Is more than books or scrolls. 
 
 From scheme and creed the light goes 
 out, 
 
 The saintly fact survives ; 
 The blessed Master none can doubt 
 
 Revealed in holy lives. 
 
 WINTER— A LAMENT. 
 
 O SAD-VOICED winds that sigh about 
 my door ! 
 
 Ye mourn the pleasant hours that are 
 no more. 
 The tender graces of the vanished 
 spring. 
 
 The sultry splendor of long summer 
 days, 
 The songs of birds, and streamlets 
 murmuring. 
 
 And far hills dimly seen through pur- 
 ple haze. 
 
 Still as the shrouded dead the cold 
 earth lies ; 
 
 Sunless and sullen droop the troubled 
 skies ; 
 There is no sound within the leafless 
 wood. 
 
 No mellow echo on the barren hill ; 
 Hushed is the piping of the insect 
 brood. 
 
 And hushed the gurgle of the meadow- 
 rill. 
 
 By rutted lanes the tangled green is 
 
 gone ; 
 The vine no longer hides the naked 
 
 stone. 
 
BY THE STREAM.— THE CHURCHYARD PATH. 171 
 
 But with its skeleton black fingers 
 
 clings, — 
 
 Its clustered berries, withered on the 
 
 stem, 
 
 Held sadly out like humble ofiferings, 
 
 Too poor for any hand to gather them. 
 
 On hillside pastures where the pant- 
 ing sheep 
 Hid from high noon in piny shadows 
 deep, 
 In level lawns with daisies overcast, 
 The haunts of belted bees and butter- 
 flies, 
 The sere grass whistles in the cut- 
 ting blast. 
 The wrinkled mould in frozen furrows 
 lies. 
 
 Now o'er the landscape dreary and 
 
 forsaken. 
 Like' some thin veil by unseen fingers 
 
 shaken. 
 The snow comes softly hovering 
 
 through the air, 
 Flake after flake in crossing threads of 
 
 white. 
 Weaving in misty mazes everywhere, 
 Till forest, field, and hill are shut from 
 
 sight. 
 
 sad-voiced winds that sigh about my 
 
 door! 
 
 1 mourn with ye the hours that are no 
 
 more. 
 My heart is weary of the sullen sky, 
 The leafless branches, and the frozen 
 plain ; 
 I long to hear the earliest wild-bird's 
 cry 
 And see the earth in gladsome green 
 again. 
 
 Sweet changing lights, that ever come 
 and go 
 
 Upon the quiet stream ! 
 
 Once more I see the flash of splendid 
 wings, 
 
 As dragon-flies flit by ; 
 Once more for me the small sedge- 
 warbler sings 
 
 Beneath a sapphire sky. 
 
 Once more I feel the simple, fresh con- 
 tent 
 
 I found in stream and soil 
 When golden Summers slowly came 
 and went, 
 
 And mine was all their spoil. 
 
 I find amid the honeysuckle flowers, 
 And shy forget-me-not, 
 
 Old boyish memories of lonely hours 
 Passed in this silent spot. 
 
 Oh, God of nature, how Thy kindness 
 keeps 
 
 Some changeless things on 
 earth ! 
 And he who roams far off", and toils 
 and weeps. 
 
 Comes home to learn their 
 worth. 
 
 Gay visions vanish, worldly schemes 
 may fail, 
 
 Hope prove an idle dream, 
 But still the blossoms flourish, red and 
 pale, 
 
 Beside my native stream. 
 
 BY THE STREAM. 
 
 Sweet tangled banks where ox-eyed 
 daisies grow 
 
 And scarlet poppies gleam ; 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD PATH. 
 
 He leant beside the churchyard gate, 
 A dying man, yet loth to go ; 
 
 A little longer he would wait 
 
 For strength to face the last dread 
 foe ; 
 
1/2 
 
 DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 
 
 The shadows on the stones 
 around 
 
 Fell darker still, and more pro- 
 found. 
 
 A little cottage girl came by, 
 
 And dropped a courtesy at the gate ; 
 He, longing for some human cry, 
 Spake : " Little one, you wander 
 late; 
 Do you not fear the churchyard 
 
 gloom ? " 
 She shook her head — "Tis my 
 way home." 
 
 And so passed on into the shade 
 
 A weary child, and nothing more ; 
 Nay, a heaven-guided little maid, 
 A troubled spirit to restore. 
 
 He stood erect, the truth made 
 known. 
 
 The churchyard path was his way 
 
 home. 
 
 DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 
 
 The world goes up, and the world goes 
 down. 
 And the sunshine follows the rain. 
 And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's 
 frown 
 Can never come over again, 
 
 Sweet wife, 
 No, never come over again. 
 
 For woman is warm though man be 
 cold, 
 And the night will hallow the day ; 
 Till the heart which at even was weary 
 and old, 
 Can rise in the morning gay, 
 
 Sweet wife. 
 To its work in the morning gay. 
 
HOME SCENES AND HOME LIFE 
 
 IN THE 
 
 TOWN. 
 
FIRESIDE MUSINGS. 
 
HOME SCENES AND HOME LIFE IN THE 
 
 TOWN. 
 
 HOLD CLOSER STLLL MY HAND. 
 
 Hold closer still my hand, dear love, 
 
 Nor fear its touch will soil thine 
 own ; 
 No palm is cleaner now than this, 
 
 So free from earth-stain has it grown 
 Since last you held it clasped so close. 
 
 And with it held my life and heart. 
 For my heart beat but in your smile, 
 
 And life was death, we two apart. 
 
 I loved you so. And you t Ah, well ! 
 
 I have no word or thought of blame ; 
 And even now my voice grows low 
 
 And tender, whispering your name. 
 You gauged my love by yours ; that's 
 all. 
 
 I do not think you understood ; 
 There is a point you nien can't reach. 
 
 Up the white heights of womanhood. 
 
 You love us — so at least you say. 
 
 With many a tender smile and word ; 
 You kiss us close on mouth and brow, 
 
 Till all our heart within is stirred ; 
 And having, unlike you, you see. 
 
 No other interests at stake. 
 We give our best, and count that death 
 
 Is blessed when suffered for your 
 sake. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 She lives not in a palace ; 
 
 She sits not on a throne ; 
 She holds no golden scepter ; 
 
 She wears no precious stone ; 
 
 And yet, her home is regal ; 
 
 No prmce ere lived in such : 
 Her subjects feel, with gladness. 
 
 Their queen's soft, thrilling touch. 
 
 Her word is jeweled scepter ; 
 
 Her eyes are shining gems — 
 No royal barge ere carried 
 
 Such on the royal Thames. 
 
 Her subjects are her children ; 
 
 Her queendom is her life ; 
 Those who obey her mandates 
 
 Call her their — mother — wife. 
 
 BREAD AND CHEESE AND 
 KISSES. 
 
 One day, when I came home fatigued, 
 
 And felt inclined to grumble. 
 Because my life was one of toil. 
 
 Because my lot was humble, 
 I said to Kate, my dariing wife, 
 
 In whom my whole life bliss is, 
 "What have you got for dinner, Kate ? " 
 
 " Why, bread and cheese and kisses." 
 
 Though worn and tired, my heart 
 leaped up 
 
 As those plain words she uttered. 
 Why should I envy those whose bread 
 
 Than mine's more thickly buttered ? 
 I said, "We'll have dessert at once." 
 
 " What's that ? " she asked. " Why 
 this is." 
 I kissed her. Ah, what sweeter meal 
 
 Than bread and cheese and kisses } 
 
 I gazed at her with more delight ; 
 
 She nodded and smiled gaily; 
 I said, " My love, on such a meal 
 
 I'd dine with pleasure daily ; 
 When I but think of you, dear girl, 
 
 I pity those fine misses 
 Who turn aside their head and pout 
 
 At bread and cheese and kisses. 
 (175) 
 
1/6 
 
 GROWING OLD.— HIS AND HERS. 
 
 " And when I look on your dear form, 
 
 And on your face so homely ; 
 And when 1 look in your dear eyes, 
 
 And on your dress so comely ; 
 And when I hold you in my arms, 
 
 I laugh at fortune's misses. 
 I'm blest in you, content with you, 
 
 And bread and cheese and kisses." 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 I LOOKED in the tell-tale mirror. 
 
 And saw the marks of care. 
 The crow's feet and the wrinkles, 
 
 And the gray m the dark-brown 
 hair. 
 My wife looked o'er my shoulder — 
 
 Most beautiful was she ; 
 " Thou wilt never grow old, my love," 
 she said, 
 
 " Never grow old to me. 
 For age is the chilling of heart, 
 
 And thine, as mine can tell. 
 Is as young and warm as when first 
 we heard 
 
 The sound of our bridal bell ! " 
 I turned and kissed her ripe red lips : 
 
 " Let time do its worst on me, 
 If in my soul, my love, my faith, 
 
 I never seem old to thee ! " 
 
 TOGE THER—FORE VER ! 
 
 Sweet heart, your bonnie eyes were 
 blue 
 When first we met, you know : 
 They gave me back looks fond and 
 true 
 In the days of long ago ! 
 They shone like lakes of tranquil light 
 
 In those young days of ours. 
 When we with hearts and footsteps 
 light 
 Plucked April's opening flowers. 
 
 Those April days went fleetly by. 
 
 And in your April eyes. 
 Dear heart, soft shadows came to lie 
 
 Like clouds in sunny skies. 
 
 Full many a doubt and sweet wife-care 
 Weighed those past days of ours, 
 
 And yet we stole some moments rare 
 To pluck midsummer's flowers. 
 
 Dear heart of mine, sweet heart, true 
 heart, 
 Lift up your eyes to me ! 
 Those cares had never power to part 
 
 Loves pledged so truthfully ! 
 And m our life's late, fair fall days — 
 Though frost has stripped the bow- 
 ers — 
 We'll search the old, well-trodden 
 ways, 
 For autumn's closing flowers I 
 
 HIS AND HERS. 
 
 His to struggle and defend ; 
 
 Hers to quietly arrange; 
 His to make rude forces bend ; 
 
 Hers to soothe in every change. 
 His to manage or invent ; 
 
 War when it may bring its night. 
 Giving a full, brave consent. 
 
 Evermore the watchword " Right." 
 Hers the inner wealth to keep. 
 
 Shielded from the outer blaze ; 
 But when over battles sweep. 
 
 On his brow to press her praise. 
 
 Thus temptations forth he'll meet. 
 
 Perils, trials, all will dare, 
 While he kr.ows an angel sweet 
 
 Watches in a safe home there— 
 Watches till his glad return — 
 
 When the music of the hearth. 
 Where their married heart-stars burn, 
 
 Breathes the dearest on the earth. 
 
 His is the stern field without : 
 Hers is the bright one within ; 
 
 Yet there is such peace about, 
 Neither's ever called to win. 
 
 Equal right amid the place — 
 
 Crowned together Strength and 
 Grace. 
 
TWO DAYS.— BETTER NOT TO KNOW.— I TOLD YOU. 1 77 
 
 Sword-armed Husband ! Pearl-wreath- 
 ed Wife ! 
 
 Ye have found the real shrine 
 Where the children breathe true life : 
 
 Obedience, love, joy entwined. 
 Yes, it is prophetic, too. 
 
 Of the mansion waiting you 
 Under that Eternal Dome 
 
 Where the gentle, brave, and true 
 Live, love in a Heavenly Home. 
 
 TWO DAYS. 
 
 No fairer day was ever seen — 
 
 The sky of cloudless blue — 
 The tall old trees like tents of green, 
 
 With sunlight sifting through. 
 But warmth and brightness brought 
 no ease. 
 
 No soothing for my pain. 
 And singing birds and droning bees 
 
 Took up one sad refrain — 
 The echo of my longing heart, 
 
 They bore it back to me : 
 ** 7Vie friend so long and truly loved 
 
 Is far away from ihce ! ' ' 
 
 A winter morning, dark and gray — 
 
 The leaden sky hangs low. 
 The wailing wind rose with the day ; 
 
 Upheaps the drifting snow. 
 I watch through half-blurred window- 
 pane 
 
 The sullen, driving storm. 
 But spite of tempest's howl and strain 
 
 My heart is light and warm. 
 These wild discordant voices blend 
 
 In one sweet melody ; 
 " The friend so long a7td truly loved 
 
 Is comifio; back to me ! " 
 
 BETTER NOT TO KNOW. 
 
 If in the years to come, dear, 
 When all are growing old. 
 
 And I am wan and wrinkled, 
 Your love for me grows cold, 
 
 My heart would break to know it, 
 And death come all too slow ; 
 
 Then do not tell me, darling, 
 'Tis better not to know. 
 
 You think me almost perfect, 
 
 And see no fault to-day — 
 Sometime you will discover 
 
 I am but common clay ; 
 You'll see my many failings 
 
 With eyes that keener grow. 
 But do not tell me, darling, 
 
 'Tis better not to know. 
 
 If sometime in the future, 
 
 As down life's stream we glide. 
 You almost wish a fairer face 
 
 Were sailing by your side. 
 Your thoughts go back regretfully 
 
 To days of long ago, 
 Oh, do not tell me, darling, 
 
 'Tis better not to know. 
 
 And if you find, alas ! too late. 
 
 Some mem'ry lingers still. 
 Some loss has left an aching void, 
 
 A place I can not fill. 
 Still wear for me a smile, dear. 
 
 As through this life we go. 
 And never tell me, darling, 
 
 'Tis better not to know. 
 
 The way is very long, dear heart. 
 
 Perhaps a darksome way, 
 That lies between this world of ours 
 
 And God's eternal day; 
 But we will walk it hand in hand, 
 
 And share each joy, each woe ; 
 Since God doth lead us, darling, 
 
 'Tis best we can not know. 
 
 7 TOLD YOU. 
 
 I TOLD you the winter would go, love, 
 I told you the winter would go ; 
 
 That he'd flee in shame when the south 
 wind came, 
 And you smiled when I told }ou so. 
 
1/8 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT.— GOOD-BYE. 
 
 You said the blustering fellow 
 Would never yield to a breeze, 
 
 That his cold, icy breath had frozen to 
 death 
 The flowers and grass and trees. 
 
 But I told you the snow would melt, 
 love, 
 In the passionate glance o' the sun, 
 And the leaves on the trees, and the 
 flowers and bees 
 Would come back again, one by one ; 
 That the great white clouds would van- 
 ish. 
 And the sky turn tender and blue, 
 And the sweet birds would sing and 
 talk of the spring. 
 And, love, it has ail come true. 
 
 I told you that sorrow would fade, love, 
 And you would forget half your pain ; 
 That the sweet bird of song would 
 waken ere long. 
 And sing in your bosom again ; 
 That hope would creep out of the 
 shadows. 
 And back to its nest in your heart, 
 And gladness would come, and find its 
 old home. 
 And that sadness at length would 
 depart. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 God keep you safe, my little love, 
 
 All through the night ; 
 Rest close in His encircling arms 
 Until the light. 
 My heart is with you as I kneel to pray ; 
 Good-night ! God keep you in His care 
 alway. 
 
 Thick shadows creep like silent 
 ghosts 
 
 About my head ; 
 I lose myself in tender dreams ; 
 The moon comes stealing through the 
 
 window bars, 
 A silver sickle gleaming 'mid the stars. 
 
 For I, though I am far away, 
 Feel safe and strong ; 
 To trust you thus, dear love — and 
 yet- 
 
 The night is long — 
 I say with sobbing breath the old fond 
 
 prayer, 
 Good-night ! Sweet dreams ! God keep 
 you everywhere ! 
 
 GOOD-B YE. 
 
 Good-bye, good-bye, it is the sweetest 
 blessing 
 That falls from mortal lips on mor- 
 tal ears, 
 The weakness of our human love con- 
 fessing, 
 The promise that a love more strong 
 is near — 
 
 May God be with you I 
 
 Why do we say it when the tears are 
 starting ! 
 W^hy must a word so sweet bring 
 only pain ? 
 Our love seems all-sufficient till the 
 parting. 
 And then we feel it impotent and 
 vain — 
 
 May God be with you ! 
 
 Oh, may He guide and bless and keep 
 you ever. 
 He who is so strong to battle with 
 your foes ; 
 Whoever fails, His love can fail you 
 never. 
 And all your needs He in His wis- 
 dom knows — 
 
 May God be with you ! 
 
 Better than earthly presence, e'en the 
 
 dearest, 
 ! Is the great blessing that our part- 
 j ings bring; 
 
 I For in the loneliest moments, God is 
 I nearest, 
 
 i And from our sorrows heavenly com- 
 forts spring 
 
 If God be with us ! 
 
THE ANSWER.— A LOVE SONG. 
 
 179 
 
 Good-bye, good-bye, with latest breath 
 we say it, 
 A legacy of hope, and faith, and love ; 
 Parting must come, we can not long 
 delay it. 
 But, one in Him, we hope to meet 
 above. 
 
 If God be with us ! 
 
 Good-bye — 'tis all we have for one an- 
 other, 
 Our love, more strong than death, 
 is helpless still, 
 For none can take the burden from his 
 brother. 
 Or shield, except by prayer, from any 
 ill. 
 
 May God be with you ! 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 " That we together may sail, 
 Just as we used to do." 
 
 CarletofCs Ballads. 
 
 And what if I should be kind ? 
 
 And what if you should be true ? 
 The old love could never go on 
 
 Just as it used to do. 
 
 The wan, white hands of the waves, 
 
 That smote us swift apart, 
 Will never enclasp again, 
 
 And draw us heart to heart. 
 
 The cold, far feet of the tides 
 
 That trod between us two, 
 Can never retrace their steps, 
 
 And fall where they used to do. 
 
 Oh, well the ships must remember. 
 That go down to the awful sea, 
 
 No keel that chisels the current 
 Can cut where it used to be. 
 
 Not a throb of the gloom or glory 
 That stirs in the sun or the rain. 
 
 Will ever be that gloom or glory 
 That dazzled or darkened — again. 
 
 Not a wave that stretches its arms 
 And yearns to the breast of the shore. 
 
 Is ever the wave that came trusting, 
 And yearning, and loving, before. 
 
 The hope that is high as the heavens. 
 The joy that is keen as pain. 
 
 The faith that is free as the morning, 
 Can die — but can live not again. 
 
 And though I should step beside you. 
 And hand should lean unto hand. 
 
 We should walk mutely — stifled — 
 Ghosts in a breathless land. 
 
 For I am as dead as you are, 
 
 And you are as dead as I ; 
 He who burns souls down to ashes. 
 
 He only can answer why. 
 
 And what if I should be kind ? 
 
 And though you should be true } 
 The old love could never, never 
 
 Love on as it used to do. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 Whether she love me, I can not tell. 
 O'er her sweet face the blushes come 
 and go ; 
 Through dark-fringed covers, drooping 
 softly down, 
 I see the light from tender, deep eyes 
 glow. 
 
 Whether she love me, I can not tell. 
 I only see the gleam of golden hair 
 O'er the white shoulders gently rippling 
 low; 
 Than fairest pictured saint she is 
 more fair. 
 
 Whether she love me, I can not tell. 
 
 I only see sweet shyness in her look 
 Of innocence that drew my heart away ; 
 
 Who, loving her, all other loves for- 
 sook. 
 
 Whether she love me, I can not tell. 
 
 But this I know, and find the knowl- 
 edge sweet : 
 For good or ill, for life or death itself. 
 
 My happy heart is ever at her feet. 
 
i8o 
 
 JUST A FEW WORDS.— COMFORT. 
 
 yUST A FEW WORDS. 
 
 Just a few words, but they blinded 
 The brightness all out of a day ; 
 
 Just a few words, but they lifted 
 The shadows and cast them away. 
 
 Oh ! the pain of the wounds. 
 Of the harden'd word's sting ; 
 
 Oh ! the balm and the brightness 
 That kind ones will bring. 
 
 Only a frown, but it dampen'd 
 The cheer of a dear little heart ; 
 
 Only a smile, but its sweetness 
 
 Check 'd tears that were ready to 
 start. 
 
 Sullen frowns — how they chill, 
 Happy smiles — how they lure 
 
 One to smile, one to raise. 
 One to kill, one to cure. 
 
 Oh, that the rules of our living 
 More like to the golden would be ! 
 
 Much, oh ! so much more of sunshine 
 Would go out from you and me. 
 
 Less profession, more truth 
 
 In our e very-day life. 
 More justice, then surely, 
 
 Lighter hearts and less strife. 
 
 For better and kinder we all mean to 
 
 be. 
 But there's lack in the thinking of both 
 
 you and me. 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 If there should come a time, as well 
 there may, 
 When sudden tribulation smites thine 
 heart, 
 And thou dost come to me for help 
 and stay, 
 And comfort, how shall I perform 
 my part ? 
 
 How shall 1 make my heart a resting- 
 place, 
 A shelter safe for thee when terrors 
 smite ? 
 
 How shall 1 bring the sunshine to thy 
 face. 
 
 And dry thy tears in bitter woe's de- 
 spite ? 
 
 How shall I win the strength to keep 
 my voice 
 
 Steady and firm, although I hear thy 
 sobs ? 
 
 How shall I bid thy fainting soul re- 
 joice, 
 Nor mar the counsel by mine own 
 heart-throbs ? 
 
 Love, my love teaches me a certain 
 way, 
 
 So, if thy dark hour come, I am thy 
 stay . 
 
 I must live higher, nearer to the 
 
 reach 
 Of angels in their blessed trustful- 
 ness. 
 Learn their unselfishness ere I can 
 
 teach 
 Content to thee whom I would 
 
 greatly bless. 
 Ah me ! what woe were mine if thou 
 
 shouldst come, 
 Troubled, but trusting unto me for 
 
 aid, 
 And I should meet thee powerless and 
 
 dumb, 
 Willing to help thee, but confused, 
 
 afraid ! 
 It shall not happen thus, for I will 
 
 rise, 
 God helping me, to higher life, and 
 
 gain 
 Courage and strength to give thee 
 
 counsel wise, 
 And deeper love to bless thee in thy 
 
 pain. 
 Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour 
 
 shall be 
 The dearest bond between my heart 
 
 and thee. 
 
MIZPAH.— IN THE CITY.— CHANGED HARMONIES. l8l 
 
 MIZPAH. 
 
 Yes, brief our parting words shall be, 
 
 And few our parting tears ; 
 The Lord shall watch 'twixt me and 
 thee. 
 
 Through all the coming years. 
 His eyes shall be our guiding light, 
 
 Wherever we may roam 
 Like beacon-fires that burn at night. 
 
 To lure the wanderer home. 
 
 We will not fear that time or change 
 
 Our perfect trust can dim. 
 No shadow of a wrong estrange 
 
 The hearts that rest in Him ; 
 But should they for one hour forget. 
 
 For one faint hour be cold, 
 The Lord shall watch between us yet, 
 
 His love our love shall hold. 
 
 Beloved, when we reach apart 
 
 The valley lone and dread, 
 Which, side by side, and heart to heart, 
 
 We once had thought to tread, 
 His faithful rod, thy staff and mine. 
 
 Through all the ways shall be 
 The comfort of His grace a sign 
 
 Still between me and thee. 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 
 Two artless souls I met to-day — 
 A pair of homespun lovers ; 
 
 As lightsome and as careless they 
 As aught the sunshine covers. 
 
 Stray moths that float the summer 
 through 
 
 Had wingless seemed beside them. 
 Who, wholly glad, found naught to do 
 
 With what might yet betide them. 
 
 Along the busy street they stept. 
 Their arms close intertwisted. 
 
 And of the crowd no record kept 
 While one to other listed, 
 
 I could not hear a word they said. 
 Yet quick, returning glances 
 
 Between them, spoke of spirits wed 
 Like those in old romances. 
 
 The satchel swinging on his arm, 
 I His garments quaintly fitted, 
 Her old-time dress yet girlish charm. 
 All held me while they flitted. 
 
 I saw they would not barter one 
 
 Of either's valued kisses 
 For any riches under sun 
 
 That make up meaner blisses. 
 
 And then I thought how heaven comes 
 down 
 
 To bless the simple-hearted, 
 Who have no care for fashion's frown, 
 
 Nor fear but to be parted. 
 
 And thought, too, if the world but 
 guessed 
 The half of what it loses 
 By slighting love, 'twould stand con- 
 fessed 
 In shame of what it chooses. 
 
 Yet nothing recked the happy pair 
 
 Of such a lesson needed 
 By folk o'erlooked, while passing there 
 
 Themselves as little heeded. 
 
 All unconcerned they dreamed not 
 why 
 
 I scanned their tell-tale faces. 
 And pitied silent ones go by 
 
 To cold, heart-lonely places. 
 
 I These laughed and talked delighting 
 ' each, 
 
 ! And stept as on the heather ; 
 Supremely blessed one goal to reach. 
 Linked arm in arm together. 
 
 CHANGED HARMONIES. 
 
 Fair faces beaming round the house- 
 hold hearth. 
 Young joyous tones in melody of mirth, 
 The sire doubly living in his boy, 
 And she, the crown of all that wealth 
 
 of joy; 
 These make the home like some sv/eet 
 
 lyre, given 
 To sound on earth the harmonies of 
 heaven. 
 
1 82 
 
 DIVIDED.— SEPARATION. 
 
 A sudden discord breaks the swelling 
 
 strain, 
 One chord has snapped ; the harmony 
 
 again 
 Subdued and slower moves, but never 
 
 more 
 Can pour the same glad music as of 
 
 yore ; 
 Less and less full the strains successive 
 
 wake, 
 Chord after chord must break — and 
 
 break — and break ; 
 Until on earth the lyre, dumb and 
 
 riven. 
 Finds all its chords restrung to loftier 
 
 notes in heaven. 
 
 DIVIDED. 
 
 I KNOW the dream is over, 
 
 I know you can not be 
 In all the time to come the same 
 
 That you have been to me ; 
 The color still is in the cheek, 
 
 The lustre in the eye, — 
 But, ah ! we two have parted hands — 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Not that I love you less, 
 
 For, oh ! my heart is sore, — 
 Not that the lips that breathe your 
 name 
 Are less fond than of yore ; 
 But the unresting feet of Time 
 
 Have traveled on so fast ! 
 And soul from soul has grown away 
 At last. 
 
 I think I just stood still — 
 
 For I had found my all — 
 But your rich life swept ever on 
 
 Beyond my weak recall ; 
 And now, although the voice rings 
 sweet, 
 And clear the dear eyes shine, 
 I know no part of all their wealth 
 Is mine. 
 
 What bridge can sad Love build 
 
 Across this gulf of Change, 
 Who needs must work with broken 
 hopes 
 And fancies new and strange ? 
 Alas, it is too late, — 
 
 The light fades down the sky. 
 The hands slip slowly each from each — 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 SEPARA TlOJSr. 
 
 A WALL was grown up between the 
 two — ■ 
 A strong, thick wall, though all un- 
 seen ; 
 None knew when the first stones were 
 laid, 
 Nor how the wall was built, I ween. 
 
 And so their lives were wide apart, 
 Although they shared one board, 
 one bed ; 
 
 A careless eye saw naught amiss. 
 Yet each was to the other dead. 
 
 He, much absorbed in work and gain, 
 Grew soon unmindful of his loss; 
 
 A hard indifference worse than hate 
 Changed love's pure gold to worth- 
 less dross. 
 
 She suffered tortures all untold ; 
 
 Too proud to mourn, too strong to 
 die; 
 The wall pressed heavily on her heart ; 
 
 Her white face showed her misery. 
 
 Such walls are growing day by day 
 'Twixt man and wife, 'twixt friend 
 and friend — 
 Would they could know, who lightly 
 build, 
 How sad and bitter is the end. 
 
 A careless word, an unkind thought, 
 A slight neglect, a taunting tone — 
 
 Such things as these, before we know. 
 Have laid the wall's foundation stone. 
 
TRODDEN FLOWERS.— A HOME. 
 
 183 
 
 TRODDEN FLO WERS. 
 
 There are some hearts that, like the 
 
 loving vine, 
 Cling to unkindly rocks and ruined 
 
 towers, 
 Spirits that suffer and do not repine — 
 Patient and sweet as lowly trodden 
 
 flowers 
 That from the passer's heel arise, 
 And bring back odorous breath instead 
 
 of sighs. 
 
 But there are other hearts that will not 
 
 feel 
 The lonely love that haunts their 
 
 eyes and ears ; 
 That wound fond faith with anger 
 
 worse than steel ; 
 And out of pity's spring draw idle 
 
 tears. 
 Oh, Nature ! shall it ever be thy will 
 111 things with good to mingle, good 
 
 with ill } 
 
 Why should the heavy foot of sorrow 
 press 
 The willing heart of uncomplaining 
 love — 
 
 Meek charity that shrinks not from 
 distress, 
 Gentleness, loth her tyrants to re- 
 prove } 
 
 Though virtue weep forever and la- 
 ment. 
 
 Will one hard heart turn to her and 
 repent } 
 
 Why should the reed be broken that 
 will bend, 
 And they that dry the tears in others' 
 eyes 
 
 Feel their own anguish swelling with- 
 out end. 
 Their summer darkened with the 
 smoke of sighs? 
 
 Sure, Love to some fair region of his 
 own 
 
 Will flee at last, and 1-eave us here 
 alone. 
 
 Love weepeth always — weepeth for 
 
 the past, 
 For woes that are, for woes that 
 
 may betide ; 
 Why should not hard ambition weep 
 
 at last. 
 Envy and hatred, avarice and pride .^, 
 Fate whispers, so low is your lot. 
 They would be rebels ; love rebelleth 
 
 not. 
 
 A HOME. 
 
 What is a home ? A guarded space 
 Wherein a few, unfairly blest 
 
 Shall sit together, face to face. 
 
 And bask and purr, and be at rest ? 
 
 Where cushioned walls rise up between 
 Its inmates and the common air. 
 
 The common pain, and pad, and screen 
 From blows of fate or winds of care } 
 
 Where Art may blossom strong and 
 free. 
 
 And Pleasure furl her silken wing, 
 And every laden moment be 
 
 A precious and peculiar thing } 
 
 And past and future, softly veiled 
 In hiding mists, shall float and lie 
 
 Forgotten half, and unassailed 
 By either Hope or Memory. 
 
 While the luxurious Present weaves 
 
 Her perfumed spells untried, untrue, 
 'Broiders her garments, heaps her 
 
 sheaves. 
 All for the pleasure of a few ? 
 
 Can it be this — the longed-for thing 
 Which wanderers on the restless 
 foam. 
 Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing 
 Aspire to, dream of, christen 
 "Home.^" 
 
 No. Art may bloom, and peace and 
 bliss ; 
 Grief may refrain and Death forget ; 
 
1 84 
 
 ONLY.— SPARROWS. 
 
 But if there be no more than this 
 The soul of home is wanting yet. 
 
 Dim image from far glory caught, 
 Fair type of fairer tilings to be. 
 
 The true home rises in our thought 
 As beacon for all men to see. 
 
 Its lamps burn freely in the night ; 
 
 Its fire-glows unchidden shed 
 Their cheering and abounding light 
 
 On homeless folk uncomforted. 
 
 Each sweet and secret thing within 
 Gives out a fragrance on the air — 
 
 A thankful breath sent forth to win 
 A little smile from others' care. 
 
 The few, they bask in closer heat ; 
 
 The many catch the further ray. 
 Life higher seems, the world more 
 sweet. 
 
 And hope and Heaven less far away. 
 
 So the old miracle anew 
 
 Is wrought on earth and proved 
 good, 
 And crumbs apportioned for a few, 
 
 God-blessed, suffice a multitude. 
 
 ONLY. 
 
 It was only a Httle blossom. 
 Just the merest bit of bloom, 
 
 But it brought a glimpse of summer 
 To the little darkened room. 
 
 It was only a glad "good-morning," 
 As she passed along the way ; 
 
 But it spread the morning's glory 
 Over the livelong day. 
 
 Only a song ; but the music, 
 Though simply pure and sweet. 
 
 Brought back to better pathways 
 The reckless roving feet. 
 
 Only ! In our blind wisdom 
 How dare we say it at all ? 
 
 Since the ages alone can tell us 
 Which is the great or small. 
 
 SPARRO WS. 
 
 Little birds sit on the telegraph 
 wires, 
 And chitterand flitter, and fold their 
 wings, 
 Maybe they think that for them and 
 their sires, 
 Stretched always on purpose these 
 wonderful strings : 
 And perhaps the Thought that the 
 world inspires 
 Did plan for the birds among other 
 things. 
 
 I Little birds sit on the slender lines, 
 
 I And the news of the world runs un- 
 
 ! der their feet. 
 
 How value rises, and how declines ; 
 How kings with their armies in bat- 
 tle meet ; 
 
 i And all the while, 'mid the soundless 
 signs, 
 
 I They chirp their small gossipings 
 
 \ foolish-sweet. 
 
 '. Little things light on the lines of our 
 
 ; lives, 
 
 I Hopes and joys and acts of to-day ; 
 
 ! And we think that for these the Lord 
 
 i contrives, 
 
 I Nor catch what the hidden lightnings 
 
 say. 
 But from end to end his meaning ar- 
 rives, 
 
 i And His word runs underneath all 
 
 1 the way. 
 
 I Is life only wires and lightnings then, 
 i Apart from that which about it 
 
 clings? 
 Are the Vv^orks and the hopes and the 
 prayers of men 
 Only sparrows that light on God's 
 telegraph strings. 
 Holding a moment and gone again ? 
 Nay; He planned lor the birds with 
 the larger things. 
 
PARTED.— LOVES. 
 
 185 
 
 PARTED. 
 
 Oh, loved and lost so long, so long-ago ! 
 The barriers fall at last between our 
 faces. 
 Time has turned back for us his cease- 
 less flow, 
 Our feet stand in the old familiar 
 places. 
 
 Your eyes look into mine, as oft be- 
 fore, 
 The dear sad eyes of deep and ear- 
 nest feeling ; 
 And carried back to those sweet days 
 of yore, 
 A flood of tender thoughts is o'er 
 me stealing. 
 
 And as you come with hands out- 
 stretched to mine. 
 Step as of old so light and joyous- 
 hearted, 
 My heart forgets the faithlessness of 
 thine, 
 Forgets the long, long years since 
 we were parted. 
 
 But stop ! altho' your breath is on my 
 cheek 
 And happy tear-drops on my lashes 
 tremble, 
 I shrink from you — nay, you must let 
 me speak — 
 These are not fancies I could fain 
 dissemble. 
 
 A nameless something stands between 
 us still — 
 See, see yon shapes that close about 
 us gather ! 
 At their approach my heart grows faint 
 and chill. 
 Cling closer to thee ? Nay, they part 
 us rather \ 
 
 Phantoms they are from your dead past 
 and mine ! 
 Events and faces gone we thought 
 forever — 
 
 Ah, can you not their presence here 
 divine ? 
 The hands that erst they parted still 
 they sever ! 
 
 These at your feet once laid me in de- 
 spair. 
 See how they still are glaring down 
 upon me ! 
 These are the blessed ones that found 
 me there 
 And back to life and light and glad- 
 ness won me. 
 
 Forgive? I do forgive. 'Tis not my 
 pride, 
 But yon dark ghosts of yours keep 
 us asunder. 
 And these dear ones of light here at 
 my side 
 That look on me with piteous, speech- 
 less wonder. 
 
 I do forgive thee ; but can not forget 
 The love that replaced thine. Nay, 
 come not nearer ! 
 Dear as you were, and are, and shall be, 
 yet 
 My past, dead as it is, to me is dearer. 
 
 LOVES. 
 
 " Now tell me, dear, of all the loves 
 Have lived within your breast, 
 
 Of all the loves of your whole life, 
 Which have you loved the best ? 
 
 " The first, that came when the young 
 heart 
 Was strong with youth's desire. 
 The passion that was pain in part. 
 
 Quick change of frost and fire ; 
 Or the swift fancy somewhere caught 
 
 In crowded city's street ; 
 In land of palm or pine, inwrought 
 
 With dreams both great and sweet 
 A face that followed, went before 
 I In misty light, 
 ; Haunting the heart forevermore 
 i By day and night ? 
 
1 86 
 
 LET BYGONES BE BYGONES.— I PRAY FOR THEE. 
 
 " Or do you hold as best the love 
 
 Which Fate for healing brings, 
 The quiet folding of the dove 
 
 After the restless wings — 
 The love far sought, that yet was near, 
 
 A home of peace and rest ? 
 Of all your loves, now tell me, dear, 
 
 Which have you loved the best ? " 
 
 He looked into the wasting west, 
 Across a purple field of sea ; 
 
 " Of all my loves, I've loved the best 
 The one that — loved not me — 
 Ah me ! " 
 
 Let bygones be bygones ; oh, purge 
 out the leaven 
 Of malice, and try an example to set 
 To others, who, craving the mercy of 
 heaven, 
 Are sadly too slow to forgive and 
 forget. 
 
 Let bygones be bygones ; remember 
 how deeply 
 To heaven's forbearance we all are 
 in debt ; 
 They value God's infinite goodness too 
 cheaply 
 To heed not the precept, "Forgive 
 and forget." 
 
 LET BYGONES BE BYGONES. 
 
 Let bygones be bygones; if bygones 
 were clouded 
 By aught that occasioned a pang of 
 regret. 
 Oil, let them in darkest oblivion be 
 shrouded ; 
 'Tis wise and 'tis kind to forgive and 
 forget. 
 
 Let bygones be bygones, and good be 
 extracted 
 From ill over w^hich it is folly to fret ; 
 The wisest of mortals have foolishly 
 acted — 
 The kindest are those who forgive 
 and forget. 
 Let bygones be bygones; oh, cherish 
 no longer 
 The thought that the sun of Affec- 
 tion has set ; 
 Eclipsed for a moment, its rays will be 
 stronger, 
 If you, like a Christian, forgive and 
 forget. 
 
 Let bygones be bygones; your heart 
 will be lighter. 
 When kindness of yours with recep- 
 tion has met ; 
 The flame of your love will be purer 
 and brighter. 
 If, Godlike, you strive to forgive and 
 forget. 
 
 / PR A Y FOR THEE. 
 
 When thou art very weak and weary, 
 
 dear, 
 When it is dark, and all seems dreary 
 
 here, 
 And suddenly a light, almost divine. 
 Upon thy doubting eyes and heart 
 
 doth shine 
 And thou the way to go dost plainly 
 
 see. 
 Know, dearest heart, that then I pray 
 
 for thee. 
 
 Far off in little chamber I am saying 
 These words all softly, and God hears 
 me praying : 
 
 Dear Lord, I do not know 
 
 If all is well 
 With him whom I love so. 
 
 But Thou canst tell ; 
 Oh, give him light to see ! 
 Oh, with him ever be ! 
 Till all is well. 
 
 When with a weight of sorrow and of 
 
 fears, 
 Crushed to the earth, thou weepest 
 
 bitter tears, 
 Lo ! gently round the arms of tender- 
 
 est love 
 Raise thee from depths of woe, and 
 
 far above, 
 
WHEN THE SONG'S GONE OUT OF YOUR LIFE. 
 
 187 
 
 Thou hear'st a sweet voice say, " Trust 
 
 in me ! " 
 Know, dearest heart, that then I pray 
 
 for thee. 
 
 Then with full heart of love to God I'm 
 
 saying 
 These words, all softly, and He hears 
 me praying : 
 
 O Lord ! perhaps, to-day, 
 
 Down in the dust. 
 He think'st not Thou didst say, 
 
 "Heart, in me trust ! " 
 Oh, save him, Lord, in love f 
 Oh, lift him up above. 
 Out of the dust. 
 
 When all the answering beauty of thy 
 soul 
 
 Is throbbing, thrilling with the rap- 
 turous whole 
 
 Of Nature, as on odorous summer 
 night 
 
 The tremulous stars thy senses all de- 
 light, 
 
 Thou feelest higher joys than these 
 can be, 
 
 Know, dearest heart, that then I pray 
 for thee. 
 
 For at my twilight window I am say- 
 ing 
 These words, all softly, and God hears 
 me praying : 
 
 Dear Father, as to-night 
 
 He sees the sky 
 With glorious beauty light. 
 
 To Thee on high. 
 Who this rare radiance wrought, 
 Raise his adoring thought 
 Above the sky. 
 
 When tenderly beside some stricken 
 
 child 
 Thou standest, and dost speak of Jesus 
 
 mild. 
 Dost whisper of His patience and His 
 
 death. 
 It seems to thee, as if some quickening 
 
 breath 
 
 Of God's rich power in thine own words 
 
 might be. 
 Know, dearest heart, that then I pray 
 
 for thee. 
 
 With all the knowledge-power of love 
 
 I'm saying 
 These words, all softly, and God hears 
 me praying : 
 
 Be with him. Lord, to-day, 
 
 And him inspire. 
 As lovingly a way, 
 
 A path far higher, 
 He shows to blinded heart, 
 To his thought warmth impart, 
 His words inspire ! 
 
 And if, e'en now, eyes better loved than 
 
 mine 
 Waken that wondrous tenderness in 
 
 thine. 
 If all thy better self to life is stirred 
 By other's look, or touch, or gentle 
 
 word, 
 If one is dearer now than I can be. 
 Still, dearest heart, believe I pray lor 
 
 thee. 
 
 Between my sobbing and my tears, I'm 
 
 saying 
 These words, all softly, and God hears 
 me praying : 
 
 Dear Lord, if it is best. 
 Make him more glad ! 
 Give to him joy and rest : 
 
 I may be sad : 
 I can most lonely be. 
 Dear Lord, if only he 
 Is made more glad. 
 
 WHEN THE SONGS GONE OUT 
 OF YOUR LIFE. 
 
 When the song's gone out of your life, 
 That you thought would last to the 
 end — 
 
 That first sweet song of the heart 
 That no after days can lend— 
 
THE DATE IN THE RING.— HOME. 
 
 The song of the birds to the trees. 
 
 The song of the wind to the flowers, 
 The song that the heart sings low to 
 itself 
 When it wakes in life's morning 
 hours : 
 
 "You can start no other song." 
 
 Not even a tremulous note 
 Will falter forth on the empty air; 
 
 It dies in your aching throat. 
 It is all in vain that you try, 
 
 For the spirit of song has fled — 
 The nightingale sings no more to the 
 rose 
 
 When the beautiful flower is dead. 
 
 So let silence softly fall 
 
 On the bruised heart's quivering 
 strings ; 
 Perhaps from the loss of all you may 
 learn 
 The song that the seraph sings : 
 A grand and glorious psalm 
 
 That will tremble, and rise, and 
 thrill, 
 And fill your breast with its grateful 
 rest, 
 And its lonely yearnings still. 
 
 THE DA TE IN THE RING. 
 
 The women dressed her for farewell 
 
 In snowy silk and lace ; 
 A crown of her braided hair they set 
 
 Above her quiet face, 
 And on her placid breast they laid 
 White roses, as became a maid. 
 
 Her mother bent and kissed her lips, 
 And kissed her braided hair, 
 
 And folded down the peaceful hands 
 Upon the bosom fair. 
 
 And, weeping, saw on one a ring — 
 
 A little golden time-worn thing. 
 
 Sh^ took it from the icy hand 
 
 And looked for rhyme or name — 
 
 Something to say why it was there. 
 From whose fond thought it came. 
 
 She only saw, through many a tear, 
 A date long past — day, month, and 
 year. 
 
 " 'Twas some school-fellow's gift," she 
 sighed, 
 
 " The child forgot to show," 
 And put it back in its own place 
 
 With tender touch and slow. 
 And saw its tiny glitter rest 
 Like sunbeam on that pulseless breast. 
 
 Ah, little ring, you kept it well. 
 
 The secret of your date ! 
 Whatever its meaning, it goes untold 
 
 Beyond the earth and fate : 
 Pain or blessing — who can say 
 How much of either in it lay ? 
 
 We watch the light in our darlings' 
 eyes. 
 
 The lines that the slow years bring, 
 Yet know as little what they mean 
 
 As the secret of the ring. 
 Joy or sorrow — God only knows 
 How much of both lies under the rose. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 When daily tasks are done, and tired 
 hands 
 Lie still and folded on the resting 
 knee. 
 When loving thoughts have leave to 
 loose their bands. 
 And wander over past and future 
 free; 
 When visions bright of love and hope 
 fulfilled 
 Bring weary eyes a spark of olden 
 fire. 
 One castle fairer than the rest we 
 build. 
 One blessing more than others we 
 desire ; 
 A home, our home, wherein all wait- 
 ing past. 
 We two may stand together, and 
 alone ; 
 
WHAT WE SHOULD CARE FOR.— HIDDEN PATHS. 
 
 Our patient taskwork finished, and at 
 
 last 
 Love's perfect blessedness and peace 
 
 our own. 
 Some little nest of safety and delight, 
 Guarded by God's good angels day and 
 
 night. 
 
 We can not guess if this dear home 
 shall lie 
 In some green spot embowered with 
 arching trees, 
 Where bird-notes joined with brook- 
 notes gliding by, 
 Shall make us music as we sit at 
 ease. 
 Or if amid the city's busy din 
 
 Is built the nest for which we look 
 and long, 
 No sound without shall mar the peace 
 within. 
 The calm of love that time has 
 proved so strong, 
 Or if, ah ! solemn thought, this home 
 of ours 
 Doth lie beyond the world's confus- 
 ing noise ; 
 And if the nest be built in Eden 
 bowers, 
 What do we still, but silently re- 
 joice ? 
 We have a home, but of its happy 
 
 state 
 We know not yet. We are content to 
 wait. 
 
 WHAT WE SHOULD CARE FOR. 
 
 It matters little where I was born, 
 
 Or if my parents were rich or poor ; 
 Whether they shrank at the cold 
 world's scorn. 
 Or walked in the pride of wealth 
 secure ; 
 But whether I live an honest man. 
 And hold my integrity firm in my 
 clutch, 
 I tell you, brother, plain as I am, 
 It matters much ! 
 
 It matters little how long I stay 
 
 In a world of sorrow, sin, and care ; 
 Whether in youth I am called away, 
 Or live till my bones and pate ar^ 
 bare ; 
 But whether I do the best I can 
 
 To soften the weight of adversity's 
 couch 
 On the faded cheek of my fellow-man. 
 It matters much ! 
 
 It matters little where be my grave, 
 
 Or on the land or on the sea. 
 By purling brook or 'neath stormy 
 wave. 
 It matters little or naught to me ; 
 But whether the angel Death comes 
 down 
 And marks my brow with his loving 
 touch. 
 As one that shall wear the victor's 
 crown. 
 
 It matters much ! 
 
 HIDDEN PATHS. 
 
 What thou doest I know not now, but I shall 
 know hereafter. 
 
 Sad-eyed Madonnas walk the carlh 
 in every land — 
 Pure mother-hearts whose secret e'en 
 to them is hid 
 In deeps of love and pain, deeps by 
 bright promise spanned. 
 But all unbridged of those fulfill- 
 ments, that amid 
 
 Earth's pressing needs, make solid 
 ground for mortal feet. 
 It is so hard to walk by faith when 
 years go by, 
 And bring no added sight, or proof 
 wherewith to greet 
 And strengthen failing power, or still 
 reproachful cry. i 
 
 So walk the seers and sages of all 
 lands and times, 
 A true apostle's true succession from 
 the old 
 
go 
 
 BIRTH SONG.— THE EVENING HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 First days, when God first set His seal 
 in ancient climes 
 Upon devoted priestly souls, through 
 all the fold, 
 
 Down to the hour when the last priest- 
 ess-mother bore 
 Some child of promise for some wait- 
 ing nation's need, 
 All true reformers, teachers, leaders, 
 evermore 
 Must come in forms prepared, despite 
 all seeming need. 
 
 In forms prepared, and through their 
 one appointed lot 
 Tho' none in all the era see and re- 
 cognize 
 The worker, as in grooves of royal 
 law, forgot 
 By those for whom they toil, to 
 mounts of sacrifice 
 
 Called irresistibly — and for all reason 
 why 
 The toll, toll, toll, throughout their 
 soul the era-bell 
 By which God calls His chosen— Ah ! 
 beloved, to die 
 Were so much easier ; yet " He doeth 
 all things well." 
 
 The far event and purpose justifies, 
 explains. 
 No God-appointed work may ever 
 "haste " or " rest," 
 The pruned away, the shorn, unblos- 
 soming years have gains 
 Of late rich fruit that proves a hand 
 divine hath dressed. 
 
 It shall be given these to walk in Para- 
 dise. 
 God's priests and priestesses, co- 
 workers are with Him ; 
 'Tis not too much to pay for such pearl 
 of great price 
 That many passing earthly years be 
 shorn and dim. 
 
 BIRTH SONG. 
 
 Let winds and waters murmur clear ; 
 
 More sweet this infant voice to me, 
 That comes as from the golden sphere 
 
 Where thrills the soul of harmony: 
 Blow, tempest, and let thunder roll — 
 God gives us this immortal soul. 
 
 Let scepters flash, and senates shake ; 
 The war-steed neigh, the trumpet 
 blow ; 
 Let banners strike the wind, and make 
 
 A splendor where the warriors go : 
 What heed we.^ War may rage and 
 
 roll- 
 God gives us this immortal soul. 
 
 Let science glimmer on the brine. 
 Bind isle to isle, and clime to clime ; 
 
 And on the ocean's h ric line, 
 
 Let lightning twang the psalms of 
 time : 
 
 A triumph ! Let the music roll — 
 
 God gives us this immortal soul. 
 
 For, in this soul, serene and clear, 
 All mortal and immortal shine : 
 
 Eternity, a single year, 
 
 Thought glowing into light divine : 
 
 Bend, bend the knee ! let anthems roll 
 
 For God's sweet gift, a virgin soul ! 
 
 THE E VENING HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 Gladly now we gather round it. 
 
 For the toiling clay is done, 
 And the gay and solemn twilight 
 i Follows down the golden sun. 
 I Shadows lengthen on the pavement, 
 I Stalk like giants through the gloom, 
 j Wander past the dusky casement, 
 Creep around the fire-lit room. 
 
 Draw the curtain, close the shut- 
 ters, 
 Place the slippers by the fire ; 
 Though the rude wind loudly 
 mutters. 
 What care we for wind- 
 sprite's ire ? 
 
THE BABY OVER THE WAY.— CHILDLESS. 
 
 [91 
 
 What care we for outward seeming ? 
 
 Fickle Fortune's frown or smile ? 
 If around us love is beaming. 
 
 Love can human ills beguile. 
 'Neath the cottage-roof and palace, 
 
 From the peasant to the king, 
 All are quaffing from life's chalice 
 Bubbles that enchantment bring. 
 Grates are glowing, music flow- 
 ing 
 From the lips we love the 
 best; 
 Oh, the joy, the bliss of knowing 
 There are hearts whereon to 
 rest ! 
 
 Hearts that throb with eager gladness — 
 
 Hearts that echo to our own — 
 While grim care and haunting sadness 
 
 Mingle ne'er in look or tone. 
 Care may tread the halls of daylight. 
 Sadness haunt the midnight hour, 
 But the weird and witching twilight 
 Brings the glowing hearthstone's 
 dower. 
 
 Altar of our holiest feelings ! 
 Childhood's well-remembered 
 shrine ! 
 Spirit-yearnings — soul-reveal- 
 ings— 
 Wreaths immortal round thee 
 twine ! 
 
 THE BABY VER THE WA V. 
 
 As I've sat at my chamber window, 
 I've noticed again and again 
 
 The sweetest of baby figures 
 At the opposite window pane ; 
 
 Rosy cheeks daintily dimpled. 
 Curls that, without any check, 
 
 Tumble and twist in confusion, 
 * With the corals about its neck. 
 
 But how has that little one stolen 
 
 A march on my foolish old heart ? 
 And why, as I watch those bright 
 eyes. 
 Will the quick tear instinctively 
 start ? 
 
 Ah ! because in the long-ago years. 
 Ere time mingled my tresses with 
 gray, 
 
 I, too, had a baby as lovely 
 As the little one over the way. 
 
 From the white robe and clustering 
 curls. 
 From that vision of infinite joy. 
 Oh, sadly, so sadly I turn 
 
 To all I have left of my boy ; 
 To the baby-clothes, yellow with age. 
 To the curl that once lay on his 
 brow, 
 To the old - fashioned cradle — the 
 nest — 
 So drearily tenantless now. 
 
 The first grief comes back to me then. 
 
 The longing that can not be told, 
 For the sight of the dear little face, 
 
 For my own darling baby to hold ; 
 And my arms ache with emptiness, so 
 
 That I feel I am hardly content 
 To wait for the summons to go 
 
 The way that my little one went. 
 
 And so, for the sake of the joy 
 
 That long ago gladdened my heart. 
 For the light that once shone on my 
 way. 
 
 So quickly, alas ! to depart ; 
 For the love that I bore my own 
 darling. 
 
 All babies are dearer to-day ; 
 And I think I must call on the mother 
 
 Of that baby over the way. 
 
 CHILDLESS. 
 
 My neighbor's house is not so high. 
 
 Nor half so nice as mine ; 
 I often see the blinds ajar, 
 
 And though the curtain's fine. 
 It's only muslin, and the steps 
 
 Are not of stone at all — 
 And yet I long for her small hoiiie 
 
 To give mine all iu all. 
 
192 
 
 TAKE THIS LETTER TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Her lawn is never left to grow— 
 
 The children tread it down ; 
 And when the father comes at night, 
 
 I hear them clatter down 
 The gravel walk ; and such a noise 
 
 Comes to my quiet ears, 
 As my sad heart's been waiting for 
 
 So many silent years. 
 
 Sometimes I peep to see them seize 
 
 His coat, and hand, and knees — 
 All three so anxious to be first ; 
 
 And hear her call, " Don't tease 
 Papa " — the baby springs — 
 
 And then the low brown door 
 Shuts out their happiness, and I 
 
 Sit wishing, as before, 
 
 That my neighbor's little cottage 
 
 And the jewels of her crown 
 Had been my own ; my mansion 
 
 With its front of granite brown, 
 Its damask, and its Honiton — 
 
 Its lawn so green aid bright — 
 How gladly would I give them 
 
 For her motherhood to-night ! 
 
 WHERE IS YOUR BOY TO- 
 NIGHT? 
 
 Life is teeming with evil snares. 
 
 The gates of sin are wide. 
 The rosy fingers of pleasure wave 
 
 And beckon the young inside. 
 Man of the world, with open purse. 
 
 Seeking your own delight. 
 Pause, ere reason is wholly gone — 
 
 Where is your boy to-night ? 
 
 Sirens are singing on every hand 
 
 Luring the ear of youth, 
 Gilded falsehood with silver notes 
 
 Drowneth the voice of truth. 
 Dainty lady in costly robes, 
 
 Your parlors gleam with light. 
 Fate and beauty your senses steep - 
 
 Where is your boy to-night } 
 
 Tempting whispers of royal spoil 
 
 Flatter the youthful soul 
 Eagerly entering into life. 
 
 Restive of all control. 
 
 Needs are many, and duties stern 
 Crowd on the weary sight ; 
 
 Father, buried in business cares, 
 Where is your boy to-night.? 
 
 Pitfalls lurk in the flowery way, 
 
 Vice has a golden gate. 
 Who shall guide the unweary feet 
 
 Into the highway straight? 
 Patient worker with wilhng hand 
 
 Keeping the home-hearth bright. 
 Tired mother with tender eyes, 
 
 Where is your boy to-night } 
 
 Turn his feet from the evil paths 
 
 Ere they have entered in. 
 Keep him unspotted while yet ye may, 
 
 Earth is so stained with sin ; 
 Ere he has learned to follow wrong. 
 
 Teach him to love the right, 
 Watch, ere watching is wholly vain — 
 
 Where is your boy to-night } 
 
 TAKE THIS LETTER TO MY 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Take this letter to my mother. 
 
 Far across the deep blue sea, 
 It will fill her heart with pleasure. 
 
 She'll be glad to hear from me. 
 How she wept when last we parted, 
 
 How her heart was filled with pain, 
 When she said, " Good-bye, God bless 
 you — 
 
 We may never meet again." 
 
 Take this letter to my mother, 
 
 It will fill her heart with joy, 
 Tell her that her prayers are answered, 
 
 God protects her absent boy ; 
 Tell her to be glad and cheerful. 
 
 Pray for me where'er I roam, 
 And ere long I'll turn my footsteps 
 
 Back toward my dear old home. 
 
 Take this letter to my mother. 
 It is filled with words of love. 
 
 If on earth I'll never meet her. 
 Tell her that we'll meet above, 
 
THE MOTHER.— TWO TOILERS. 
 
 193 
 
 Where there is no hour of parting, 
 All is peace, and love, and joy ; 
 
 God will bless my dear old mother, 
 And protect her only boy. 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " A perfect woman nobly planned." 
 
 Never too tired to hear or heed 
 The slightest cry of her children's need ; 
 Never impatient in look or word, 
 By what tender thoughts her heart is 
 stirred. 
 
 Through nights of watching and busy 
 
 days, 
 Unwearied, she asks no meed of praise ; 
 For others spending and being spent. 
 She finds therein her sweet content. 
 
 Though decked in no robes of silken 
 
 sheen. 
 In her small domain she walks a queen ; 
 Outshining far the costliest gem, 
 A spirit meek is her diadem. 
 
 Though fortune frown, she is brave of 
 
 heart. 
 No selfish thought in her life has part ; 
 Patient and trustful though storms may 
 
 lower, 
 A faithful friend in life's darkest hour. 
 
 TWO TOILERS, 
 
 " Lady, sitting in silken gear, 
 
 Up in your chamber height, 
 Lay sunshine in a golden web 
 
 Across your floor to-night ? 
 For sure your threads were all of gold, 
 
 I saw their glimmer fall 
 Through your fingers, and cast a gleam 
 
 Upon your pictured wall." 
 
 "Alas ! but heavy-hearted still, 
 
 I see along the west. 
 Day's white sail vanish dreamily 
 
 Over the darkness crest. 
 
 For scant, and poor, the freight all told 
 
 I have sent out therein ; 
 Though rich, and full, and splendid 
 heaped, 
 
 I hoped it would have been." 
 
 For clumsy weaving tarnished oft 
 
 The gleaming treasure gold ; 
 And my best arts but left it there 
 
 Faded, and dull, and old. 
 Sometimes tears dimmed my vision, so 
 
 I only could work slow ; 
 Or the tears dropping rusted sore 
 
 The burnished, yellow glow. 
 
 " Oh ! may we not with weary eyes, 
 
 Friend, fold our hands and weep, 
 When it is growing late for work, , 
 
 And almost time to sleep? 
 For we are but vain toilers all, 
 
 Each in his empty way ; 
 And life's best gold is set with gloom. 
 
 And Heaven's far away." 
 
 " Toiler, sitting in humble garb, 
 
 Down in your shady room, 
 Patient have I seen you bending 
 
 Over your busy loom ; 
 I have caught no sheen of golden. 
 
 Glinting, glad and gay — 
 Naught for your daily store to weave, 
 
 But dull and quiet gray." 
 
 " Toiler, like a warm wing-shelter 
 
 Comes darkness brooding o'er ; 
 Resting in the soothing shadow. 
 
 Sit now within thy door ; 
 Tell me how through the light's delay 
 
 You wove your stint to-day. 
 Out of that gloomy, shady store. 
 
 Your dim and dusky gray ? " 
 
 " God cares to have (I guess not why, 
 
 And yet so I beheve). 
 In His fair world — the dusty web 
 
 That even spiders weave, 
 There must be reason, then, to think 
 
 He needs the poor, pale gray ; 
 And so I weave it carefully, 
 
 And simply trust He may, " 
 
T94 
 
 TIRED MOTHERS.— A MOTHER'S WORK. 
 
 "And sometime in a glad surprise, 
 
 As if by chance inrolled, 
 Shining from out the dusk I find 
 
 Even a thread of gold, 
 How richly forth it shines erewhile 
 
 Set in my homely woof ; 
 And like a crown glows out so grand 
 
 Beneath my humble roof! " 
 
 " I am content to fold my hands. 
 
 Now at the still night-fall ; 
 God sets no soul to work for naught, 
 
 Nor cheats one of us all 
 With wasted toil ; we work His will 
 
 Each in his diff'rent way ; 
 And e'en life's gray has in it gold, 
 
 Nor is Heaven far away." 
 
 TIRED MOTHERS. 
 
 A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, 
 Your tired knee that has so much to 
 bear ; 
 A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
 From underneath a thatch of tangled 
 hair, 
 Perhaps you do not heed the velvet 
 touch 
 Of warm, moist fingers, holding 
 yours so tight — 
 You do not prize this blessing over- 
 much ; 
 You almost are too tired to pray 
 to-night. 
 
 But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
 I did not see it as I do to-day — 
 We are all so dull and thankless, and 
 too slow 
 To catch the sunshine till it slips 
 away. 
 And now it seems surpassing strange 
 to me 
 That, while I bore the badge of 
 motherhood, 
 I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 
 The little child that brought me only 
 
 And if, some night when you sit down 
 to rest, 
 You miss this elbow from your tired 
 knee — 
 This restless, curling head from off 
 your breast. 
 This lisping tongue that chatters 
 constantly ; 
 If from your own the dimpled hands 
 had slipped. 
 And ne'er would nestle to your palm 
 again ; 
 If the white feet into their grave had 
 tripped, 
 I could not blame you for your heart- 
 ache then. 
 
 I wonder so that mothers ever fret 
 At little children clinging to their 
 gown ; 
 Or that the foot-prints, when the days 
 are wet. 
 Are ever black enough to make them 
 frown. 
 If I could find a little muddy boot. 
 Or cap or jacket, on my chamber 
 floor; 
 If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 
 And hear it patter in my home once 
 more ; 
 
 If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
 To-morrow make a kite to reach the 
 sky — 
 There is no woman in God's world 
 could say 
 She was more blissfully content 
 than I. 
 But ah ! the dainty pillow next my 
 own 
 Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
 My singing birdling from its nest has 
 flown ; 
 The little boy I used to kiss is dead ! 
 
 A MOTHER'S WORK. 
 
 " She looketh well to the ways of her house- 
 hold, and eateth not the bread of idleness." — 
 Prov. xxxI. 27. 
 
 Early in the morning 
 Up as soon as light, 
 
GOING AWAY. 
 
 195 
 
 Overseeing breakfast, 
 Putting all thinks right ; 
 
 Dressing little children, 
 Hearing lessons said, 
 
 Washing baby faces, 
 
 Toasting husband's bread. 
 
 After breakfast reading, 
 
 Holding one at prayers : 
 Putting up the dinners, 
 
 Mending little te?rs ; 
 Good-bye kissing children. 
 
 Sending off to school. 
 With a prayer and blessing, 
 
 Mother's heart is full. 
 
 Washing up the dishes. 
 
 Sweeping carpets clean. 
 Doing up the chamber-work. 
 
 Sewing on machine ; 
 Baby lies a-crying — 
 
 Rubbing little eyes. 
 Mother leaves her sewing 
 
 To sing the lullabies. 
 
 Cutting little garments, 
 
 Trimming children's hats. 
 Writing for the papers. 
 
 With callers having chats ; 
 Hearing little footsteps 
 
 Running through the hall. 
 Telling school is over, 
 
 As mamma's name they call. 
 
 Talking with the children 
 
 All about their school, 
 Soothing little troubles, 
 
 leaching grammar rules ; 
 Seeing about supper. 
 
 Lighting up the room, 
 Making home look cheerful. 
 
 Expecting husband soon. 
 
 Then, with all her headaches. 
 
 Keeping to herself, 
 Always looking cheerful. 
 
 Other lives to bless. 
 Putting to bed children — 
 
 Hearing say their prayers, 
 
 Giving all a good-night's kiss, 
 Betore she goes down -stairs. 
 
 Once more in the parlor. 
 
 Sitting down to rest, 
 Reading in the Bible 
 
 How His promises are blest; 
 Taking all her sorrows 
 
 And every care to One, 
 With that trusting, hopelul heart, 
 
 Which none but mothers own. 
 
 GOING A WA V. 
 
 Do not be angry with me 
 
 For an idle word I say ; 
 Do not be angry, father. 
 
 Because I am going away. 
 Have patience with me, my mother. 
 
 Though I may have none with you ; 
 But I love you, I love you, mother. 
 
 Whatever I say or do. 
 Look kindly upon me, sister, 
 
 You are beautiful and gay ; 
 Your days will be long and happy. 
 
 But I am going away. 
 With me, if you could but read it. 
 
 Clear written on cheek and brow, 
 There is no past, no future — 
 
 Only a brief, calm Now ; 
 A little space to be glad in — 
 
 A lesser space to grieve ; 
 And Hfe's whole scene fades from me, 
 
 As the landscape fades at eve. 
 
 Except — that eve I shall see not, 
 
 My day is ended at noon ; 
 And the saddest bit of the story 
 
 Is — it does not end too soon, 
 I am so weary, weary ! 
 
 I could turn my face to the wall ; 
 Like a sick child, long before bedtime, 
 
 Drop asleep among you all ; 
 So glad that lessons are over ; 
 
 Still gladder that play is done ; 
 And a dusky curtain stretches 
 
 Between me and the sun. 
 
196 
 
 SIT STILL, MY DAUGHTER." 
 
 Good-bye, my father and mother ! 
 
 Two of you — and but one of me ! 
 And, sister, you'll find some stranger 
 
 Much closer than I could be ; 
 One more — but death's quiet teaching 
 
 Is making me slowly wise; 
 My heart, too poor for his keeping. 
 
 Thou, God, Thou wilt not despise ; 
 My soul, too weak for earth's battle, 
 
 Thou wilt gird up anew, 
 And the angels shall see me doing 
 
 The work I was meant to do ; 
 The work that I ever failed in. 
 
 And wept o'er, and tried again, 
 Till brain, and body, and spirit 
 
 Snapped under the cruel strain. 
 
 That is over. So none need be sorry ; 
 
 You rather ought to rejoice, 
 And sing my vade in pace?n 
 
 Without a break in your voice ; 
 And let me depart contented, 
 
 Before the heat of the day ; 
 For I shall be still God's servant. 
 
 Although I have gone away ! 
 
 MY MOTHER KNELT IN 
 PRA YER. 
 
 Once in my boyhood's gladsome day. 
 
 My spirits light as air, 
 I wandered to a lonely room, 
 
 Where mother knelt in prayer. 
 
 Her hands were clasped in fervency, 
 Her lips gave forth no sound ; 
 
 Yet, awe-struck, solemnly I felt 
 1 stood on holy ground. 
 
 My mother, all entranced in prayer. 
 
 My presence heeded not ; 
 And reverently I turned away 
 
 In silence from the spot. 
 
 An orphan wanderer, far from home 
 
 In after-time I strayed ; 
 But God has kept me, and I feel 
 
 He heard her when she prayed. 
 
 ''SIT STILL, MY DAUGHTERS 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 Wouldst thou learn thy lesson, 
 
 And wouldst thou comfort bring my 
 wounded heart ? 
 Another heard thy sweet confession : 
 ' Mother ! we can not part.' 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 Wait in sweet submission 
 
 Until the way made plainer be. 
 Fear not, the Lord who prompted thy 
 decision 
 Will strengthen thee. 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 Banish all thy sadness ; 
 
 The clouds around thy path will flee 
 away. 
 And thou shalt bind thy sheaves with 
 gladness — 
 ' Watch and Pray.' 
 
 •' Sit still, my daughter ! 
 Thine heavenly Friend 
 
 ' Will keep thy feet ; ' thou shalt not 
 rove, 
 But gather here the choicest gifts He'll 
 send ; 
 His banner over thee is ' Love.' 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 He who led thee hither 
 
 Will perfect what concemeth thee; 
 His spotless robe shall be thy shelter, 
 
 His precious blood thine only plea. 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 Enviable station ! 
 
 Thus lowly waiting at the Master's 
 feet, 
 With trustful confidence and bright 
 anticipation 
 Of joy complete. 
 
 " Sit still, my daughter ! 
 We, too, would seek this low position. 
 Would ever learn obedience to our 
 Father's will. 
 Would gladly heed this gentle admo- 
 nition, 
 Daughter, 'Sit still.'" 
 
THE MOTHER'S DAY-DREAM.— MENDING STOCKINGS. 
 
 197 
 
 THE MOTHERS DA Y-DREAM. 
 
 A MOTHER sat at her sewing, 
 
 But her brow was full of thought ; 
 The little one playing beside her 
 
 Her own sweet mischief wrought. 
 A book on a chair lay near her ; 
 
 'Twas open, I strove to see, 
 At the old Greek artist's story, 
 
 " I paint for eternity." 
 
 So I fancied all her dreaming ; 
 
 1 watched her serious eye 
 As the 'broidery dropped from her 
 fingers. 
 And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. 
 She drew the little one nearer. 
 
 And looked on the sunny face, 
 Swept the bright curls from the open 
 brow. 
 
 And she thought, " I, too, am an -artist ; 
 
 My life-work here I see, 
 This sweet, dear face, my hand must 
 trace, 
 
 I must paint for eternity. 
 Hence, each dark passion shadow ! 
 
 Pain's deeply-graven lines ! 
 Hers must be the reflected beauty 
 
 That from the pure heart shines. 
 
 " But how shall I blend the colors, 
 
 How mingle the light and shade. 
 Or arrange the weird surroundings ■ 
 
 The future has arrayed } 
 Oh, Life ! thou hast weary nightfalls. 
 
 And days all drear that be. 
 But, from thy darkness, marvelous 
 grace 
 
 Wilt thou evoke for me ? 
 
 " Alas, that I am but a learner ! 
 
 So where shall I make me wise, 
 Or obtain the rare old colors. 
 
 The Master's precious dyes ? 
 I must haste to the fcunt of beauty. 
 
 Must pleasingly kneel at His feet, 
 And crave, 'mid his wiser scholars. 
 
 The humblest pupil's seat. 
 
 " Then, hand and heart together. 
 
 Some grace shall add each day ; 
 Thus, thus, shall her face grow lus- 
 trous 
 
 With beauty that can not decay. 
 My darling ! God guide my pencil. 
 
 And grant me the'vision to see 
 In the light of His love, without blem- 
 ish or stain, 
 
 In the coming eternity." 
 
 Then the mother awoke from her day- 
 dream. 
 
 Her face grew bright again. 
 And I knew her faith was strengthened 
 
 By more than angel's ken. 
 Her fingers flew the faster 
 
 As she sang a soft, low song ; 
 It seemed like a prayer, for the child 
 so fair, 
 
 As it thrilled the air along-. 
 
 MENDING STOCKINGS. 
 
 It is an autumn afternoon 
 
 Chilly with rain and gray with cloud ; 
 Rocking, the while my needle flies. 
 
 I think and talk sometimes aloud. 
 
 Piled in my lap, a soft, bright heap, 
 Are crimson stockings, and white, 
 and blue ; 
 
 How little feet will dance them out. 
 Who but a mother ever knew } 
 
 Still is the house — my merry three 
 Out for a visit have gone to-day ; 
 
 Here in the hush I sit and rest, 
 
 Tired with their rush and noise and 
 play. 
 
 Ah ! but two dear brown eyes will peep 
 Over my darn in this crimson toe ; 
 
 He is the only son we have. 
 
 And mothers love their boys, you 
 know ! 
 
 Over and under, out and in, 
 
 (My stocking mending is never 
 done !) 
 Slowly across the lessening space 
 
 Threads of the soft blue worsted run. 
 
FAILED. 
 
 Is it a fancy ? — Gentle arms 
 
 Creep 'round my neck in a loving 
 wise ; 
 Yes, my twin girlie, these blue hose 
 Bring me a thought of your azure 
 eyes. 
 
 Easy it is to weave a web 
 
 Out of my youngest darling's hair, 
 Fillmg the space her rounded knee 
 
 Pressed through the stocking soft 
 and fair; 
 
 Dancing with every tricksy bound, 
 Framing the happy sunlit face, — 
 
 Lift up your lips, my rosebud, do. 
 Where for my kisses is sweeter 
 place ? 
 
 Hark ! was that a step in the hall ? 
 No — 'twas a sweep of the wind out- 
 side. 
 Mending and darning — day has waned. 
 Twilight is spreading her mantle 
 wide. 
 
 Ah ! my mending is not complete 
 Now that the stockings folded are, 
 
 Soberer work have I to do — 
 
 Weaving whose issues are greater 
 far. 
 
 Faint fall my hands. Help me, O 
 Lord ! ! 
 
 Take Thou the work, for these souls 
 are Thine. 
 Sanctify, teach, mold, guide, and bless. 
 Till in Thy likeness their spirits 
 shine ! 
 
 Darker it grows. The lonely house 
 Waits for the sound of their merry 
 cheer. 
 Hark ! they have come with laugh and 
 shout. 
 Oh, I am glad they are safely here ! 
 
 FAILED. 
 
 Yes, I am a ruined man, Kate ! 
 Everything gone at last ; 
 
 Nothing to show for the trouble and toil 
 Of the weary years that are past : 
 
 Houses and lands and money 
 Have taken wings and fled. 
 
 This morning I signed away 
 The roof from over my head. 
 
 I shouldn't care for myself, Kate; 
 
 I'm used to the world's rough ways ; 
 I've dug and delved, and plodded along 
 
 Through all my manhood days ; 
 But I think of you and the children. 
 
 And it almost breaks my heart, 
 For I thought so surely to give my 
 boys 
 
 And girls a splendid start. 
 
 So many years on the ladder, 
 
 I thought I was near the top — 
 Only a few years longer. 
 
 And then 1 expected to stop 
 And put the boys in my place, Kate, 
 
 With an easier life ahead. 
 But now I must give the prospect up; 
 
 That comforting dream is dead. 
 
 " I'm worth more than my gold," eh ? 
 
 You're good to look at it so, 
 But a man isn't worth very much, Kate, 
 
 When his hair is turning to snow ; 
 My poor little girls, with their soft, 
 white hands 
 
 And innocent eyes of blue. 
 Turned adrift in the heartless world— 
 
 What can and what will they do } 
 
 "An honest failure.^" indeed, it was, 
 
 Dollar for dollar paid. 
 Never a creditor suffered. 
 
 Whatever people have said. 
 Better are rags and a conscience clear. 
 
 Than a palace and flushes of shame, 
 One thing I shall leave to my children, 
 Kate, 
 
 And that is an honest name. 
 
 What's that ? " The boys are not 
 troubled ? 
 
 They are ready now to begin 
 And gain us another fortune, 
 
 And work through thick and thin ? " 
 
THEY SAID.— SO GOES THE WORLD. 
 
 199 
 
 The noble fellows ! already I feel 
 
 I haven't so much to bear, 
 Their courage has lightened my heavy 
 load 
 
 Of misery and despair. 
 
 " And the girls were so glad it was 
 honest ? 
 
 They'd rather not dress so fine. 
 And think that they did it with money 
 
 That wasn't honestly mine ? 
 They're ready to show what they're 
 made of, 
 
 Quick to earn and to save ? " 
 My blessed, good little daughters ! 
 
 So generous and so brave. 
 
 And you think we needn't fret, Kate, 
 
 While we have each other left, 
 No matter of what possession 
 
 Our lives may be bereft ? 
 You are right. With a quiet con- 
 science 
 
 And a wife so good and true 
 I'll put my hand to the plov/ again, 
 
 And know that we'll pull through. 
 
 THE V SAID. 
 
 They said of her, " She never can 
 have felt 
 The sorrows that great, earnest nat- 
 ures feel," 
 
 They said, " Her placid lips have 
 never spelt 
 Hard lessons, taught by pain. Her 
 
 eyes reveal 
 No passionate yearning, no per- 
 plexed appeal 
 
 To other eyes. Life and her heart 
 have dealt 
 
 With her but lightly." When the Pil- 
 grims dwelt 
 
 First by their Rock, lest savage feet 
 should steal 
 To precious graves with desecrating 
 tread, 
 
 The burial-field was with the plow- 
 share crossed ; 
 
 And there her silken curls in the light 
 maize tossed. 
 With thanks those Pilgrims ate their 
 bitter bread. 
 While peaceful harvests hid what they 
 prized most : 
 I thought of them when this of her 
 they said. 
 
 They of this other said, " No heart 
 
 has she. 
 
 Else would she not with ready 
 
 prattle smile 
 
 On all who cross her path, and merrily 
 
 The steps of child, man, bird, and 
 
 brute beguile 
 With overflow of winsome prank 
 and wile. 
 How shallow must this sparkling bub- 
 bler be ! " 
 And did you never down a hill-side see 
 A laughing brook go dancing, mile 
 on mile. 
 Fresh from a never-failing mountain 
 spring. 
 Whose depths of sweetness none 
 might sound or guess ? 
 The spring was the brook's heart, 
 
 which sought to fling 
 Gleams of its hidden joy on everything. 
 Life's deep wells yield perennial 
 
 cheerfulness. 
 They spake of her from their own 
 shallowness. 
 
 SO GOES THE WORLD. 
 
 Our varied days pass on and on. 
 
 Our hopes fade unfulfilled away, 
 And things which seem the life of life, 
 
 Are taken from us day by day ; 
 And yet through all the busy streets 
 The crowd of pleasure-seekers 
 throng. 
 The puppets play, the showman calls, 
 And gossips chat the whole day 
 long. 
 
 And so the world goes on ! 
 
200 
 
 IF WE KNEW.— MAKE CHILDHOOD SWEET. 
 
 Our little dramas come to naught ; 
 
 Our lives may fail, our darling plan 
 May crumble into nothingness, 
 Our firmest castle fall to sand ; 
 f And yet they all may sing and dance, 
 The money-makers laugh and shout, 
 The stars, unmindful, still shine bright, 
 Unconscious that our light is out. 
 And so the world goes on ! 
 
 The house grows sad that once was 
 
 gay; 
 
 The dear ones seek their Blessed 
 Home, 
 And we may watch and wait in vain 
 To hear their well-known footsteps 
 come; 
 And yet the sunlight flecks the floor 
 And makes the summer shadows 
 long, 
 The rosebuds at the _ isement bloom, 
 The bird pours forth this cheerful 
 song, 
 
 And so the world goes on ! 
 
 And God goes on, and with our woe. 
 Weaves golden threads of joy and 
 peace. 
 Guarding within His heart of hearts. 
 
 Our days of pain our days of ease — 
 He marks them all — the seed, the 
 sheaves. 
 The dancer's smile, the mourner's 
 tears. 
 And keeps them safe — His children 
 all- 
 Through all these vernal years. 
 And so the world goes on ! 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 If we knew the woe and heart-ache 
 
 Waiting for us down the road. 
 If our lips could taste the wormwood. 
 
 If our backs could feel the load ; 
 Would we waste to-day in wishing 
 
 For a time that ne'er can be ; 
 Would we wait in such impatience 
 
 For our ships to come from sea ? 
 
 If we knew the baby fingers 
 
 Pressed against the window-pane. 
 Would be cold and stiff to-morrow — 
 
 Never trouble us again ; 
 Would the bright eyes of our darling 
 
 Catch the frown upon our brow ? 
 Would the prints of rosy fingers 
 
 Vex us as they do now ? 
 
 Ah, these little ice-cold fingers. 
 
 How they point our memories back 
 To the hasty words and actions 
 
 Strewn along our backward track ! 
 How those little hands remind us. 
 
 As in snowy grace they lie. 
 Not to scatter thorns — but roses — 
 
 For our reaping by and by ! 
 
 Strange we never prize the music 
 
 Till the sweet- voiced bird has flown ; 
 Strange that we should slight the violets 
 
 Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
 Strange that summer skies and sun, 
 shine 
 
 Never seem one-half so fair 
 As when winter's snowy pinions 
 
 Shake their white down in the air ! 
 
 Lips from which the seal of silence 
 
 None but God can roll away, 
 Never blossomed in such beauty 
 
 As adorns the mouth to-day ; 
 And sweet words that freight our mem- 
 ory 
 
 With their beautiful perfume. 
 Come to us in sweeter accents 
 
 Through the portals of the tomb. 
 
 Let us gather up the sunbeams 
 
 Lying all along our path : 
 Let us keep the wheat and roses. 
 
 Casting out the thorns and chaff; 
 Let us find our sweetest comfort 
 
 In the blessings of to-day ; 
 With a patient hand removing 
 
 All the briers from our way. 
 
 MAKE CHILDHOOD SWEET. 
 
 Wait not till the little hands are at rest 
 Ere you fill them full of flowers ; 
 
A WORD FOR THE MOTHER.-OUR MOTHER. 201 
 
 Wait not for the crowning tuberose 
 
 To make sweet the last sad hours; 
 But while in the busy household band 
 
 A WORD FOR THE MOTHER. 
 Send the children to bed with a kiss 
 and a smile 
 
 Your darlings still need your guiding ,, Sweet childhood will tarry at best but 
 
 hand. 
 Oh, fill their lives with sweetness 
 
 Wait not till the little hearts are still, 
 For the loving look and phrase ; 
 
 But while you gently chide a fault, 
 The good deed kindly praise. 
 
 The word you would speak beside the 
 bier 
 
 Falls sweeter far on the living ear ; 
 Oh, fill young lives with sweetness ! 
 
 Ah, what are kisses on clay-coM lips 
 
 To the rosy mouth we press, 
 When our wee one flies to her mother's 
 arms, 
 For love's tenderest caress? 
 Let never a worldly bauble keep 
 Your heart from the joy each day 
 should reap, 
 Circling your lives with sweetness. 
 
 Give thanks each morn for the sturdy 
 boys, 
 Give thanks for the fairy girls ; 
 With a dower of weahh like this at 
 home, 
 Would you rifle the earth for pearls ? 
 Wait not for death to gem love's crown. 
 But daily shower Hfe's blessings down, 
 And fill young hearts with sweetness. 
 
 Remember the homes where the light 
 has fled, 
 Where the rose has faded away ; 
 And the love that glows in youthful 
 hearts. 
 Oh, cherish it while you may ! 
 And make your home a garden of 
 
 flowers, 
 Where joy shall bloom, through child- 
 hood's hours. 
 And fill your lives with sweetness. 
 
 a while ; 
 
 And soon they will pass from the por- 
 tals of home, 
 
 The wilderness ways of their life-work 
 to roam. 
 
 Yes, tuck them in bed with a gentle 
 
 " good-night ! " 
 The mantle of shadows is veiling the 
 
 light ; 
 And maybe — God knows — on this 
 
 sweet little face 
 May fall deeper shadows in life's weary 
 
 race. 
 
 Yes, say it : " God bless my dear chil- 
 dren, I pray ! " 
 
 It may be the last you will say it for 
 aye ! 
 
 The night may be long ere you see 
 them again ; 
 
 The motherless children may call you 
 
 m vain 
 
 on 
 
 each little 
 
 Drop sweet benediction 
 
 head, 
 And fold them in prayer as they nestle 
 
 in bed ; 
 A guard of bright angels around them 
 
 invite. 
 The spirit may slip from the mooring 
 
 to-night. 
 
 OUR MOTHER. 
 "Old? oh, no ! she can never be old. 
 Though threescore or more summers 
 be hers. 
 And her life's purple garners now hold 
 The rich fruitage of seventy warm 
 years. 
 There are lives that grow wrinkled 
 with time. 
 And hearts that get callous with 
 gold, 
 And young heads that are gray-haired 
 with crime, 
 But our mother can never grow old | 
 
202 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 " She is faded and care-bent, I know. 
 
 Like a sheaf that is laden with ears ; 
 Her footsteps are halting and slow. 
 
 And her cheeks bear the traces of 
 tears ; 
 Bat her heart is all mellow and ripe, 
 
 With the ever sweet juices of love ; 
 Her speech is a fair-coined type 
 
 Of the free-spoken language above. 
 
 " It is strange that we mark time by 
 years. 
 And a name to each passing day 
 give. 
 And say that life's ending appears 
 
 "When we're only beginning to live ! 
 
 Time may change, qiay cut down and 
 
 renew. 
 
 Each season new scenes may unfold, 
 
 Things may please us — then fade from 
 
 our view^ — 
 
 But our mother can never grow old ! 
 
 " Old ? old ? no, indeed ! she is young 
 
 As ever she was in her life ! 
 The fairest and dearest among 
 
 All women, with lo\eliness rife ; 
 Her soul looks abroad through its veil. 
 
 With a smile like the light of the 
 morn, 
 And the dews of true feeling exhale 
 
 P>om the depths where her graces 
 were born. 
 
 " And some day the angels will come 
 
 For this beautiful mother of ours. 
 And will bear her away to their home. 
 That is close by the Amaranth 
 bowers ; 
 And there, in her radiant youth. 
 Where the ransomed aye flourish 
 and bloom, 
 In the region of sunlight and truth. 
 She will wait for her children to 
 come." 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 K MOTHER sang beside her little child, 
 Who, knowing not the meaning of 
 the strain. 
 
 Still gazed on her with eyes wide open 
 
 mild. 
 
 And hstened pleased with cadence 
 
 and refrain. 
 
 " Only the pure in heart see God." 
 
 Those were the words the singing 
 
 mother said. 
 As in the firelight laughing baby played. 
 
 From day to day this was her house- 
 hold hymn. 
 As shadows of the evening gathered 
 there, 
 As through the twilight showed the 
 homestead dim, 
 Her song wing-like did seem to 
 cleave the air — 
 " Only ihe pure in heart see God." 
 It floated up to some altar place. 
 Where spirits gaze for aye upon God's 
 face. 
 
 The mother's spirit passed into the 
 boy, 
 Grafting upon his soul her cradle 
 words. 
 As old birds teach their oflspring to 
 employ 
 Their tuneful throats to imitate the 
 birds — 
 " Only the pure in heart see God." 
 As thrushes teach their young the 
 
 thrush's lays. 
 She taught her deathless one a hymn 
 of praise : 
 
 It bore its peaceful harvest to the child ; 
 In all the thoughtful after years of 
 life 
 It often stilled the raging unrest wild, 
 That frets the spirit in our worldly 
 strife — 
 " Only the pure in heart see God." 
 It sometimes gave the wounded spirit 
 
 rest. 
 When heavily with many cares op- 
 pressed. 
 
 It ran for aye a cool, life-giving rill, 
 Sparkling and sweet and hidden in 
 the heart, 
 
A MOTHER'S HEART.— PATIENCE, MOTHER. 
 
 203 
 
 And sometimes seemed to overflow 
 
 and fill 
 
 His life ; sometimes it seemed to 
 
 roll— 
 
 " Only the pure in heart see God." 
 
 A stream of brightness from a high, 
 
 far throne, 
 Whose beauty was for him alone. 
 
 A MOTHER'S HEART. 
 
 A LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers 
 
 know ; 
 
 A little lingering over dainty things; 
 
 A happy heart, wherein love all aglow 
 
 Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes 
 
 and sings — 
 
 And that is all. 
 
 A little clasping to her yearning breast ; 
 
 A little musing over future years ; 
 A heart that prays, " Dear Lord, Thou 
 knowest best. 
 But spare my flower life's bitterest 
 rain of tears " — 
 And that is all. 
 
 A little spirit speeding through the 
 night ; 
 A little home grown lonely, dark, 
 and chill ; 
 A sad heart, groping blindly for the 
 light ; 
 A little snow-clad grave beneath the 
 hill— 
 
 And that is all. 
 
 A little gathering of life's broken thread; 
 A little patience keeping back the 
 tears ; 
 A heart that sings, " Thy darling is 
 not dead, 
 God keeps her safe through His 
 eternal years " — 
 And that is all. 
 
 PATIENCE, MOTHER. 
 
 Patience, mother ; don't be weary 
 Of the restless little head 
 
 Now reclining on your bosom. 
 
 Sleeping now on cradle-bed. 
 Should the little head grow weary. 
 
 Sinking to a dreamless sleep. 
 Resting on a coffin pillow, 
 
 Then, oh mother, how you'd weep,— 
 Weep to think you'd been impatient. 
 
 And perhaps a bit unkind. 
 To the darling little baby 
 
 That had left you thus behind. 
 
 Patience, mother ; don't be weary 
 
 Of the clinging finger-tips 
 Creeping round like tiny tendrils. 
 
 Nor the rosy, parted lips. 
 Should the lips be pale and silent. 
 
 Little hands be folded still. 
 Glad would mother be to have them 
 
 Clinging at their own sweet will ; 
 For how very much you'd missed them. 
 
 None but mother's heart can say. 
 Rosy lips, how glad you'd kiss them — - 
 
 Clinging fingers, feel them play. 
 
 Patience, mother ; don't be weary 
 
 Of the baby prattle sweet. 
 Of the steady patter, patter. 
 
 Of the ever busy feet. 
 Should the tiny feet grow wear)% 
 
 And the merry prattle cease ; 
 Should they both be stilled forever, 
 
 In a never-ending peace, 
 Vainly then would mother listen 
 
 For a sound e'en half so sweet 
 As the cooing of an infant 
 
 And the noise of baby feet. 
 
 Patience, mother ; don't be weary 
 
 Of bright eyes so wide-awake, — 
 Bright eyes full of love and laughter ; 
 
 Sunshine in your home they make. 
 Should the sparkling eyes grow weary. 
 
 Close, no more to ope on you, 
 To wake no more with glad surprise, 
 
 Then what, mother, would you do "> 
 Oh, gladly then you'd see their light, 
 
 Nor would wish they'd *'go to 
 sleep ; " 
 In vain the thought, unheeded wish, 
 
 They can never wake nor weep. 
 
204 ONE LITTLE SONG.— IF ONLY MOTHERS KNEW. 
 
 Patience, mother ; don't be weary 
 
 Of the loving Httle heart, 
 Clinging- ever to its mother. 
 
 Fearing with her care to part. 
 Should the little heart grow weary. 
 
 Seek a Saviour's heavenly fold, 
 There, forever, with the angels 
 
 Shielded from the storm and cold, 
 Mother, you would weep with sorrow, 
 
 Thinking you had caused it pain. 
 Patient be, then, while they're with 
 you ; 
 
 Then you'll ne'er " regret in vain." 
 
 ONE LITTLE SONG. 
 
 If I could hear one little song 
 
 I heard long years ago. 
 And hear her sing who sang it then 
 
 In accents pure and low, 
 It seems to me no sweeter joy 
 
 A weary heart could know. 
 
 At times the soul's mysterious power 
 
 Brings back the melody — 
 Like distant chimes that rise and fall. 
 
 Like murmurings of the sea ; 
 And then I hear, or seem to hear. 
 
 The song once sang to me. 
 
 I turn me from the present hour 
 Against the lapse of years; 
 
 And looking back to brighter days. 
 Through days of hopes and fears, 
 
 The olden memories fill my heart 
 And dim my eyes with tears. 
 
 I hear, and yet I do not hear, 
 The good old song of yore ; 
 
 She can not sing who sang it then. 
 And ne'er will sing it more ; 
 
 For light and life and love have gone, 
 As hope had gone before. 
 
 Oh ! could I hear the little song 
 
 I heard long years ago, 
 And hear her sing as once she sang 
 
 In accents pure and low. 
 It seems to me no sweeter joy 
 
 A weary heart could know. 
 
 THE ILO USE WIFE. 
 
 What has this woman been doing. 
 So long since the morning begun } 
 
 I don't believe she can remember 
 One-half of the work she has done. 
 
 Dressing the dear little baby, 
 Combing his soft silken hair, 
 
 Putting him back in the cradle 
 
 To sleep and grow healthy and fair. 
 
 Doing the work in the kitchen. 
 Just what it happens to be. 
 
 Covering books for the school-room. 
 Ready for callers at three. 
 
 Mending and making and chatting. 
 Two or three children to teach. 
 
 If not the primer's first lesson, 
 Methods no others can preach. 
 
 That's what this woman's been doing. 
 Day after day 'tis the same ; 
 
 Angels, oh, watch and defend her, 
 "Mother" — for that is her name. 
 
 IF ONL Y MO THERS KNE W. 
 
 If only mothers knew, she said. 
 How hungry children are for love. 
 
 Above each virgin little bed 
 A mother's lips would prove. 
 
 How sweet are kisses that are given 
 
 Between a rosy mouth and heaven. 
 
 If only my mamma would kneel. 
 As your dear mother, every night. 
 
 Beside her little girl, to feel 
 
 If all the wraps are folded tight. 
 
 And hold my hands, her elbovv^ fair 
 
 Between my cheeks and her soft hair; 
 
 And looking in my dreaming eyes 
 As if she saw some lovely thing ; 
 
 And smiUng in such fond surprise 
 On all my hopes of life that spring 
 
 Like flowers beneath her tender gaze, 
 
 1 could not stray in evil ways. 
 
MY BABY.—" A LITTLE CROWN.' 
 
 205 
 
 I would not wound the gentle breast 
 That held me warm withm its fold ; 
 
 My mother's love would still be best, 
 However sad, or plain, or old ; 
 
 And even though the world torsake, 
 
 I'd love her for her love's dear sake. 
 
 MY BABY. 
 
 Always I rock my baby to sleep 
 
 When night comes on, 
 Some mothers only sit and weep. 
 
 Their darlings gone ; 
 But my baby is mine, my very own, 
 And I am never left alone. 
 
 Who could • take from the mother 
 heart 
 
 Her little one ? 
 The twining tendrils may not part, 
 
 Nor be undone ; 
 My baby is mine, my very own. 
 And I am never left alone. 
 
 Our Lord can hold in His embrace 
 
 Biby and me. 
 And I am wholly satisfied 
 
 That this shall be ; 
 For baby is still my very own, 
 And 1 am never left alone. 
 
 Always I rock my baby to sleep 
 
 When night comes on, 
 Som2 mothers only sit and weep. 
 
 Their darlings gone ; 
 But my baby is mine, my very own, 
 And 1 am never left alone. 
 
 Or, if of still older creed. 
 Ere the world of Christ had need 
 1 should think of Rachel fair, 
 Hannah, who child Samuel bare ; 
 Hebrew women, grand and calm, 
 Whose pure lives roll like a psalm 
 Down the centuries. Who hke them. 
 Mothers of Jerusalem ? 
 
 Little sweet god-daughter mine ! 
 
 Thy fair unknown face will shine 
 
 Like the stars which shepherds see 
 
 Still, o'er the plains of Galilee ; 
 ' Were I of that faith of old 
 
 Christians held 'gainst Paynims bold 
 
 I should say the Virgin mild 
 
 Specially on thee had smiled, 
 , i That the Mother of all mothers 
 ^ I Had loved thine beyond the others, 
 
 I Sending such a priceless gem 
 
 To her, in Jerusalem. 
 
 And thy unheard voice will fill 
 Silence, like Siloam's rill, 
 Where the hills in purple hem, 
 Stand about Jerusalem. 
 
 Babe, thy future who can see ? 
 But we bless thee, full and free. 
 Walk, where walked Christ's stamless 
 
 feet, 
 In the Temple and the street : 
 " Holy, harmless, undefiled," 
 Yet to parents human child ; 
 Till thou walk with Him— and them— 
 In the New Jerusalem. 
 
 BORN AT JERUSALEM. 
 
 English child cf E^-stem birth. 
 Welcome to our wondrous earth ; 
 Welcome, innocent blue eyes. 
 Opening upon Syrian skies ; 
 Welcome, feet that soon will stand 
 Oil Judea's sacred land; 
 Bud from honorable stem, 
 Babe, born at Jerusalem. 
 
 "^ LITTLE CROWN." 
 
 Write it, O Angel ! in the Book, 
 Among the lambs of my fair flock, 
 One more dear name shall be engraved 
 By Jesus saved. 
 
 Th- angel paused and wrote it down, 
 Then turned and touched a glowing 
 
 crown, 
 On which the precious sentence 
 
 gleamed, 
 
 By Christ redeemed ! 
 
206 
 
 OUR OWN."— THE GUEST. 
 
 It was our lamb, whose name was 
 
 there, 
 So precious and so sweetly fair 
 That oft we trembled as he dreamed 
 So near to heaven he seemed. 
 
 And if the angel softly came 
 And g-ently called his'little name. 
 For beauteous grew his darling eyes 
 With heavenly ecstasies. 
 
 Ah me ! we would have stayed the 
 
 hand 
 Which led him to the beauteous land, 
 But troops of little ones came down 
 To lead him to his crown ! 
 
 He went so sweetly to that throng, 
 We almost heard the welcome song 
 Of countless darlings gone before, 
 Unto the shining shore ! 
 
 ''OUR OWNr 
 
 If I had known in the morning 
 How wearily all the day 
 
 The words unkind 
 
 Would trouble my mind 
 I said when you went away, 
 I had been more careful, darling. 
 Nor given you needless pain ; 
 
 But we vex " our own " 
 
 With look and tone, 
 We might never take back again. 
 
 For though in the quiet evening 
 You may give me the kiss of peace. 
 
 Yet it might be 
 
 That never for me 
 The pain of the heart should cease. 
 How many go forth in the morning 
 That never come home at night ; 
 
 And hearts have broken 
 
 For harsh words spoken 
 That sorrow can ne'er set right. 
 
 We have careful thoughts for the 
 
 stranger, 
 And smiles for the sometime guest ; 
 
 But oft for " our own " 
 
 The bitter tone. 
 Though we love "our own " the best. 
 
 Ah ! lips with the curve impatient ; 
 Ah ! brow with that look of scorn 
 'Twere a cruel fate. 
 Were the night too late 
 To undo the work of morn. 
 
 FIRES AND HOUSES AND 
 SMILES. 
 
 If the world seems cold to you. 
 
 Kindle fires to warm it ! 
 Let their comfort hide from view 
 
 Winters that deform it ; 
 Hearts as frozen as your own, 
 
 To that radiance gather ; 
 You will soon forget to moan, — 
 
 "Ah ! the cheerless weather." 
 
 If the world's a wilderness. 
 
 Go build houses in it ! 
 With it help your loneliness 
 
 On the winds to din it ! 
 Raise a hut, however slight. 
 
 Weeds and brambles smother. 
 And to roof and meal invite 
 
 Some forlorner brother. 
 
 If the world's a vale of tears. 
 
 Smile till rainbows span it ; 
 Breathe the love that life endears ; 
 
 Clear from clouds to fan it. 
 Of your gladness lend a gleam 
 
 Unto souls that shiver ; 
 Show them how dark Sorrow's stream 
 
 Blends with Hope's bright river. 
 
 THE GUEST. 
 
 From out the great world's rush and 
 din 
 
 There came a guest ; , 
 The inner court he entered in. 
 
 And sat at rest. 
 
 Slow on the wild tide of affairs 
 
 The gates were closed ; 
 Afar the hungry host of cares 
 
 At last reposed. 
 
A MOTHER'S CARES.— THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 207 
 
 Then through the dim doors of the 
 past, 
 
 All pure of blame, 
 Came boyish memories floating- fast — 
 
 His mother's name. 
 
 " Ah ! all this loud world calls the best 
 
 I'd give," he said, 
 " To feel her hand, on her dear breast 
 
 To lean my head. 
 
 " I cry within the crowned day, 
 
 That would be joy, 
 Could she but bear me far away, 
 
 Once more her boy." 
 
 Man's strength is weakness, after all — 
 
 He stood confessed ; 
 None quite can still the heart's wild 
 call. 
 
 None quite are blessed. 
 
 Across the face that knows no fear 
 
 A shade swept fast, 
 As if a following angel near 
 
 That moment passed. 
 
 The sacred silence of the room 
 
 Did softly stir; 
 A splendor grew within the gloom 
 
 Of her, of her! 
 
 Out to the great world's rush and din 
 
 Has gone my guest ; 
 The battle flame, the praise men win 
 
 Are his — not rest. 
 
 Far out amid the earth's turmoils 
 
 A strong man stands, 
 Upheld in triumph and in toils 
 
 By unseen hands. 
 
 But who may lift with subtle wand 
 
 The masks we wear? 
 I only know his mother's hand 
 
 Is on his hair. 
 
 I only know through all life's harms, 
 
 Through sin's alloy, 
 Somehow, somewhere that mother's 
 arms 
 . Will reach her boy. 
 
 A MOTHER'S CARES. 
 
 I DO not think that I could bear 
 My daily weight of woman's care 
 
 If it were not for this. 
 That Jesus seemeth always near : 
 Unseen, but whispering in my ear. 
 Some tender word of love and cheer, 
 
 To fill my soul with bliss ! 
 
 There are so many trivial cares 
 That no one knows and no one shares. 
 
 Too small for me to tell ; 
 Things e'en my husband can not see ;] 
 Nor his dear love uplift from me 
 Each hour's unnamed perplexity, 
 
 That mothers know so well. 
 
 The failure of some household scheme, 
 The ending of some pleasant dream, 
 
 Deep hidden in my breast ; 
 The weariness of children's noise. 
 The yearning for that subtle poise 
 That turneth duties into joys, 
 
 And giveth inner rest. 
 
 These secret things, however small, 
 Are known to Jesus, each and all. 
 
 And this thought brings me peace. 
 I do not need to say one word ; 
 He knows what thought my heart hath 
 
 stirred. 
 And by divine caress my Lord 
 
 Makes all its throbbing cease. 
 
 And then upon His loving breast 
 My weary head is laid at rest. 
 
 In speechless ecstasy ! 
 Until it seemeth all in vain 
 That care, fatigue, or mortal pain 
 Should hope to drive me forth again 
 
 From such felicity ! 
 
 THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 
 
 The rights of woman — what are they } 
 The right to labor, love, and pray. 
 The right to weep when others weep. 
 The right to wake when others sleep. 
 
2o8 
 
 SPRING WORK. 
 
 The right to dry the falhng tear, 
 The right to quell the rising fear ; 
 The right to smooth the brow of care, 
 And whisper comfort to despair. 
 
 The right to watch the parting breath, 
 To soothe and cheer the bed of death ; 
 The right, when earthly hopes all fail. 
 To point to that within the veil. 
 
 The right the wanderer to reclaim. 
 And win the lost from paths of shame ; 
 The right to comfort and to bless 
 The widow and the fatherless. 
 
 The right the little ones to guide, 
 In simple faith to Him who died. 
 With earnest love and gentle praise. 
 To bless and cheer their youthful days. 
 
 The right to live for those we love, 
 The right to die that love to prove ; 
 The right to brighten earthly homes 
 With pleasant smiles and gentle tones. 
 
 Are these thy rights ? Then use them 
 
 well ; 
 Thy silent influence none can tell ; 
 If these are thine, why ask for more ? 
 Thou hast enouofh to answer for. 
 
 SPRING WORK. 
 
 I AM cutting papers to-day, mother, 
 
 (Papers to cover a shelf). 
 And saving out bits for my scrap-book ; 
 
 But unlike my former self. 
 With the thoughts that are grand and 
 noble. 
 
 And the lines the poet sings, 
 I am saving some very simple 
 
 And decidedly childlike things. 
 
 ^or throned in her chair beside me. 
 Sits a wee one, dainty and sweet, 
 
 And I trust in the days that are com- 
 ing 
 She will care these lines to repeat. 
 
 I think that in planning her life-work, 
 
 The same iair future I see 
 Which you saw in the long ago, mother. 
 
 When you planned and prayed about 
 me. 
 
 I long to come home at the twilight, 
 
 And, sitting down by your feet, 
 Listen again to the Bible tales 
 
 You used long ago to repeat — 
 Of Adam, and Eve, and Abel : 
 
 Of Noah who heard and obeyed ; 
 Of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, 
 
 With the faith and love they dis- 
 played. 
 
 There was Joseph, sold into Egypt, 
 
 And Moses before the king, 
 And David, who slew Goliath, 
 
 With a little stone in his sling ; 
 There was Samuel, called at night- 
 time. 
 
 And Jonah cast in the deep. 
 And many a dream and vision 
 
 Of prophets and kings asleep. 
 
 Then there was the wonderful story 
 
 Of the Child in a manger-bed, 
 Who marked the pathway to glory 
 
 With tears and blood that He shed. 
 Dear mother, that "old, old story" 
 
 Is the life of my life to me, 
 And I want to train up my children 
 
 To be all He would have them be. 
 
 Oh, a mother's mission is holy, 
 
 And she must be holy, too. 
 Or sadly fail in performing • 
 
 The work God gives her to do. 
 So while I am sweeping and scrubbing, 
 
 And cleaning dust from the paint. 
 In my heart I am earnestly pra)ing 
 
 To be clean of sin and its taint. 
 
 While the fanner goes to his planting, 
 
 The mother, by look and tone. 
 Is sowing in soil just as certain 
 
 To yield of the seed she has sown. 
 The work that she does may be lowly, 
 
 But angels are watching her life ; 
 The love of the Saviour sustaineth 
 
 Each faithful mother and wife. 
 
A MOTHER'S THOUGHTS BY HER CHILD. 
 
 209 
 
 " WRITE THEM A LETTER 
 TO-NIGHT" 
 
 Don't go to the theater, concert, or 
 ball. 
 
 But stay in your room to-night ; 
 Deny yourself to the friends that call. 
 
 And a good long letter write — 
 Write to the sad old folks at home. 
 
 Who sit when the day is done, 
 With folded hands and downcast eyes. 
 
 And think of the absent one. 
 
 Don't selfishly scribble "excuse my 
 haste, 
 I've scarcely the time to write," 
 Lest their brooding thoughts go wan- 
 dering back 
 To many a by-gone night — 
 When they lost their needed sleep and 
 rest. 
 And every breath was a prayer — 
 That God would leave their delicate 
 babe 
 To their tender love and care. 
 
 Don't let them feel that you've no 
 more need 
 
 Of their love or counsel wise ; 
 For the heart grows strongly sensitive 
 
 When age has dimmed the eyes — 
 It might be well to let them believe 
 
 You never forgot them, quite ; 
 That you deem it a pleasure when far 
 away. 
 
 Long letters home to write. 
 
 Don't think that the young and giddy 
 friends 
 
 Who make your pastime gay. 
 Have half the anxious thought for you 
 
 That the old folks have to-day. 
 The duty of writing do not put off; 
 
 Let sleep or pleasure wait, 
 Lest the letter for which they looked 
 and longed 
 
 Be a day or an hour too late. 
 
 For the loving, sad old fblhs at home, 
 With locks fast turning white. 
 
 Are longing to hear from the absent 
 one — 
 Write them a letter to-night. 
 
 A MOTHER'S THOUGHTS BY 
 HER CHILD. 
 
 O God of boundless purity. 
 How strange that Thou should'st give 
 to me 
 
 This young and tender heart. 
 To train to walk in Thine own ways. 
 That he may end his mortal days 
 
 In glory where Thou art ! 
 
 Alas ! how slow, how hopeless, too, 
 Am I, this sacred work to do ! 
 
 My utmost strength must fail. 
 Yet, Holy Spirit, if Thy power 
 Be given to me from hour to hour 
 
 I surely shall prevail. 
 
 O Gracious influence, to his heart 
 Give will to choose the " better part," 
 
 Which none can take away. 
 By him, O helping God, be found ; 
 To him in gifts of love abound ; 
 
 Be with him every day. 
 
 And, God of grace, his mother bless 
 With prayer, and faith, and watchful- 
 ness, 
 
 Now that she has a child. 
 Let not her weak indulgence spoil, 
 Nor yet her stern, harsh manner foil, 
 
 This heart so soft and mild. 
 
 Help her in every act and word 
 To follow close her lowly Lord ; 
 
 Be this her only pride — 
 That she may holy influence shed 
 Around this dear immortal's head. 
 
 And keep him on Thy side. 
 
 Then, when the last great trump shall 
 
 sound. 
 And all before their Judge be found 
 
 To hear their sentence pass'd, 
 May he in glory then appear, 
 Receive Thy prize. Thy " Well done " 
 hear — 
 A conqueror at last. 
 
 Yes, may this soul of rarer worth 
 To me than all the souls of earth. 
 But wear Thy diadem ; 
 
210 
 
 VERSES.— PRAYER FOR SATURDAY EVENING. 
 
 Then, through eternity I'll raise 
 A mother's song of unmixed praise. 
 To Thee, redeeming Lamb. 
 
 VERSES. 
 HONOR. 
 
 Losses on losses, fast they came ; 
 Men said : " There's left him but his 
 
 name ; 
 But that is free from blot or blame." 
 
 Despairing, bowed with care and 
 
 dread, 
 As if he heard, he raised his head. 
 " Thank God, I have my name ! " he 
 
 said. 
 
 SUSPICION. 
 
 A palace ; gilded ease and glare ; 
 Loud jests and laughter ; banquets 
 
 rare ; 
 Dark hints of foul beneath the fair. 
 
 At daybreak, on a sleepless bed, 
 
 He moaned and turned his fevered 
 
 head. 
 " I've all thinors but a name ! " he said. 
 
 THE TICK OF THE CLOCK AT 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 'TiS the tick of the clock at midnight, 
 
 Solemnly, startlingly clear, 
 Like the throb of a fe\ ered pulsation 
 
 Made audible to the ear. 
 Through the house reigns n death-like 
 silence, 
 
 The death-like silence of sleep. 
 While the fragments of time, like me- 
 teors, 
 
 Pass flashing across the deep. 
 From the coming eternity rushing. 
 
 They illume for a moment our sky, 
 But no power can stay their departure ; 
 
 They touch us and hurry by. 
 
 They touch on the heart of the watcher, 
 
 And utter these words in his ear: 
 " Can ye not watch for one hour, 
 
 And our soul-stirring message hear? 
 We are God's messengers, speeding 
 
 With swift and invisible flight, 
 And we speak to you best in the 
 silence 
 
 Of the quiet, dead-hush of the night. 
 Remember we carry our message 
 
 Of what you are doing on earth 
 To the bountiful Father in heaven, 
 
 Who endowed you with souls at your 
 birth. 
 What are ye doing, oh, mortals ! 
 
 With that glorious gift of a soul? 
 For what are your strongest yearn- 
 ings, 
 
 And what is the longed-for goal ? 
 Pleasure, and power, and riches, 
 
 Leisure and freedom from care — 
 Is it for these ye are striving? 
 
 Such striving must end in despair. 
 Like a butterfly crushed in the grasp- 
 ing, 
 
 So pleasure is crushed when caught. 
 And power must end in weakness. 
 
 And riches must end in naught ; 
 While indolent leisure lies basking. 
 
 Sleepily, selfishly glad. 
 Till the adder of conscience stings it. 
 
 And the terror driveth it mad. 
 Soon the dawn will streak the horizon 
 
 And herald the fateful day ; 
 Prepare ! Lo, the kingdom of heaven 
 
 Approacheth ! Watch and pray ! " 
 
 PRAYER FOR SATURDAY 
 E VENING. 
 
 Chafed and worn with worldly care. 
 Sweetly, Lord, my heart prepare ; 
 Bid this inmost tempest cease ; 
 Jesus, come and whisper peace ! 
 Hush the whirlwind of my will ; 
 With Thyself my spirit fill ; 
 End in calm this busy week, 
 Let the Sabbath gently break. 
 
MOTHERHOOD.— THE WAY WE GROW OLD. 
 
 211 
 
 Sever, Lord, these earthly ties- 
 Fain my soul to Thee would rise ; 
 Disentangle me from time, 
 Lift me to a purer clime ; 
 Let me cast away my load, 
 Let me now draw near to God. 
 Gently, loving- Jesus, speak ; 
 End in calm this busy week. 
 
 MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 " Her lot is on you "-woman's lot 
 she meant. 
 The singer who sang sweetly long 
 ago; 
 And rose and yew and tender myrtle 
 blent. 
 To crown the harp that rang to love 
 and woe. 
 Awake, oh, poetess, and vow one strain 
 To sing of motherhood, its joy, its pain. 
 
 What does it give to us, this mother 
 love — 
 Inverse and tale and legend glorified. 
 Chosen bv lips divine as type above 
 All other passions ? Men have lived 
 and died 
 For sisters, maiden queens, and cher- 
 ished wives. 
 Yet, sealed by God, the one chief love 
 survives. 
 
 The eager taking up of every trial, 
 To smooth spring's pathway, light 
 her April skies ; 
 Watching and guiding, loving, long- 
 ing, praying. 
 No coldness daunting, and no wrong 
 dismaying. 
 
 And when the lovely bud to blossom 
 wakes, 
 And when the soft, shy dawn-star 
 flashes bright. 
 Another hand the perfect flower takes 
 Another wins the gladness ot the 
 light ; 
 A sweet, soft, clinging, fond farewell 
 
 is given ; 
 Still a farewell, and then alone with 
 ] Heaven. 
 
 I With Heaven ! Will He take the tired 
 
 j heart, 
 
 I The God who gave the child and 
 
 formed the mother. 
 Who sees her strive to play her des- 
 tined part, 
 And smiling yield her darling to an- 
 other? 
 Ay, on His cross He thought of Mary's 
 
 woe ; 
 He pities still the mothers left below. 
 
 Yet what is it it gives us ? Shrinking 
 dread, 
 Peril, and pain, and agony forgot. 
 
 Because we hold the ray of gladness 
 shed 
 By the first cry from lips that know 
 us not 
 
 Worth all that has been paid, is yet to 
 pay. 
 
 For the new worship, born and crown- 
 ed that day. 
 
 Then nursing, teaching, training, self- 
 denial, 
 That never knows itself, so deep it 
 lies, 
 
 THE WA V WE GRO W OLD. 
 
 A BROKEN toy ; a task that held away 
 
 A yearning child-heart from an hour 
 of play ; 
 
 A Christmas that no Christmas idols 
 brought ; 
 
 A tangled lesson, full of tangled 
 thought ; 
 
 A homesick boy ; a senior gowned and 
 wise ; 
 
 A glimpse of life, when lo ! the curtains 
 rise. 
 
 Fold over fold. 
 
 And hangs the picture, like a bound- 
 less sea — 
 
 The world, all action and reality— 
 So we grow old. 
 
212 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 
 
 A wedding, and a tender wife's caress ; 
 
 A prattling- babe the parent's life to 
 bless ; 
 
 A home of joys and cares in equal part ; 
 
 A dreary watching with a heavy heart. 
 
 And death's dread angel knocking at 
 the gate ; 
 
 And Hope and Courage bidding sor- 
 row wait, 
 
 Or lose her hold ; 
 
 A new-made grave, and then a brave 
 return 
 
 To where the fires of life triumphant 
 burn — 
 
 So we grow old. 
 
 A fortune and a gen'rous meed of fame. 
 
 Or direful ruin and a tarnished name ; 
 
 A slipping off of week and month and 
 year, 
 
 Faster and faster as the close draws 
 near; 
 
 A grief to-day, and with to-morrow's 
 light 
 
 A pleasure that transforms the sullen 
 night 
 
 From lead to gold ; 
 
 A chilling winter of unchanging storm ; 
 
 A spring replete with dawns and sun- 
 sets warm — 
 
 So we grow old. 
 
 Old to ourselves, but c"hildren yet to be 
 In the strange cities of eternity. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 
 
 The clock strikes seven in the hall, 
 The curfew of the children's day, 
 That calls each little pattering foot 
 From dance and song and livelong 
 play ; 
 Their day that in our wider light 
 Floats like a silver day-moon white, 
 Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, 
 But sets within a golden west. 
 
 Ah, tender hour that sends a drift 
 Of children's kisses through the 
 house, 
 
 And cuckoo-notes of sweet " Good- 
 night," 
 That thoughts of heaven and home 
 arouse ; 
 And a soft stir to sense and heart. 
 As when the bee and blossom part ; 
 And little feet that patter slower. 
 Like the last droppings of the shower. 
 
 And in the children's rooms aloft 
 
 What blossom shapes do gayly slip 
 Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run 
 
 From clasping hand and kissing lip, 
 A naked sweetness to the eye — 
 Blossom and babe and butterfly 
 In witching one, so dear a sight ! 
 An ecstasy of lite and light. 
 
 And, ah, what lovely witcheries 
 Bestrew the floor ! an empty sock. 
 
 By vanished dance and song left loose 
 As dc^ad birds' throats, a tiny smock 
 
 That, sure, upon some meadow grew, 
 
 And drank the heaven-sweet rains ; a 
 shoe 
 
 Scarce bigger than acorn cup ; 
 
 Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up. 
 
 Then lily-dressed in angel-white 
 
 To mother's knee they trooping 
 come, 
 The soft palms fold like kissing shells. 
 And they and we go singing home — 
 Their bright heads bowed and wor- 
 shiping. 
 As though some glory of the spring. 
 Some daffodil that mocks tlie day. 
 Should fold his golden palms and pray. 
 
 The gates of Paradise swung wide 
 
 A moment's space in soft accord, 
 And those dread Angels, Life and 
 Death, 
 A moment veil the flaming Lword, 
 As o'er this weary world forlorn 
 From Eden's secret heart is borne 
 That breath of Paradise most fair. 
 Which mothers call " the children's 
 prayer." 
 
THE FOLLOWER.— HOLIDAYS. 
 
 213 
 
 Ah, deep pathetic mystery ! 
 
 The world's great woe unconscious 
 
 hung, 
 A rain-drop on a blossom's lip ; 
 
 White innocence that woos our 
 
 wrong, 
 And Love divine that looks again. 
 Unconscious of the Cross and pain, 
 From sweet child-eyes, and in that 
 
 child 
 Sad earth and heaven reconciled. 
 
 Then kissed, on beds we lay them 
 down, 
 
 As fragrant-white as clover'd sod. 
 And all the upper floors grow hushed 
 
 With children's sleep and dews of 
 God. 
 And as our stars their beams do hide, 
 The stars of twilight, opening wide. 
 Take up the heavenly tale at even, 
 And light us on to God and heaven. 
 
 THE FOLLOWER. 
 
 We have a youngster in the house, 
 
 A httle man of ten. 
 Who dearest to his mother is 
 
 Of all God's httle men. 
 In-doors and out he clings to her ; 
 
 He follows up and down ; 
 He steals his slender hand in hers; 
 
 He plucks her by the gown. 
 " Why do you cling to me so, child ? 
 
 You track me everywhere; 
 You never let me be alone." 
 
 And he, with serious air. 
 Answered, as closer still he drew, 
 ■" My feet were made to follow you." 
 
 Two years before the boy was born 
 
 Another child of seven. 
 Whom Heaven had lent to us awhile. 
 
 Went back again to Heaven. 
 He came to fill his brother's place, 
 
 And bless our failing years ; 
 The good God sent him down in love 
 
 To dry our useless tears. 
 
 I think so, mother, for I hear 
 
 In what the child has said 
 A meaning that he knows not of, 
 
 A message from the dead. 
 He answered wiser than he knew, 
 " My feet were made to follow you." 
 
 Come here, my child, and sit with me. 
 
 Your head upon my breast ; 
 You are the last of all my sons, 
 
 And you must be the best. 
 How much I love you, you may guess. 
 
 When, grown men like me. 
 You sit as 1 am sitting now. 
 
 Your child upon your knee. 
 Think of me then, and what I said 
 
 (And practiced when I could), 
 " "Lis something to be wise and great, 
 
 'Tis better to be good. 
 Oh, say to all things good and true, 
 ' My feet were made to follow you ! ' " 
 
 Come here, my wife, and sit by me. 
 
 And place your hand in mine 
 (And yours, my child) : while I have 
 you 
 
 'Tis wicked to repine. 
 We've had our share of sorrow, love ; 
 
 We've had our graves to fill ; 
 But, thank the good God o\erhead. 
 
 We have each other still ! 
 We've nothing in the world besides, 
 
 For we are only three ; 
 Mother and child, my wife and child. 
 
 How dear you are to me ! 
 I know — indeed, I always knew, 
 " My feet were made to follow you ! " 
 
 HOLIDA YS. 
 
 The holiest of all holidays are those 
 Kept by ourselves in silence and 
 
 apart — 
 The secret anniversaries of the 
 heart, 
 When the full river of feeling over- 
 flows — 
 The happy days unclouded to their 
 close. 
 
214 
 
 WEATHER PROBABILITIES.— THE TOYS. 
 
 The sudden joys that out of dark- | 
 
 ness start 
 As flames from ashes ; swift desires, j 
 that dart | 
 
 Like swallows singing- down each wind 
 that blows ! i 
 
 White as the gleam of a receding 
 sail ; ! 
 
 White as a cloud that floats and fades i 
 in air, | 
 
 White as the whitest lily on a stream, 
 These tender memories are ; a fairy j 
 tale j 
 
 Of some enchanted land we know not 
 where, 
 But lovely as a landscape in a dream 
 
 WEA THER PROBABILITIES. 
 
 Ins and outs ; whims and pouts ; 
 Ups and downs ; smiles and frowns ; 
 Falls of dolls ; cries and calls ; 
 Head on lap ; gapes and naps ; 
 All this together will make up the 
 
 weather 
 Probable for our youngest to-day. 
 
 Shocks and knocks ; tumbled locks ; 
 Sulky looks for old school-books ; 
 Rapid race ; apes' grimace ; 
 And stunning shout for school let out ; 
 All this together will make up the 
 
 weather 
 Probable for our zone to-day. 
 
 Fears and tears ; crimsoned ears ; 
 Flushing cheek ; eyes that speak ; 
 Shy and meek ; a loving art 
 That finds its way to love's own heart ; 
 All this together w^ill make up the 
 
 weather 
 Probable for our delicate May. 
 
 But all the roughest breezes stirred. 
 Are lulled to sleep at mother's word. 
 And every cloud in childhood's skies 
 Melts in the sunshine of her eyes ; 
 With this sweet mother the blandest 
 
 weather 
 Is possible for the children to-day. 
 
 DEAR LITTLE HANDS. 
 
 Dear little hands ! I loved them so ! 
 And now they arc lying under the 
 
 snow — 
 Under the snow so cold and white. 
 And I can not see them or touch them 
 
 to-night. 
 They are quiet and still at last. Ah ! 
 
 me, 
 How busy and restless they used to be ! 
 But now they can never reach up 
 
 thro' the snow ! 
 Dear little hands ! I loved them so ! 
 Dear little hands ! I miss them so ! 
 All through the day wherever I go ; 
 
 All through the night how lonely it 
 
 seems. 
 For no little hands wake me out of my 
 
 dreams ! 
 I miss them thro' all the weary hours — • 
 Miss them as others miss sunshine and 
 
 flowers — 
 Day-time or night-time wherever I go ; 
 Dear little hands ! I loved them so ! 
 
 Dear little hands ! When the Master 
 
 shall call 
 I'll welcome the summons that comes 
 
 to us all. 
 When my feet touch the waters so 
 
 dark and so cold, 
 And I catch my first ghmpse of the 
 
 City of Gold, 
 If I keep my eyes fixed on the heav- 
 enly gate, 
 Over the tide where the white-robed 
 
 ones wait. 
 Shall I know you, I w^onder, among 
 
 the bright bands ? 
 Will you beckon me over, oh, dear 
 
 little hands ? 
 
 THE TOYS. 
 
 My little son, who looked from thought^ 
 ful eyes. 
 
 And moved and spoke in quiet, grown- 
 up wise, 
 
KISSING THE CHILDREN.— PAPA'S LETTER. 
 
 215 
 
 being 
 hinder 
 
 Having" my law the seventh time dis 
 
 obeyed, 
 I struck him, and dismissed 
 With hard words and unkissed. 
 His mother, who was patient; 
 
 dead. 
 Then fearing his grief should 
 
 sleep, 
 I visited his bed. 
 But found him slumbering deep. 
 With darkened eyelids, and their lashes 
 
 yet 
 From his late sobbing wet. 
 And I, with moan, 
 Kissing away his tears, left others of 
 
 my own ; 
 For, on a table drawn beside his head. 
 He had put, within his reach, 
 A box of counters and a red-veined 
 
 stone, 
 A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 
 And six or seven shells, 
 A bottle with blue bells 
 And two French copper coins, ranged 
 
 there with careful art 
 To comfort his sad heart. 
 So when that night I prayed 
 To God, I wept, and said. 
 Ah ! when at last we lie with tranced 
 
 breath, 
 Not seeing Thee in death. 
 And Thou rememberest of what toys 
 We made our joys. 
 How weakly understood 
 Thy great commanded good. 
 Then, fatherly, not less 
 Than I, whom Thou hast moulded 
 
 from the clay, 
 Thou'lt leave Thy wrath and say, 
 ** I will be sorry for their childishness." 
 
 Departs, and gives no kisses 
 To the children in the morning. 
 
 Many thiiiK it folly ; 
 
 Many say it's bliss ; 
 Very much depending 
 On whose lips you kiss ! 
 But the truth I am confessing, 
 
 And I'd have you all take warning. 
 If you covet any blessing, 
 
 Kiss the children in the morning. 
 
 KISSING THE CHILDREN. 
 
 Kisses in the morning 
 
 Make the day seem bright. 
 Filling every corner 
 With a gleam of light ; 
 And what happiness he misses 
 Who, affection's impulse scorning. 
 
 PAPA'S LETTER. 
 
 I WAS sitting in my study. 
 Writing letters when 1 heard, 
 
 " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 
 Mamma mustn't be 'sturbed. 
 
 " But I'se so tired of the kitty, 
 Want some ozzer fing to do, 
 
 Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? 
 Tan't I wite a letter, too } " 
 
 " Not now, darling, mamma's busy ; 
 
 Run and play with kitty now." 
 " No, no, mamma, me wite a letter ! 
 
 Tan if 'ou will show me how." 
 
 I would paint my darling's portrait 
 As his sweet eyes searched my 
 face — 
 
 Hair of gold and eyes of azure. 
 Form of childish witching grace. 
 
 But the eager face was clouded, 
 As I slowly shook my head. 
 
 Till 1 said, " I'll make a letter ^ 
 Of you, darling boy, instead." 
 
 So I parted back the tresses 
 
 From his forehead high and white. 
 
 And a stamp in sport I pasted 
 'Mid its waves of golden light, 
 
 Then said I, "Now little letter. 
 Go away and bear good news ; " 
 
 And 1 smiled, as, down the staircase. 
 Clattered loud the litile shoes. 
 
2l6 
 
 IN THE NEST. 
 
 Leaving me, the darling- hurried 
 Down to Mary in his glee, 
 
 ** Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 
 I'se a letter, Mary — see ! " 
 
 No one heard the little prattle, 
 
 As once more he climbed the stair, 
 
 Reaching his little cap and tippet. 
 Standing on the entry stair. 
 
 No one heard the front door open, 
 No one saw the golden hair, 
 
 As it floated o'er his shoulders 
 I n the crisp October air. 
 
 Down the street the baby hastened 
 Till he reached the office door, 
 
 "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman; 
 Is there room for any more ? 
 
 ** 'Cause dis letter, doin to papa ; 
 
 Papa lives with God, 'ou know, 
 Mamma sent me for a letter; 
 
 Does 'ou fink *at I tan do ? " 
 
 But the clerk in wonder answered, 
 " Not to-day, my little man." 
 
 "Den I'll find anozzer office, 
 'Cause I must do if I tan." 
 
 Fain the clerk would have detained 
 him. 
 
 But the pleading face was gone. 
 And the little feet were hastening — 
 
 By the busy crowd swept on. 
 
 Su'ldenly the crowd was parted. 
 People fled to left and right 
 
 As a pair of maddened horses. 
 At the moment dashed in sight. 
 
 No one saw the baby figure — 
 No one saw the golden hair. 
 
 Till a voice of frightened sweetness 
 Rang out on the autumn air. 
 
 'Twas too late — a moment only 
 Stood the beauteous vision there, 
 
 Then the little face lay Hfeless, 
 Covered o'er with golden hair. 
 
 Reverently they raised my darling, 
 Brushed away the curls of gold. 
 
 Saw the stamp upon the forehead. 
 Growing now so icy cold. 
 
 Not a mark the face disfigured. 
 Showing where a hoof had trod 
 
 But the little life was ended — 
 " Papa's letter " was with God. 
 
 /AT THE NEST. 
 
 Gather them close to your loving 
 heart — 
 Cradle them on your breast ; 
 They will soon enough leave your 
 
 brooding care ; 
 Soon enough mount youth's topmost 
 stair — 
 Little ones in the nest. 
 
 Fret not that the chikken's hearts are 
 gay. 
 That their restless feet will run. 
 There may come a time in the by- 
 
 and-by, 
 When you'll sit in your lonely room 
 and sigh 
 For a sound of childish fun : 
 
 When you'll long for a repetition sweet 
 That sounded through each room, 
 
 Of "Mother," "Mother," the dear 
 love calls 
 
 That will echo long in the silent halls, 
 And add to t'leir stately gloom. 
 
 There may come a time when youll 
 long to hear 
 The eager, boyish tread. 
 The tuneless whistle, the clear, shiill 
 
 shout, 
 The busy bustle in and out. 
 And pattering overhead. 
 
 When the boys and girls are all grown 
 up. 
 And scattered far and wide, 
 
A RHYME OF ONE.— CRANK AND PULLEY. 
 
 217 
 
 Or gone to the undiscovered shore, 
 Where youth and age come never- 
 more. 
 You will miss them from your side. 
 
 Then gather them close to your loving 
 heart, 
 Cradle them to your breast ; 
 They will soon enough leave your 
 
 brooding care, 
 Soon enough mount youth's topmost 
 stair — 
 Little ones in the nest. 
 
 A RHYME OF ONE. 
 
 You sleep upon your mother's breast, 
 
 Your race begun, 
 A welcome, long a wish'd-for guest, 
 
 Whose age is One. 
 
 A baby-boy, you wonder why 
 
 You can not run ; 
 You try to talk — how hard you try ! — 
 
 You're only One. 
 
 Ere long you v^^on't be such a dunce : 
 You'll eat your bun. 
 
 And fly your kite, like folk who once 
 Were only One. 
 
 You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and 
 joke. 
 
 Perhaps you'll pun : 
 Such feats are never done by folk 
 
 Before they're One. 
 
 Some day, too, you may have your joy, 
 
 And envy none ; 
 Yes, yourself, may own a boy 
 
 Who isn't One. 
 
 He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll 
 do 
 
 As you have done : 
 (You crown a happy home, tho' you 
 
 Are only One.) 
 
 But when he's grown shall you be here 
 
 To share his fun. 
 And talk of days when he (the dear !) 
 
 Was hardly One .'' 
 
 Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be 
 
 My little son ; 
 I'm glad, though I am old, you see, — 
 
 While you are One. 
 
 CRANK AND PULLEY. 
 (MACHINE POETRY). 
 
 My family machine. 
 
 Oh, 'tis so hard to run ; 
 I get it all in shape. 
 
 In order, one by one. 
 The cogs, the wheels, and rollers 
 
 In line, not one in flank, 
 I take the place of " driver," 
 
 And try to turn the crank. 
 
 Oh, dear! how they do bother! 
 
 The Willie wheel won't roll; 
 The Bettie cog is broken — 
 
 Tom spike don't hit the hole ! 
 I work, and work, and worry, 
 
 I turn with might and main. 
 And when I try to hurry 
 
 I telescope the train. 
 
 But hold ! Have I not heard ? — 
 
 Stop ! Let me think — and pray. 
 Oh, yes, the cord and pulley ; 
 
 Is that the " better way } " 
 It may be well to try it, 
 
 I'll see what I can do. 
 If skillfully I ply it 
 
 Perhaps the train will go. 
 
 Oh, happy thought ! Oh, glorious ! 
 
 Come, let me try again. 
 The pulley is victorious ! 
 
 How smoothly runs the train ! 
 The Willie wheel goes rolling. 
 
 The Bettie cog ne'er slips, 
 Tom spike just hits the hole in — 
 
 All go for — mother's hps. 
 
2l8 
 
 "WASN'T HIS FATHER THERE? 
 
 I wonder if a patent — 
 
 No, no, it shall not be — 
 Let everybody have it, 
 
 The blessed thing ! Just see ! 
 With '' cords of love " I move it, 
 
 The oil of grace I ply. 
 And oh ! how I do love it, 
 
 As heavenward we fly ! 
 
 FA THER A T FLA Y. 
 
 Such fun as we had one rainy day, 
 When father was home and helped us 
 play ! 
 
 We made a ship and hoisted sail, 
 And crossed the sea in a fearful gale — 
 
 But we hadn't sailed into London town, 
 When captain and crew and vessel 
 went down. 
 
 Down, down in a jolly wreck, 
 With the captain rolling under the 
 deck. 
 
 But he broke out again with a lion's 
 
 roar. 
 And we on two legs, he on four, 
 
 Ran out of the parlor and up the stair. 
 And frightened mamma and the baby 
 there. 
 
 So mamma said she'd be p'liceman 
 
 now. 
 And tried to *rest us. She didn't know 
 
 how ! 
 
 Then the lion laughed and forgot to 
 
 roar. 
 Till we chased him out of the nursery 
 
 door; 
 
 And then he turned to a pony gay, 
 And carried us all on his back away. 
 
 Whippity, lickity, hickity ho ! 
 
 If we hadn't fun, then I don't know ! 
 
 Till we tumbled off and he cantered on, 
 Never stopping to see if his load was 
 gone. 
 
 And I couldn't tell any more than he 
 Which was Charlie and which was 
 me, 
 
 Or which was Towzer, for all in a mix 
 You'd think three people had turned 
 to six. 
 
 Till Towzer's tail was caught in the 
 
 door ; 
 He wouldn't hurrah with us any more. 
 
 And mamma came out the rumpus to 
 
 quiet, 
 And told us a story to break up the 
 
 riot. 
 
 ''WASN THIS FA THER THERE r 
 
 In a pleasant, homely chamber. 
 
 On a sunny autumn day. 
 Sat a father and a mother. 
 
 With their little child at play. 
 
 Round about the room she wandered, 
 In her careless, childish joy, 
 
 FondHng with a simple pleasure. 
 In her hands a baby's toy. 
 
 " Well does Lillie love her playthings," 
 Said her father, glancing down ; 
 
 Then he told her a short story. 
 What he saw that day in town : 
 
 How a father to his office. 
 
 Brought, that morn, his little son ; 
 Hoped to have him close beside him, 
 
 While his work was being done. 
 
 ! But the little boy grew weary, 
 Home and toys were far away ; 
 And his smiles were changed to crjing, 
 Long before the close of day. 
 
 Quietly did Lillie listen, 
 " Till the story short was through ; 
 Then a smiling look of questioning 
 i Grew into the eyes so blue. 
 
MOTHER'S WAY. - THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 219 
 
 Had she understood him rightly? 
 
 Was the story told her fair ? 
 Baby cries for vanished playthings. 
 
 Why, " Was not his father there ? " 
 
 Oh ! these wondrous, hsping accents. 
 How they fall like drops of balm, 
 
 Soothing all our restless sobbing 
 Into heaven's own blessed calm. 
 
 Still through mouths of babes He 
 speaketh. 
 
 Who Himself a babe became. 
 And the human heart of Jesus 
 
 Evermore is still the same. 
 
 MOTHER'S WAY. 
 
 Oft within our little cottage, 
 
 As the shadows gently fall, 
 While the sunlight touches softly 
 
 One sweet face upon the wall. 
 Do we gather close together. 
 
 And in hushed and tender tone, 
 Ask each other's full forgiveness 
 
 For the wrong that each has done. 
 Should you wonder why this custom. 
 
 At the ending of the day. 
 Eye and voice would quickly answer, 
 
 ** It was once our mother's way ! " 
 
 If our home be bright and cheery. 
 
 If it hold a welcome true, 
 Opening wide its door of greeting 
 
 To the many, not the few ; 
 If we share our Father's bounty 
 
 With the needy, day by day, 
 'Tis because our hearts remember 
 
 This was ever mother's way. 
 
 Sometimes, when our hands grow 
 weary. 
 
 Or our tasks seem very long ; 
 When our burdens look too heavy. 
 
 And we deem the right all wrong, 
 Then we gain a new, fresh courage, 
 
 As we rise, to proudly say : 
 " T et us do our duty bravely, 
 
 This was our dear mother's v/ay." 
 
 Thus we keep her memory precious. 
 While we never cease to pray 
 
 That, at last, when lengthening shad- 
 ows 
 Mark the evening of our day, 
 
 They may find us waiting calmly. 
 To go home our mother's way ! 
 
 THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 She is my only girl. 
 I asked for her as some most precious 
 
 thing — 
 For all unfinished was Love's jeweled 
 
 ring. 
 
 Till set with this soft pearl ! 
 The shadow time brought forth I could 
 
 not see. 
 How pure, how perfect seemed the gift 
 
 to me ! 
 
 Oh ! many a soft old tune 
 I used to sing unto that deafened ear. 
 And suffered not the slightest footstep 
 near, 
 
 Lest she might wake too soon : 
 And hushed her brothers' laughter 
 
 while she lay. 
 Ah, needless care ! I might have let 
 them play. 
 
 'Twas long ere I believed 
 That this one daughter might not speak 
 
 to me; 
 Waited and watched — God knows how 
 
 patiently ! 
 
 How willingly deceived. 
 Vain Love was long the untiring nurse 
 
 of Faith, 
 And tended hope until it starved to 
 
 death. 
 
 Oh, if she could but hear 
 For one short hour, till I her tongue 
 
 might teach 
 To call me mother, in the broken 
 speech 
 
 That thrills the mother's ear I 
 Alas ! those sealed lips never may be 
 
 stirred 
 To the deep music of that holy word. 
 
220 
 
 THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 My heart it sorely tries, 
 
 To see her kneel with such a reverent 
 air, 
 
 Beside her brothers at their evening- 
 prayer, 
 
 Or lift those earnest eyes 
 
 To watch our lips, as though our words 
 she knew. 
 
 Then move her own, as she were speak- 
 ing- too. 
 
 I've watched her looking up 
 To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, 
 With such a depth of meaning in her 
 eye, 
 
 That I could almost hope 
 The struggling soul would burst its 
 
 bindmg cords. 
 And the long pent-up thoughts flow 
 forth in words. 
 
 The song of bird and bee, 
 
 The chorus of the breezes, streams, and 
 groves, 
 
 AH the grand music to which nature 
 moves. 
 
 Are wasted melody 
 
 To her ; the world of sound a tuneless 
 void ; 
 
 While even silence had its charm de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 Her face is very fair ; 
 Her blue eye beautiful ; of finest mold 
 The soft white brow, o'er which in 
 waves of gold. 
 
 Ripples her shining hair. 
 Alas ! this lovely temple closed must 
 
 be, 
 For lie who made it keeps the master- 
 key. 
 
 Wills He the mind within 
 Should from earth's Babel clamor be 
 
 kept free, 
 E'en that His still, small voice and step 
 
 might be 
 
 Heard, at its inner shrine. 
 Through that deep hush of soul, with 
 
 clearer thrill ! 
 Then should I grieve .'* Oh, murmuring 
 
 heart, be still ! 
 
 She seems to have a sense 
 Of quiet gladness, in her noiseless 
 
 play; 
 She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle 
 
 way, 
 
 Whose voiceless eloquence 
 Touches all hearts, though I had once 
 
 the fear 
 That even her father would not care 
 
 for her. 
 
 Thank God, it is not so ! 
 And when his sons r.re playing merrily, 
 She comes and leans her head upon his 
 knee — 
 
 Oh, at such times I know, 
 By his full eye and tones subdued and 
 
 mild, 
 How his heart yearns over his silent 
 child. 
 
 Not of all gifts bereft. 
 Even now. How could I say she did 
 
 not speak ? 
 What real language lights her eye and 
 cheek. 
 
 And thanks to Him who left 
 Unto her soul yet open avenues 
 For joys to enter, and for love to use ! 
 
 And God in love doth give 
 To her defect a beauty of its own, 
 And we a deeper tenderness have 
 known 
 
 Thro' that for which we grieve. 
 Yet shall the seal be melted from her 
 
 ear. 
 Yea, and my voice shall fill it — but not 
 here. 
 
 When that new sense is given,- 
 What rapture will its first experience 
 
 be, 
 That never woke to meaner melody 
 
 Than the rich songs of heaven — 
 To hear the full-toned anthem swell- 
 ing round. 
 While angels teach the ccslasies of 
 sound ! 
 
SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 221 
 
 LINES ON THE DEA TH OF A 
 CHILD. 
 
 Behold a seraph soaring 
 From out our weary world ; 
 
 In robes of white, 
 
 One starlit night, 
 With spirit-wings unfurled, 
 
 He took his flight 
 
 To the gates of light, 
 To make his dwelling there, 
 Seraphic songs outpouring 
 Upon the silent air. 
 
 Oh, how he loved thee, mother. 
 Thy bosom was his bed ; 
 
 'Twas sweet to rest 
 
 On thy soft breast 
 The httle weary head ; 
 
 To feel thee press 
 
 With fond caress 
 The bright and radiant brow, 
 But the blessed " Elder Brother ' 
 Will cherish " baby " now. 
 
 Life lay, untrod, before him, 
 The future all unknown ; 
 
 How might the years 
 
 Have flowed with tears. 
 Till laughter changed to moan ! 
 
 How might the strife 
 
 Of human Hfe 
 Have brought his soul to harm ! 
 But now a shield is o'er him — 
 The Everlasting Arm ! 
 
 The paths of bliss unbounded 
 His feet already tread — 
 
 The heavenly fields 
 
 Whose harvest yields 
 The true and living bread. 
 
 On fruitful hills, 
 
 By placid rills. 
 The lambs of Jesus feed ; 
 By heaven's wealth surrounded. 
 What can he ever need ? 
 
 Dear weeping father, mother, 
 How could he longer wait 
 
 When Jesus calls? 
 
 From jasper walls 
 Swung wide the golden gate. 
 
 But he will stand 
 
 At God's right hand, 
 To wait and watch for you ; 
 And there will be another 
 To bid you " welcome " too. 
 
 And so he left you, winging 
 His upward flight afar, 
 
 Till, through the night, 
 
 There shone the light 
 Of one more radiant star ! 
 
 Through countless years 
 
 No bitter tears 
 Shall dim those lustrous eyes ; 
 No sighs shall mar the singing 
 Beneath those cloudless skies \ 
 
 SA TURD A Y NIGHT. 
 
 The spirit's trailing garments, that 
 have swept 
 Through all the week, along the 
 
 dusty ways. 
 Catching assoilment from the worldly 
 days. 
 Though oft aside the foot in 'voidance 
 
 stept — 
 Gather them up to-night; they have 
 not kept 
 Their earlier beauty. Thorny cares 
 
 hav^e torn 
 Their delicate fabric — fretting troub- 
 les worn 
 The 'broidered hem, the while the 
 wearer wept, 
 And strove with vain attempt to 
 walk apart 
 Where the clay touched not. Where- 
 fore, weary one ! 
 Loosen these work-day vestments 
 from thee, lest, 
 Uncleansed by meditation's holy art, 
 Thy soul be found unfitted to put on 
 The pure, fair linen of the Sabbath 
 rest ! 
 
222 
 
 BY THE FIRE-LIGHT.— COMPENSATION. 
 
 BY THE FIRE-LIGHT. 
 
 I THINK you would not care to know 
 this now ; 
 Life is too full of youth, and hope, 
 \ and strength ; 
 
 And so the wish comes that I knew 
 but how 
 I might run forward on far-reaching 
 length 
 Of your life's path, and if I found a 
 place 
 Where ways were steep, where bit- 
 ter, anxious hours 
 Must blanch the courage even from 
 your face — 
 There, on that spot, I'd lay not gifts, 
 not flowers. 
 But these few lines, which you would 
 
 read, then smile. 
 And be more glad one fleeting mo- 
 ment's while. 
 
 Do you remember how, one night, you 
 came. 
 Almost a stranger, yet so much a 
 friend 
 That as we watched the fire-light's flit- 
 ting flame 
 We talked of life's deep purpose — 
 of its end — 
 Unrealized ambitions — fruitless strife ? 
 A not unusual theme. You did not 
 know 
 How dark a cloud that night obscured 
 my life ; 
 Doubt of myself — a hideous shade 
 that low 
 Hung over all things — made me doubt 
 
 mankind, 
 And even to God's great goodness 
 rendered blind ! 
 
 What gentle spirit bade you speak the 
 word 
 Which from its gloomy bonds my 
 heart set free ? 
 Sweet as the song of spring's return- 
 ing bird. 
 Yet only this— that you believed in 
 me I 
 
 The dancing flames flashed forth a 
 
 cheerier glow. 
 The grateful warmth stole all my 
 
 being through. 
 Vanished sick doubts as mists at 
 
 morning go : 
 To your belief I would, indeed, be 
 
 true ! 
 Your kindly thought had placed me 
 
 far too high, 
 Yet, brave to reach that height, I con 
 
 stant try I 
 
 COMPENSA TION. 
 
 She folded up the worn and mended 
 frock 
 And smoothed it tenderly upon her 
 knee. 
 Then through the soft web of a wee 
 red sock 
 She wove the bright wool, musing 
 thoughtfully, 
 " Can this be all } The great world is 
 so fair, 
 I hunger for its green and pleasant 
 ways, 
 A cripple prisoned in her restless 
 chair. 
 Looks from her window with a wist- 
 ful gaze. 
 
 " The fruits I cannot reach are red and 
 sweet, 
 The paths forbidden are both green 
 and wide ; 
 O God ! there is no boon to helpless 
 feet 
 So altogether sweet as paths denied. 
 Home is most fair: bright are my 
 household fires. 
 And children are a gift without 
 alloy : 
 But who would bound the field of 
 their desires 
 By the prim hedges of mere fireside 
 joy? 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 
 
 223 
 
 " 1 can but weave a faint thread to 
 and fro, 
 Making a frail woof in a baby's 
 sock ; 
 Into the world's sweet tumult I would 
 go, 
 At its strong gates my trembling 
 hand would knock." 
 Just then the children came, the father 
 too. 
 Their eager faces lit the twilight 
 gloom, 
 "Dear heart," he whispered, as he 
 nearer drew, 
 " How sweet it is within this little 
 room ! 
 
 " God puts my strongest comfort here 
 to draw 
 When thirst is great, and common 
 wells are dry. 
 Your pure desire is my unerring law ; 
 Tell me, dear one, who is so safe 
 as I? 
 Home is the pasture where my soul 
 may feed. 
 This room a paradise has grown to 
 be; 
 And only where these patient feet 
 shall lead 
 Can it be home for these dear ones 
 and me." 
 
 He touched with reverent hand the 
 helpless feet, 
 The children crowded close and 
 kissed her hair. 
 "Our mother is so good, and kind, 
 and svveet," 
 There's not another like her any- 
 where ! " 
 The babv in her low bed opened wide 
 The soft blue flowers of her timid 
 eyes. 
 And viewed the group about the cra- 
 dle side 
 With smiles of glad and innocent 
 surprise. 
 
 The mother drew the baby to her knee 
 And smiling, said : " The stars shine 
 soft to-night ; 
 My world is fair ; its hedges sweet to 
 me. 
 And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is 
 right ! " 
 
 THANKSGIVING EVE. 
 A TRUE INCIDENT. 
 
 Hand in hand through the city streets, 
 
 As the chilly November twilight fell, 
 
 Two childish figures walk up and 
 
 down — 
 
 The bootblack Teddie and sister 
 
 Nell. 
 
 With wistful eyes they peer in the 
 shops, 
 Where dazzling lights from the win- 
 dows shine 
 On golden products from farm and 
 field, 
 And luscious fruits from every clime. 
 
 " O Teddie ! " said Nell, " let's play 
 for to-night 
 These things are ours, and let's sup- 
 pose 
 We can choose whatever we want to 
 eat, 
 It might come true, perhaps— who 
 knows ? " 
 
 Two pinched little faces press the pane, 
 And eagerly plan for the morrow's 
 feast 
 Of dainties their lips will never touch. 
 Forgetting their hunger a while, at 
 least. 
 
 The pavement was cold for shoeless 
 feet, 
 Ted's jacket was thin ; he shivered 
 and said, 
 
224 
 
 DAISIES IN THE CITY.— ANISE AND CUMMIN. 
 
 " Let's go to a place and choose some 
 clothes." 
 " Agreed ! " said Nell, and away 
 they sped 
 
 To a furrier's shop, ablaze with light, 
 In whose fancied warmth they place 
 their hands. 
 And play their scanty garments are 
 changed 
 For softest fur, from far-off lands. 
 
 ** A grand Thanksgiving we'll have ! " 
 cried Nell, 
 " These make-believe things seem 
 almost true ; 
 I've most forgot how hungry I was, 
 And, Teddie, I'm almost warm, 
 aren't yoii ? " 
 
 O happy hearts that rejoice to-day 
 In all the bounty ihe season brings. 
 
 Have pity on those who vainly strive 
 To be warmed and fed with imagin- 
 ings ! 
 
 DAISIES IN THE CITY. 
 
 Away from the soil that bore them, 
 
 Away from the waving grass. 
 Away from the winds that kissed 
 them, 
 
 Down in the meadow pass. 
 Away from the sun that gave them 
 
 Their hearts of yellowest gold, 
 Away from the tears of heaven. 
 
 And the love they nightly told. 
 
 Away from the song of the bobolink. 
 
 Away from the song of the rain. 
 Away from the song of the reaper's 
 scythe. 
 As it sweeps through the golden 
 grain, 
 Away from the song of the whirring 
 bee. 
 As it seeks the purple clover. 
 Away from the song of the farmer's 
 lass. 
 As she sings of her farmer lover. 
 
 Away from the smiles of the summef 
 sky, — 
 
 Sweet recollections bringing ; 
 For in the shadow of these walls 
 
 I hear the throstle singing ; 
 I see the face of nature glow. 
 
 With all her brilliant treasures, 
 And I haunt the scenes of earlier years, 
 
 And pursue my childhood pleasures. 
 
 And many eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 When in my casement spying 
 These messengers from scented fields; — 
 
 And many hearts with sighing ; 
 And some perhaps as I, have caught 
 
 From out their fragrance spreading, 
 The incense which the fairer flowers 
 
 In heavenly fields are shedding. 
 
 ANISE AND CUMMIN. 
 
 Wearily with homely duties done. 
 Tired through treading day by day 
 
 Over and over from sun to sun. 
 
 One and the same small round 
 
 alway. 
 Under her breath I heard her say : 
 
 " Oh ! for the sweep of the keen-edged 
 scythe, 
 Oh ! for the swaths, when the reap- 
 ing's o'er 
 Proof of the toil's success. I tithe 
 Anise and cummin — such petty store ! 
 Cummin and anise — nothing more ! 
 
 " Only a meagre garden-space, 
 Out of the world so rich and broad — • 
 
 Only a strip of standing-place ! 
 Only a patch of herb-strown sod 
 Given, in which to work for God ! 
 
 " Yet is my hand as full of care 
 
 Under the shine and frost and rain. 
 Tending and weeding and watching 
 there. 
 Even as though I deemed a wain 
 Were to be piled with sheaves of 
 grain. 
 
IF WE COULD KNOW.— DAILY CARES AND WORRIES. 
 
 225 
 
 " Then when the work is done, what 
 cheer 
 Have 1 to greet me, great or small ? 
 What that shall show how year by 
 year. 
 Patient I've wrought at duty's call ? 
 Anise and cummin — that is all ! " 
 
 Turning, I raised the drooping head, 
 Just as I heard a sob arise : 
 
 " Anise and cummin and mint," I said 
 (Kissing her over her aching eyes), 
 " Even our Lord doth not despise. 
 
 " Think you He looks for headed wheat 
 Out of your plot of garden-ground ? 
 
 Think you He counts as incomplete 
 Service that from such scanty bound 
 Yields Him the tithing He has found.'' 
 
 " What are to Him the world's wide 
 plains ? 
 Him who hath never a need to fill 
 Even one garner with our small grains ? 
 Yet, if the plot is yours to till. 
 Tithe Him the anise and cummin 
 still ! " 
 
 JF WE COULD KNOW. 
 
 If we could know 
 
 Which of us, darling, would be first to 
 
 go; 
 Who would be first to breast the 
 
 swelling tide, 
 And step alone upon the other side — 
 If we could know ! 
 
 If it were you, 
 
 Should I walk softly, keeping death in 
 view } 
 
 Should I my love to you more oft ex- 
 press ? 
 
 Or should I grieve you, darling, any 
 less — 
 
 If it were you } 
 
 If it were I, 
 
 Should I improve the moments slip- 
 ping by } 
 
 Should I more closely follow God's 
 
 great plan ? 
 Be filled with sweeter charity to man — 
 If it were I ? 
 
 If we could know ! 
 
 We cannot, darling; and 'tis better so. 
 I should forget, just as I do to-day, 
 And walk along the sam.e old stum- 
 bling way — 
 If I could know. 
 
 I would not know 
 
 Which of us, darling, will be first to go. 
 I only wish the space may not be long 
 Between the parting and the greeting 
 
 song; 
 But when, or where, or how we're 
 
 called to go — 
 I would not know. 
 
 DAILY CARES AND WORRIES. 
 
 When you are sore bewildered, 
 Not knowing what to do. 
 
 When all your schemes seem baffled, 
 And earthly helpers few — 
 
 Go to the Lord for guidance 
 As well as for His grace ; 
 
 Look up for His direction, 
 And strength to run the race. 
 
 He knows your every sorrow. 
 Each little cross and care ; 
 
 Each trifling daily worry 
 So difficult to bear. 
 
 'Twas just because He loved you 
 He left His throne on high ; 
 
 To save you and redeem you, 
 To suffer and to die. 
 
 But in this far-off country, 
 Where weary feet oft slide. 
 
 How restful to remember 
 Your Saviour is your Guide, 
 
226 
 
 HOME MINISTRIES.— ASPIRATION. 
 
 Near you till life is over, 
 Near you by day and nigh 
 
 Near you until He takes you 
 Into His perlect ligb* ' 
 
 ht! 
 
 HOME MINISTRIES. 
 
 " And the odor of it filled the house." 
 
 " And the odor of it filled the house ! " 
 
 O, Mary, thou didst break 
 The alabaster box, and lo ! 
 
 The fragrance for thy sake, 
 Is in each page that telleth us, 
 Thy heart gave its best treasure thus. 
 
 " And the odor of it filled the house ! " 
 
 O, subtle, and most sweet. 
 The incense of thy Love that made 
 
 Thy humble home complete. 
 With that pure, fragrant atmosphere 
 Of love, the lowliest home is dear. 
 
 " And the odor of it filled the bouse ! " 
 
 O, ministry divine ! 
 Not she serves best who breaks the 
 bread, 
 
 Or pours the purple wine ; 
 But she who cometh tenderly, 
 And in her every ministry, 
 
 Remembers that the soul hath needs 
 But hath not fleshly hands. 
 
 Appealing to the outward sight ; 
 Who alway understands 
 
 The finer senses, that are fed 
 
 Not by a gift of wine, or bread. 
 
 O, loving heart so minist'ring 
 
 With faith in the unseen, 
 That all home toils are glorified. 
 
 And no small task seems mean ! 
 I know thy breathings so pervade 
 Thy home, that it is fragrant made. 
 
 " And the odor of it filled the house ! " 
 
 O, gentle heart, I trow, 
 Not sweeter perfume from the box. 
 
 Broken for love could flow. 
 Than filleth some homes, it may be 
 That have no other fragrancy ! 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 
 With timid hand, a little lad. 
 
 From hunger faint and ill. 
 Knocked at my door one autumn night. 
 
 At twilight gray and chill. 
 
 For broken bits of food he begged 
 
 In such an humble way, 
 That had my heart been made of steel 
 
 I could not bid him nay. 
 
 He entered when I bade, and crouched 
 
 Within a corner dim. 
 And ate in hungry haste the food 
 
 I quickly proffered him. 
 
 Bright home-life glimpses strange and 
 sweet. 
 
 Through open doorways stole. 
 And warmth and love awoke to life 
 
 The hunger of his soul. 
 
 That little, pleading, wistful face, 
 
 Undimpled by a smile, 
 I oft recall at twilight gray. 
 
 Though years have lapsed the while. 
 
 Thus I through doubt and darkness 
 press 
 
 My sad and weary way. 
 And at the door of faith and hope 
 
 In humble accents pray : 
 
 " O grant me. Master, but the crumbs 
 
 That from Thy table fall. 
 And I indeed shall grateful be, 
 
 Although this gift be all." 
 
 Grateful, indeed, but not content, 
 
 I crave a richer store — 
 *' Dear Lord, the bread Thy children 
 share. 
 
 Give me fore verm ore. 
 
 " And let the warmth, and light, and 
 love 
 
 Of kindness peace impart ; 
 In royal measure that shall fill 
 
 And satisfy my heart." 
 
AN OLD SONG. 
 
 227 
 
 AN- OLD SONG. 
 
 '* God hath chosen the weak things of the world." 
 
 It was an old and once familiar strain, 
 A distant echo from the years gone 
 by; 
 And now we heard its melody again 
 Beneath a foreign sky. 
 
 A company of strangers, met to part, 
 Spending an evening in the same 
 hotel," 
 And soft as dew upon each weary 
 heart 
 
 The sweet notes felL 
 
 She was a fair and gentle maid who 
 sang. 
 Who summers seventeen had scarce- 
 ly told, 
 And deftly from her practiced hand 
 and tongue 
 
 The music rolled. 
 
 We hushed our busy talk to hear her 
 sing. 
 The earnest student laid his book 
 aside, 
 While memory bore us on her noise- 
 less wing 
 
 O'er ocean wide. 
 
 To that far distant land beyond the 
 sea, 
 Which we had left on foreign shores 
 to roam. 
 The music bore us on its pinions free 
 Back to our home ; 
 
 Back to the land which we have left 
 behind. 
 The land of love, and hope, and faith, 
 and prayer. 
 And showed the faithful hearts and 
 faces kind 
 
 That loved us there. 
 
 And one there was who heard that 
 soothing song, 
 Whose heart was heavy with its 
 weight of care, 
 
 Embittered by a sense of cruel wrong* 
 No friend might share. 
 
 Silently, proudly, had he borne his 
 
 pain, 
 
 Crushed from his wounded heart 
 
 each softening thought ; , 
 
 But the sweet tones of that forgotten 
 
 strain 
 
 New feelings brought. 
 
 Strange longings rose once more to see 
 the place 
 Which in his boyhood he had held 
 so dear, 
 To see once more his aged father's 
 face. 
 
 His voice to hear ; 
 
 To meet again his gentle sister's 
 smile — 
 ('Twas she who used to sing this 
 self-same song). 
 Would not her love his thoughts from 
 sorrow wile, 
 
 And soothe his wrong? 
 
 How would their faithful hearts rejoice 
 to greet 
 Their prodigal's return from distant 
 shore. 
 And bind his heart by many a wel- 
 come sweet 
 
 To roam no more ! 
 
 Thus he resolved that when the morn- 
 ing came, 
 He would arise and homeward wend 
 his way. 
 And, heedless of the harsh world's 
 praise or blame, 
 
 No more would stray. 
 
 Little the singer guessed the power 
 that lay 
 Beneath the accents of her simple 
 song; 
 Its soothing words should haunt him 
 day by day. 
 
 And make him strong. 
 
228 
 
 AN OLD SONG. 
 
 The lengthening twilight stole into the 
 
 And when the morning dawned he 
 
 room 
 
 homeward turned, 
 
 And wrapped us in its mantle cold 
 
 Back to his father's house beyond 
 
 and grey ; 
 
 the sea, 
 
 But from the list'ner's heart the deeper 
 
 The dear old homestead where his 
 
 gloom 
 
 spirit yearned 
 
 Had passed away. 
 
 Once more to be. 
 
 
 happy maid ! Go singing thus 
 
 The song was ended, and the singer 
 
 through life, 
 
 rose, 
 
 Bidding the lost return, the weak 
 
 And lights were brought, and books 
 
 be strong ; 
 
 and work resumed ; 
 
 Thine is a gift with heavenly comfort 
 
 His spirit tasted long-denied ropose 
 
 rife, 
 
 By hope ilium 'd ; 
 
 The gift of song. 
 
GRANDFATHER AND GRANDMOTHER 
 
GRANDFATHER AND GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA. 
 
 Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm- 
 chair ; 
 Never was lady more sweet and fair ; 
 Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, 
 And her brow its own calm story tells 
 Of a gentle life and a peaceful even, 
 A trust in God and a hope in heaven. 
 
 Little girl Mary sits rocking away 
 In her own low seat, like some win- 
 some fay ; 
 Two doll babies her kisses share, 
 And another one lies by the side of her 
 
 chair ; 
 May is fair as the morning dew : 
 Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue. 
 
 " Say, grandmamma," says the pretty 
 
 elf, 
 " Tell me a story about yourself. 
 When you were little what did you 
 
 play? 
 Was you good or naughty, the whole 
 
 long day } 
 Was it hundreds and hundreds of years 
 
 ago ? 
 And what makes your soft hair as white 
 
 as snow } 
 
 " Did you have a mamma to hug and 
 
 kiss, 
 And a dolly like this, and this, and this ? 
 Did you have a pussy like my little 
 
 Kate? 
 Did you go to bed when the clock 
 
 struck eight ? 
 Did you have long curls and beads like 
 
 mine, 
 And a new silk apron, with ribbon 
 
 fine ? " 
 
 Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, 
 And, laying aside her knitting, she 
 
 said : 
 " Go to my desk, and a red box you'll 
 
 see ; 
 Carefully lift it, and bring it to me." 
 So May put her dollies away, and ran. 
 Saying, " I'll be careful as ever I can." 
 
 Then grandmamma opened the box, 
 
 and lo ! 
 A beautiful child, with throat like 
 
 snow. 
 Lips just tinted like pink shells rare. 
 Eyes of hazel, and golden hair. 
 Hand all dimpled, and teeth like pearls. 
 Fairest and sweetest of little girls. 
 
 " Oh, who is it ? " cried winsome May, 
 " How I wish she was here to-day ! 
 Wouldn't I love her like everything; 
 Say, dear grandmamma, who can she 
 
 be?" 
 " Darling," said grandmamma, " that 
 
 child was me." 
 
 May looked long at the dimpled grace, 
 And then at the saint-like, fair old 
 
 face ; 
 " How funny," she cried, with a smile 
 
 and a kiss, 
 " To have such a dear little grandma 
 
 as this ! 
 " Still," she added, with a smiHng zest, 
 "I think, dear grandma, I like you 
 
 best." 
 
 So May climbed on the silken knee. 
 Arid grandma told her her history ; 
 What plays she played, what toys she 
 
 had. 
 How at times she was naughty, or 
 
 good, or sad, 
 
 (231) 
 
232 OLD SONGS AND NEW.— DREAMING AT FOURSCORE. 
 
 "But the best thing you did," said 
 
 May, " don't you see ? 
 Was to grow to a beautiful grandma 
 
 for me." 
 
 OLD SONGS AND NEW. 
 
 " Oh dinna sing thae jinglin' sangs 
 
 That tempt the graceless feet, 
 Wi' solemn words in daft array 
 
 Like guisers on the street ! 
 But to the grand auld measures 
 
 That fill the kirks at hame. 
 Sing the sweet psahns that David sang 
 
 To strains that he micht claim. 
 
 "At least let thae licht sangs be still 
 
 On the holy Sabbath day, 
 Nor thrum sic evil dancin' rants 
 
 When to your God ye pray. 
 Ill do sic wanton thairms 
 
 Become the holy Name ; 
 Oh, sound His praise in the grand auld 
 strains 
 
 That fill the kirks at hame." 
 
 Oh, Grannie, let the bairns sing 
 
 As fits their lichtsome mood. 
 Nor let the gloom o' Sinai cloud 
 
 Their gowan-buskit road. 
 Sweet were the auld kirk anthems 
 
 Where lyart elders knelt ; 
 Yet thinkna Heaven disdained to hear 
 
 The laverock's gladsome lilt. 
 
 Oft hae our torn an' tempted hearts 
 
 Thrilled to the Psalmist's lyre, 
 And kenned the sins an' griefs our ain 
 
 That did his strains inspire. 
 But the sangs that pleased the Master, 
 
 When this cauld world He trod, 
 W>re the glad hosannas o' the weans 
 
 That hailed Him as tiieir God. 
 
 Bethink ye how our faith was wrocht 
 
 In parsecution's fires, 
 When on the Covenant anvil stern 
 
 God fashioned out our sires. 
 
 The hills that drank their life-blood 
 
 Echo their martyr psalms. 
 Each misty moor their children till 
 
 Their rugged faith embalms. 
 
 But they hae fa'en on sunnier days, 
 
 Thae slips o' the auld tree : 
 Though Covenant bluid is in their 
 veins 
 
 Nae Covenant fires they dree ; 
 Theirs are the laughin' blossoms. 
 
 The fragrant, sweet-blown flowers 
 O' the faith bedewed wi' the martyr 
 blood 
 
 On Scotland's heathery moors. 
 
 Then, Grannie, let the bairnies sing 
 
 As suits their gleesome mood ; 
 Nor let our Sinai cloud the path 
 
 Their God wi' flowers hath strewed. 
 When David's waes beset them. 
 
 Like us, his psalms they'll sing. 
 But kt the loud hosannas rise 
 
 That hail the Children's King. 
 
 DREAMING A T FOURSCORE. 
 
 She sits in the gathering twilight 
 
 In her well-worn rocking-chair. 
 With the snow of life's long winter 
 
 In the meshes of her hail. 
 She dreams of the httle children 
 
 Who left her long ago. 
 And listens for their footsteps 
 
 With the longing mothers know. 
 
 She hears them coming, coming ! 
 
 And her heart is all elate 
 At the patter of little footsteps 
 
 Down by the garden-gate. 
 The clatter of children's voices 
 
 Comes merrily to her ears, 
 j And she cries in her quivering treble, 
 
 " You are late, my little dears ! " 
 
 ' And then, they are here beside her 
 ' As she had them long ago — 
 Susie, and Ben, and Mary, 
 And Ruthie, and little Joe. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.— SIX AND SEVENTY-SIX. 233 
 
 And her heart throbs high with rap- 
 ture 
 
 As each fond kiss is given, 
 And the night is filled with music 
 
 Sweet as her dreams of heaven. 
 
 Such wonderful things they tell her ! 
 
 A nest in the apple-tree : 
 And the robin gave them a scolding 
 
 For climbing up to see ! 
 A wee white lamb in the pasture — 
 
 A wild rose on the hill — 
 And such a great ripe strawberr y 
 
 As Joe found by the mill ! 
 
 She listens to all their prattle. 
 
 Her heart abrim with rest. 
 She's queen in a little kingdom, 
 
 Each child a royal guest. 
 Queen ? 'Tis an empty title ! 
 
 More than a queen is she : 
 Mother of young immortals 
 
 Who gather at her knee. 
 
 She brings their welcome supper, 
 
 And they sit down at her feet 
 Tired, and hungry, and happy, 
 
 And she laughs to see them eat. 
 Then she smooths the yellow tangles 
 
 With a mother's patient hand. 
 While she tells some wonderful story 
 
 Of the children's fairy-land. 
 
 Then the little knotted shoe-strings 
 
 Are patiently untied, 
 And the children in their night-gowns 
 
 Kneel at their mother's side. 
 Their voices are low and sleepy 
 
 Ere their simple prayers are said. 
 And the good- night kiss is given 
 
 By each waiting little bed. 
 
 Then a quiet comes about her, 
 
 Solemn and still and deep, 
 And she says in her dreamy fancies, 
 
 " The children are fast asleep." 
 Yes, fast asleep, poor mother, 
 
 In their beds so low and green, 
 Daisies and clover blossom 
 
 Each face and the sky between. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
 
 Oh, don't be sorrowful, darling; 
 
 Now don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
 For taking the year together, my dear. 
 
 There isn't more night than day. 
 
 *Tis rainy weather, my darling ; 
 
 Time's waves they heavily run ; 
 But taking the year together, my dear, 
 
 There isn't more cloud than sun. 
 
 We are old folks, now, my darling ; 
 
 Our heads they are growing gray ; 
 But, taking the year all round, my dear. 
 
 You wiU always find the May. 
 
 We've had our May, my darling, 
 
 And our roses long ago ; 
 And the time of the year is coming, my 
 dear, 
 For the long dark nights and the 
 snow. 
 
 Rut God is God, my darling. 
 Of night as well as of day ; 
 
 And we feel and know that we can go 
 Wherever He leads the way. 
 
 SIX AND SEVENTY-SIX. 
 
 Two faces on a card I see, 
 
 A New Year's gift of love to me, 
 
 A pretty childish ministry ! 
 
 It were not hard, I think, to fix 
 Their ages solely from Time's tricks. 
 Without the " Six and Seventy-six." 
 
 " Maimie and Grandma," side by side, 
 And seventy years betwixt them 
 
 glide — 
 A bubbling fount — an ebbing tide ; 
 
 A morning beam — a sunset 
 A hud — a blossom in decay 
 
 pray; 
 
 i\. morning uca-ni — ct suii3»-l ray; 
 A bud — a blossom in decay ; 
 A rippling mouth — and lips that 
 
 A waxen brow — a furrowed face ; 
 Defiant smiles— and looks of grace — 
 And contrasts more as more I trace. 
 
234 
 
 G'ANPA'S" NAP.— GRANDMOTHER'S LESSON. 
 
 The child sees seventy years, as far 
 Beyond, to her, yon distant star, 
 And marvels what their mysteries are. 
 
 These to the wearied eyes appear 
 A fleetmg mist, a shadowy sphere. 
 And briefer than one waiting year. 
 
 Maimie and Grandma — Hope and 
 
 Faith, 
 Translated by one sunny breath— 
 And this to me the picture saith. 
 
 ''G'ANPA'S" NAP. 
 
 On the wide porch, thickly shaded, 
 One clear sultry summer day, 
 
 Sheltered from the heat, I rested, 
 Musing, as an old man may. 
 
 Stirring leaves of silver poplar, 
 Softly came a cooling breeze, 
 
 Bringing smell of fragrant clover 
 And the distant hum of bees. 
 
 Suddenly my dream was broken ; 
 
 Sound of hastening feet came near. 
 And sweet, childish words, clear- 
 spoken, 
 
 Fell upon my listening ear. 
 
 But I did not move nor answer 
 As I heard the merry words, 
 
 Sounding like the joyous twitter 
 Of a pair of happy birds. 
 
 " G'anpa, see ! we've got some posies — 
 
 Nicest ones you ever saw ! 
 Mamma gave us all these roses ; 
 
 Why don't you wake up, G'anpa? " 
 
 "Guess he's sleep tight," whispered 
 Gracie ; 
 
 So they sat down side by side, 
 Softly playing there, till Daisy 
 
 Clapped her little hands and cried : 
 
 "S'pose we stick our flowers round 
 him. 
 Play that he's our great big vase. 
 Then he'll be so s'prised to see them 
 When he wakes up — won't he, 
 Grace ? " 
 
 So, with low and earnest whisper, 
 And a grave, important air, 
 
 They adorned their sleeping "G'anpa," 
 Stepping tiptoe round his chair. 
 
 Then at last their work was ended ; 
 
 " Posies " stuck out everywhere. 
 "Gracie, don't he look just splendid 
 
 With those roses in his hair.-^ " 
 
 Patiently, with eyes admiring, 
 
 They stood waiting near me there — 
 
 Gentle Grace and Daisy Darling — 
 Precious little loving pair. 
 
 Pretty soon their "G'anpa," woke up, 
 " S'prised " as ever he could be, 
 
 Seeing rose and yellow king-cup 
 Grow on such a funny tree ! 
 
 And two happy little faces 
 
 Looked in mine that summer day. 
 So I pleased their childish fancies, 
 
 Loving as an old man may. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S LESSON 
 
 The quilting bee was over, 
 
 The folks had all gone home, 
 And grandmother was sitting 
 
 By the fireside alone. 
 When the children came in softly. 
 
 And, clustering around her chair. 
 Waited a talk with grandma 
 
 Ere they said their evening prayer. 
 
 "We are each of us making patch- 
 work — 
 
 All of us, old and young ; 
 And the pieces are all provided, 
 
 And sent to us one by one. 
 And when they come to us folded. 
 
 And we don't know how to turn, 
 We must just give up our puzzling, 
 
 And look to Heaven and learn. 
 
GRANDPA'S STORY. 
 
 "Sometimes our work seems useless, 
 
 And with sighs of discontent, 
 We wish that something greater 
 
 For our life-work had been sent. 
 But there's One who watches our labor 
 
 With earnest, tender care, 
 And when we are trying to please 
 Him, 
 
 He makes it wondrous fair." 
 
 ** He will examine our stitches 
 
 When the hour of trial shall come. 
 And He will look to the motive 
 
 And help us to take each one ; 
 And He judges us very kindly. 
 
 And allows for the falling tear. 
 That kept us at times from seeing 
 
 How to thread our needles clear." 
 
 " You will see that all your pieces 
 
 Were cut and prepared for you. 
 The light and the dark together, 
 
 With judgment unerring and true. 
 And the work that looked the darkest 
 
 Now seems the brightest and best ; 
 That your eyes are no more weary. 
 
 But have entered the heavenly rest." 
 
 " And then upon seeing the Master, 
 
 And gazing into His face, 
 You'll forget all about your own work ; 
 
 In His glorious work of grace. 
 And with praises to Him forever 
 
 Your heart will overflow. 
 Till earth's sorrows are all forgotten, 
 
 And its trials left below." 
 
 GRANDPA'S STORY. 
 
 A STOFY.^ a stoiy.^ 
 
 Ah. yes, my dear children. 
 
 Come, gather you closely 
 
 'Bout grandpapa's knee; 
 I'll tell you a story, 
 A sweet httle story, 
 A story that happened 
 
 To grandma and me. 
 
 I'm old now — I know it. 
 My hair is all snowy, 
 
 And I've touched the full cycle 
 Of threescore and ten ; 
 
 The story I'll tell you. 
 
 It happened, my darlings. 
 
 When I had a grandpa, 
 And I was " Wee Ben ; " 
 
 And grandma, dear grandma, 
 Who sits there a-knitting. 
 Was fair-haired and dimpled, 
 
 A right pretty lass ; 
 We were playmates, my children, 
 Your grandma and J were ; 
 We were lovers as children ; 
 
 Ah ! how the years pass ! 
 
 " The story } " Hallo, there 
 Is mist on my glasses ; 
 It always will come, when 
 
 I think of that day ; 
 It will go in a minute — 
 Hand grandpa his 'kerchief; 
 The story I'll tell when 
 
 I've wiped it away. 
 
 You see we were playing. 
 Your grandma and I were ; 
 Were playing that we were 
 
 The " Babes in the Wood ; " 
 And we said we were lost 
 In the depths of the forest, 
 And pretended to cry. 
 
 As lost babies should. 
 
 And I saw grandma crying, 
 And forgot she was playing. 
 And then I cried, too. 
 
 Hard as ever I could ; 
 Then grandma laughed. 
 And I smiled through my crying, 
 And so we stopped playing 
 
 The " Babes in the Wood." 
 
 And all our lives through we've 
 Been working and playing. 
 And laughing and crying. 
 
 As we did in the game. 
 For when grandma has cried. 
 My eyes have grown misty. 
 And my smiles have all come 
 
 When grandmamma's came ! 
 
236 
 
 THE FAST MAIL. 
 
 GREA T-GRANDMO THER'S 
 SPINNING- WHEEL. 
 
 Out of the garret, 
 Odd little thing, we bear it : 
 Out of the dusty, moldy gloom, 
 Into the sunlight-flooded room. 
 Dust is over it, heavy and gray. 
 
 Thick on the treadle, thick on the 
 wheel. 
 And spiders have spun on it, day by 
 day, 
 To mock at its old-time, busy zeal. 
 
 Smiling we linger, 
 Pointing with curious finger 
 As this or that quaint shape we see 
 In this last-century mystery. 
 But grandmother's face grows grave 
 and pale. 
 Our jests are idle, our wonder lost. 
 This little wheel lifts up the veil 
 
 To her from the land of grave and 
 ghost. 
 
 Younger and stronger. 
 White-haired and weak no longer. 
 She sees, wide opan, the cottage door, 
 The ceiling low, and the sanded floor ; 
 The roses that climb outside, with 
 bloom 
 Half of the window space conceal ; 
 And her mother, who sits in the tidy 
 room, 
 Is spinning flax at this little wheel ! 
 
 She hears the whirring, 
 Soft as a kitten purring. 
 And under and over the busy noise 
 The tender song of her mother's voice. 
 Her childhood's ways she v^^alks again. 
 Her childhood's heart she bears 
 once more ; 
 Drops from her like a leaf, the pain 
 And burden of almost fourscore ! 
 
 But for a minute ! 
 Then, with a tremor in it 
 Of age and grief, her voice speaks low : 
 *' She died just fifty years ago ! " 
 
 Now no longer with spirits gay. 
 The novel and crude alone we see, 
 
 But wiping the gathered dust away, 
 Our tears fall on it reverently. 
 
 We think ho\v tender, 
 With love and self-surrender, 
 Those busy hands their labor wrought 
 Upon it in time to loving thought, — 
 Hopeful and eager long ago — 
 
 While now in their folded peace they 
 lie, 
 Heedless that the toil goes on, below 
 The dust of half a century ! 
 
 Ah, if that spirit 
 Could hover once more near it ; 
 Could out of the dead past come again, 
 Warm and living as it was then. 
 In the cosy household corner here. 
 Where stands the litde old-fashioned 
 thing, 
 How the children's children gathered 
 near. 
 Would give it heart-full welcoming ! 
 
 THE FAST MAIL. 
 grandmother's opinion. 
 
 Letters ? Four times a day. 
 
 And the postman never gets tired, 
 A rappin' an' tappin' an' handin' 'em 
 in, — 
 
 Aye, it's for that he is hired ; 
 Susan an' Eleanor watchin'. 
 
 An' allers they've time to stop. 
 Whatever they 're doin', to read 'em — 
 
 Letters, fresh from the shop. 
 
 A letter's no consequence now. 
 
 You heerd from Jonathan's wife. 
 Ye tell me, to-day? What then } 
 
 Ye hear every week o' your life. 
 An' she at t'other end o' the 
 
 Continent. / want to know 
 Where she gets the stuff to put in 'em ; 
 
 That's what bothers me so. 
 
WAITING FOR MOTHER.' 
 
 237 
 
 A letter 's no consequence now. 
 
 They say that there's milhons a day 
 A flyin' hither an' yon. 
 
 Thick as the robins in May; 
 A flyin' hither an' yon, 
 
 Like the snowflakes out o' the sky. 
 An' meltin' away as quick,— 
 
 Gone with the breath o' a sigh. 
 
 I tell you when I was young — 
 
 A slip o' a thing like Sue — 
 When this faded hair was brown, 
 
 An' these dimmin' eyes were blue, 
 An' up in the mountain land 
 
 Your gran'ther was courtin* me, 
 A letter was worth its weight — 
 
 Worth waitin' a bit to see. 
 
 Writ with a strong quill pen, an' 
 
 Writ from a thoughtful heart. 
 Not flashed from a point o' steel, 
 
 As sharp an' cold as a dart ; 
 An' it told the neighborhood news. 
 
 Whose names had been called in 
 church, 
 Whose barn had been sot on fire. 
 
 Whose will folks were tryin' to 
 search. 
 
 It began with an " Honored Sir," 
 
 Or a " Much Respected Miss," 
 An' it didn't dare allude. 
 
 Even distantly, to a kiss ; 
 But it hoped it found you well. 
 
 An' it spoke in guarded phrase. 
 An' a solemn sort o' style, 
 
 Like the minister, when he prays. 
 
 "Formal an' frigid," Susan? 
 
 Is that what you're pleased to say } 
 Let me have my word, my dear. 
 
 My time is passin' away ; 
 Before these fast mail days — 
 
 Oh, you needn't begin to blush ! — 
 Neither males nor females, child. 
 
 Were given to so much gush. 
 
 Robtrt, he went to the pines one 
 
 Spell — it was bitter cold — 
 Oh, those hunter-men were giants, 
 
 Believe me, stalwart an' bold ; 
 
 He was six months gone, an' I only 
 Had one letter all that time. 
 
 An' I kep' it safe in my Bible, 
 An' lamed it off like rhyme. 
 
 What's that ? The postman again, 
 
 A rappin' an' tappin' ? Pray 
 What is Willie a writin' for? 
 
 Two letters from him to-day. 
 Is it Katie is sick ? Scarlet fever ? 
 
 Dear lamb, I'm afraid, I'm afraid; 
 I have set my heart on my love. 
 
 On the darling, the sweet little maid. 
 
 We'll hear once more before night. 
 
 Oh, thanks to the Lord for His 
 ways, 
 They are better, for some things, now, 
 
 Than they were in my early days. 
 When your soul is dark with suspense, 
 
 And your cheek with fear turns pale. 
 Then you lift up a song o' praise 
 
 For the hope o' the good Fast Mail. 
 
 " WAITING FOR MOTHER!'' 
 
 The old man sits in his easy-chair. 
 
 Slumbering the moments away. 
 Dreaming a dream that is all his own, 
 
 On this gladsome, peaceful day. 
 His children have gathered from far 
 and near. 
 
 His children's children beside, 
 And merry voices are echoing through 
 
 The " Homestead's " hall, so wide. 
 
 But far away in the years long flown 
 
 Grandfather lives again ; 
 And his heart forgets that it ever knew 
 
 A shadow of grief and pain, 
 For he sees his wife as he saw her 
 then — 
 
 A matron comely and fair. 
 With her children gathered around his 
 board 
 
 And never a vacant chair. 
 
238 
 
 ONCE AGAIN.— GRANDMOTHER : A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Oh ! happy this dream of the " Auld 
 Lang Syne," 
 
 Of the years long slipped away ! 
 And the old man's lips have gathered 
 a smile 
 
 And his heart grows young and gay. 
 But a kiss falls gently upon his brow, 
 
 From his daughter's lips so true : 
 " Dinner is ready ; and, Father, dear, 
 
 We are otily waitmg for yon ! " 
 
 The old man wakes at his daughter's 
 call. 
 And he looks at the table near. 
 " There's 07te of us missing, my child," 
 he says, 
 " We will wait till Mother is here." 
 There are tears in the eyes of his 
 children then. 
 As they gaze on an empty chair ; 
 For many a lonely year has passed 
 Since " Mother " sat with them 
 there. 
 
 But the old man pleads still wistfully : 
 " We must wait for Mother, you 
 know ! " 
 And they let him rest in his old arm- 
 chair 
 Till the sun at last sinks low. 
 Then leaving a smile for the children 
 here. 
 He turns from the earth awciy. 
 And has gone to "Mother," beyond 
 the skies, 
 With the close of the quiet day. 
 
 ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 " Look up once again, dear grandma ; 
 
 How pretty you are to-night ! 
 Your hair is lovely, my grandma — 
 
 So soft, and silky, and white." 
 
 Bless the child ! his words like a ditty 
 Keep singing low in my brain — 
 
 Though I'm much too old to be pretty. 
 They sound like a dear old strain. 
 
 I suppose it is very silly 
 
 That my eyes should fill with tears, 
 But he gave me a thought o' Willie, 
 
 And a time back, years and years. 
 
 My hair won my pet name, Golding, — 
 It was softly said that night : 
 
 " Look up once again, my darling ; 
 How pretty you are to-night ! " 
 
 But now I'm an old woman, 
 With my old eyes full of tears. 
 
 And longing to join my good man, 
 Home before me years and years. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER— A PORTRAIT, 
 
 A FACE on which the years lie gently. 
 
 Softening ever as they go, 
 As a stone is smoothed and brightened 
 
 By the river's ceaseless flow. 
 
 Eyes to which tears are no strangers. 
 For she often tears hath shed 
 
 Over burdens born by others, 
 
 Which she fain would bear instead. 
 
 And her hair is silver woven. 
 
 As though light were falling down 
 
 From the city she is nearing. 
 Just foreshadowing the crown. 
 
 And her feet, they ne'er seem weary 
 When they others' steps can spare; 
 
 And her hands are very busy 
 Lightening others' load of care. 
 
 And her smile, it cometh gently, 
 Like the moonlight falling clear 
 
 On some still, sequestered water. 
 Pure and sparkling, heaven near. 
 
 And her thoughts, they seem too holy, 
 And her gentle love too pure. 
 
 To see crime and guilt in others 
 Unless seeing, she can cure. 
 
 Oh, dear heart ; the toilsome journey 
 
 Now is mostly overpast : 
 And the glimpse of heaven you give us 
 
 Will be part of heaven at last. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S PATCHWORK. 
 
 239 
 
 GRANDMOTHERS PA TCH- 
 WORK. 
 
 A GENEROUS basket piled to the brim 
 With odds and ends so quaint and 
 queer, 
 3right from the past, or age-worn and 
 dim ; 
 For they're gathered away from 
 year to year. 
 
 As over them all her fancies rove — 
 These scraps of garments from 
 friends and kin — 
 Like faces they seem which appear in 
 a dream ; 
 Ah, there's much unseen of life and 
 love 
 With grandmother's patchwork knitted 
 
 For each has some precious story to 
 tell 
 To the dear old eyes reading them 
 o'er; 
 A tale of its own, that she knows full 
 well. 
 Born back to the hallowed days of 
 yore. 
 
 The children will crowd about her 
 
 knee. 
 
 With eager ear for each history ; 
 
 These old-time relics which oft they 
 
 see 
 
 Are full of meaning and mystery. 
 
 They know just which is the piece of 
 pink 
 Their father wore — her baby John ; 
 The old lady smiles ; " Only to think 
 How sweet and cunning he looked 
 with it on." 
 
 And one, they know, is all upon earth 
 To tell of the little girl who died ; 
 
 How oft they have gazed, and hushed 
 their mirth. 
 And over its tender story sighed ! 
 
 And here is something that's handed 
 down 
 To tell what she in her prime has 
 done ; 
 The fine checked linen of blue and 
 brown — 
 The piece s/ie " colored, and wove, 
 and spun." 
 
 There's Willie's apron, and mother's 
 dress ; 
 And the soldier-coat of brother Ben, 
 Who marched away from each loved 
 caress. 
 But, alas ! did not march home 
 again. 
 
 This, you know, is a piece of the gown 
 Which grandmother wore on her 
 wedding-day ; 
 The children spread it reverently 
 down — 
 "Please tell us about it again," they 
 say. 
 
 For that is the tale they love the best — 
 
 How she started out on her bridal 
 
 tour 
 
 To find a home in the great, wild West, 
 
 W^here the wolves came howling 
 
 around her door. 
 
 How they almost starved for the lack 
 
 of food — 
 
 Then swam the ford for a bit of corn ; 
 
 How they tracked the deer through the 
 
 pathless wood, 
 
 And o'er the hills in the purple morn. 
 
 Then she sees herself with rose- 
 wreathed brow. 
 
 In bridal robes a young girl fair ; 
 The silver that lies on her forehead now, 
 
 In long dark ringlets of silken hair. 
 
 If, in her dreams, her dim eyes shed, 
 Over her needle, sometimes a tear, 
 
 'Tis not in sadness , but joy instead, 
 That God is so good, and heaven so 
 near. 
 
240 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S NEW-YEAR'S LETTER. 
 
 So over them all her fancies rove — 
 These scraps of garments from 
 friends and kin — 
 For there's much unseen of life and 
 love 
 With grandmother's patchwork 
 quilted in. 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S VALENTINE. 
 
 " Give me a Valentine, Youth " — 
 And the old man's cheeks were 
 aglow, 
 
 Though a staff was in his hand 
 And his hair was white as snow — 
 
 '* Give me aValentine — something nice ; 
 
 The girl I love is beyond a price. 
 
 " One of the old-fashioned kind, 
 
 All sweet with the perfume of flow- 
 ers ; 
 With dear little simple rhymes^ 
 
 And two lovers in rosy bowers .; 
 With a timid hope and a thought of 
 
 tears — 
 That has been my style for fifty years. 
 
 " This one will suit her, 1 think, 
 
 Her eyes, as these blossoms, are 
 blue, 
 White as these lilies her hair. 
 
 Like this dove, she is tender and true. 
 Just such a Valentine — -smiles and 
 
 fears- 
 As I've sent her now for fifty years. 
 
 '' No need for laughing, young men ! 
 But laugh when you're seventy years 
 old, 
 If the girl you love to-day 
 
 Is beloved of you seventy-fold ; 
 Laugh if you've had, through fifty 
 
 years' strife. 
 The wonderful joy of a faithful wife. 
 
 •'* Send her a Valentine, then. 
 As I'm sending my wife to-day; 
 
 Send her one every year, 
 
 For that is a true Lover's way. 
 
 God give you, young men, a wife like 
 mine. 
 
 And you'll send her, I know, a Valen- 
 tine ! " 
 
 GRAND MO THER'S NE W- YEAR'S 
 LETTER. 
 
 I PROMISED to write to you, John, I 
 know, 
 A full account of my visit here ; 
 But, somehow, I can't feel settled yet. 
 Or used to things that are strange 
 and queer. 
 Katie gave me a welcome kind, 
 
 And maybe her kiss came from her 
 heart ! 
 But there seemed a so7nething, I know 
 not what, 
 Despite her kiss, which kept us apart. 
 
 I saw her look at the gown I wore, 
 And the poor old bonnet upon my 
 head, 
 And I guessed the thoughts that her 
 proud heart felt, 
 Fven before a word was said. 
 I can not fairly complain, dear John ; 
 
 Maybe I'm homesick away from you ; 
 But — though you may call me foolish, 
 dear — 
 There is something which chills me 
 through and through. 
 
 Katie's husband is tall and fine, 
 
 A wonderful business man, they say ; 
 And I've noticed he never has time to 
 kiss 
 His children, or join them at their 
 play. 
 And, speaking of children, the little 
 ones here 
 Are not like children when we were 
 young. 
 We never mimicked our elders, John, 
 Or spoke to the aged with flippant 
 tongue. 
 
GRANDPA AND BESS. 
 
 241 
 
 I haven't described my room to you, 
 
 It's a quiet room on the upper floor. 
 Katie thought it would suit me best — 
 " Out of the way of noise , " and, 
 more, 
 "She doesn't disturb me through the 
 day, 
 When people call, for she knows I'm 
 old." 
 Yes, I am old ; but my wits are. strong, 
 And there are some truths which 
 needn't be told. 
 
 This New- Year's Day I'm sitting alone 
 (For Katie is busy with friends, you 
 see, 
 And, having so much to do and say. 
 She has no time to remember me) ; 
 But I can't help thinking of home and 
 you, 
 And the kitchen fire, a-blazing high. 
 And the dear old year that has just 
 gone out- 
 How we watched it zn, John, you 
 and I. 
 
 You are sitting now in the old arm- 
 chair ; 
 The first day of the year has flown ; 
 And the twilight shadows, which gath- 
 er fast, 
 Are shutting you in, dear John, alone. 
 But my city visit is almost done. 
 
 And my tired heart will know no 
 rest 
 Till, safe in the homestead once again, 
 I lay my head on my husband's 
 breast. 
 
 GRANDPA AND BESS. 
 
 Two bright heads in the corner, 
 
 Deep in the easy-chair ; 
 One with a crown of yellow gold, 
 
 And one like the silver fair ; 
 One with the morning's rosy flush, 
 And one with the twilight's tender 
 hush. 
 
 "Where do the New -Years come 
 from } " 
 Asks Goldilocks in her glee ; 
 " Do they sail in a pearly shallop 
 
 Across a wonderful sea ; 
 A sea whose waters with rainbows 
 spanned, , 
 
 Touch all the borders of fairy-land.? 
 
 " Do all the birds in that countiy 
 
 Keep singing by night and by day } 
 Singing among the blossoms 
 That never wither away ? 
 Will they let you feel as you hold them 
 
 near. 
 Their warm hearts beating, but not 
 with fear? 
 
 "And the happy little children. 
 Do they wander as they will, 
 
 To gather the sweet vvild roses. 
 And the strawberries on the hill. 
 
 White wings, like butterflies all afloat, 
 
 And a purple cloud for a fairy boat } 
 
 " There sure is such a country, 
 
 I've seen it many a night. 
 Though 1 never, never could find it 
 
 Awake in the morning light • 
 And that is the country over the sea. 
 Where the beautiful New- Years wait 
 for me." 
 
 "Where do the New-Years come 
 from ? " 
 Says grandpa, looking away 
 
 Through the frosty rime on the win- 
 dow, 
 To the distant hills so gray ; 
 
 " They come from the country of youth 
 I know, 
 
 And they pass to the land of the long 
 ago. 
 
 " ' And which is the fairest country ? ' 
 
 Dear heart, I never can tell ; 
 Where the New -Years wait their 
 dawning 
 Or the beautiful Old- Years dwell ; 
 But the sweetest summers that ever 
 
 shone 
 To the land of the long ago have flown. 
 
242 
 
 BEDTIME.— READ TO SLEEP. 
 
 " The New-Years wait for you, darling ; 
 
 And the Old-Years wait for me ; 
 They have carried my dearest treasures 
 
 To the country over the sea ; 
 The eyes that were brightest, the lips 
 
 that sung 
 The gladdest carols when life was 
 young. 
 
 " But I know of a better country. 
 Where the Old-Years all are new ; 
 
 I shall find its shining pathway 
 Sooner, sweet heart, than you ; 
 
 And I'll send you a message of love 
 and cheer 
 
 With every dawn of a glad New-Year." 
 
 The eyes of the dear old pilgrim 
 Are looking across the snows ; 
 
 While closer nestles the merry face. 
 With its flush Hke a pink wild rose. 
 
 Dreaming together the young and old. 
 
 Locks of silver and crown of gold. 
 
 BEDTIME. 
 
 When the lamps were lit in the even- 
 ing 
 
 And tlie shutters were fastened tight. 
 And the room where the household 
 gathered 
 
 Was cosy, and warm, and bright. 
 When the bustle of work was over. 
 
 And the children were tired of play, 
 It seemed to us that our bedtime 
 
 Was the pleasantest part of the day. 
 
 For grandmother had her knitting; 
 
 Click! clack! would the needles go; 
 The baby was snug in the cradle. 
 
 And mother had time to sew ; 
 And we, in our little night-gowns, 
 
 Would clamber on father's knee. 
 And sheltered within his loving arms 
 
 Were as happy as we could be. 
 
 He could not sing ; but he whistled 
 A tunc that was sure to keep 
 
 The little ones very quiet. 
 And put the baby to sleep ; 
 
 And whenever I want a lullaby. 
 The sweetest I e'er shall know 
 
 Is the one that m,y father always used 
 In the beautiful long ago. 
 
 Sometimes there were apples roasted ; 
 
 And then there were nuts to crack ; 
 And jokes to be told, and stories 
 
 That had a delicious smack ; 
 And the longer we lingered, the harder 
 
 We found it to get away, 
 For to us the children's bedtime 
 
 Seemed the sweetest hour of the day. 
 
 But at last the word was spoken ; 
 
 " Come, come ! " the mother said. 
 In her quietest tones — " it is really time 
 
 That little folks Vv'ent to bed ; " 
 And we who were wide awake as owls. 
 
 And ready for any lark. 
 With mournful step moved slowly out 
 
 And into the joyless dark. 
 
 And long after we had folded 
 
 In slumber's serene embrace. 
 And with the angels of dreamland 
 
 Were floating through fairy space. 
 Dear father would come to our bedside, 
 
 And tuck us in, oh, so tight ! 
 We'd sleep as warm as birds in a nest 
 
 A.11 through the livelong night. 
 
 And when my bedtime cometh, 
 
 And the last "Good-nights" are 
 said. 
 And with the rest of the children 
 
 I go to my narrow bed. 
 My sleep will be all the sweeter 
 
 For the touch of a loving hand. 
 And a Father's smile will greet me 
 
 As I enter the morning-land. 
 
 READ TO SLEEP. 
 
 For threescore years and ten. 
 Burdened with care and woe, 
 
 She has traveled the weary ways of men, 
 And she's tired and wants to go. 
 
AN AUTUMN WHISPER. 
 
 243 
 
 It has been so hard to live ! | 
 
 And even her stinted store, 
 It seemed as if fate had grudged to 
 give, 
 
 And she wishes her need was o er. 
 
 So, musing one afternoon, 
 ' Her knitting upon her lap. 
 She hears at her door a drift of tune. 
 And a quick, familiar tap. 
 
 In flashes a child's fresh face, 
 
 And with voice, bird-like and gay, 
 
 She asks, " Shall 1 find a pretty place, 
 And read you a Psalm to-day ? " 
 
 " Aye, read me a Psalm : ' The Lord 
 Is my Shebherd : ' soft, not fast ; 
 
 Then turn the leaves of the Holy Word 
 Till you come to the very last. 
 
 " Where it tells of the wondrous walls 
 Of jacinth and sapphire stone ; 
 
 And the shine of the crystal light that 
 falls 
 In rainbows about the throne ; 
 
 " Where there never are any tears, 
 (Find where the verse so saith), 
 
 Nor sorrow, nor crying, through all 
 God's years, 
 Nor hunger, nor cold, nor death ; 
 
 " Of the city whose streets are gold ; 
 
 Ah, here',\\. was not my share 
 One single piece in my hands to hold — 
 
 But my feet shall tread on it there I 
 
 " Yes, read of it all ; it lifts 
 My soul up into the light. 
 And I look straight through the leaden 
 rifts. 
 To the land where there's no more 
 night." 
 
 So the little reader read 
 
 Till the slow-guing needles stopped ; 
 And then as she saw the weary head 
 
 On the wearier breast had dropped. 
 
 Rising, she nearer stepped — 
 How easy it all had been !— 
 
 The gates had unclosed as the sleeper 
 slept, 
 And an angel had drawn her in ! 
 
 AJV A UTUMN WHISPER. 
 
 Little Daisy said one day 
 
 Since the autumn weather — 
 ■' Hark ! I hear the angels all « 
 
 Whispering together ! 
 Grandpa, please to come with me. 
 
 Help me hunt and find 'em ? 
 Guess they're in the corny tents. 
 
 Else they hide behind 'em." 
 
 Little Daisy, four-year-old. 
 
 In the autumn weather, 
 And her grandpa went a-field 
 
 Hand in hand together. 
 He unbound a shock of corn, 
 
 Daisy peered within it, — 
 " Oh ! they whisper louder now ! 
 
 See 'em in a minute ! " 
 
 To and fro from sheaf to sheaf 
 
 Daisy flitted brightly. 
 And the friendly russet stalks 
 
 Waved their banners lightly. 
 Many were the mystic tents 
 
 Searched and prattled over, 
 Yet no wings she spied but those 
 
 Of a startled plover. 
 
 " Grandpa, they're here, I know. 
 
 But I can not see one; 
 Maybe I must wait for that 
 
 Till I get to be one. 
 But they whisper, oh ! so sweet, 
 
 Hide-and-seek while playing ! 
 Let us both be very still, 
 
 And listen what they're saying ! * 
 
 On the fallen shock of corn 
 
 In the autumn weather. 
 Infancy and ripened age 
 
 Hearkened there together. 
 Oh, the golden autumn day ! 
 
 'Tis the earth's perfection, 
 When she, dying, in her heart 
 
 Holds the resurrection. 
 
 Weary child the angel wings 
 Sees while sweetly sleeping ; 
 
 Thoughts more blessed aid as pure 
 O'er his soul are sweeping. 
 
244 
 
 GRANDxMA'S KNITTING.— GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Daisy, waking from her dream, 
 
 Finds a glimpse of glory- 
 In the aged face, and lisps: 
 ' Grandpa's heard their story ! " 
 
 Sitting 'mong the ripened corn 
 
 Lovingly together, 
 Daisy listens to the words 
 
 Sweet as autumn weather: 
 ■ Grandpa, when my curls are white, 
 
 And I'm done with playing. 
 Will the angels teach me, too, 
 
 What they're always saying? " 
 
 Snowy heads, whose garnered lives 
 
 'Gainst the Cross are leaning, 
 You can give to angels' words 
 
 More than angels' meaning. 
 Oh, how blessed to walk with God 
 
 Year and year together. 
 Having ripened sheaves that sing 
 
 In the autumn weather ! 
 
 GRANDMAS KNITTING. 
 
 'TiS the quiet hour of twilight 
 
 Which follows the set of sun. 
 When the toil of the day is over. 
 
 And the evening rest begun. 
 And the silence is broken only 
 
 By the ticking of the clock ; 
 While grandma sits by the fireside, 
 
 Knitting a little sock. 
 
 The yarn flies over the needles. 
 
 In stitches of white and gray ; 
 But her fingers only are working. 
 
 For her mind is far away ; 
 And a vision of golden ringlets, 
 
 Of a snowy muslin frock, 
 Moistens the eyes of grandma. 
 
 As she knits the little sock. 
 
 Oh, oft have those fingers fashioned 
 
 Finest garments of old ! 
 Oh, oft on that loving bosom 
 
 Have rested ringlets of gold ! 
 
 For "grandma" then was "mother," 
 And her own were the household 
 joys ; 
 
 And she held in her deep affection 
 The love of three darling boys. 
 
 Dear Charlie was lain 'neath the 
 daisies 
 
 When his years but numbered two ; 
 Fred fell in the battle of Vicksburg — 
 
 One of our heroes in blue ; 
 But the babe of darling Louie 
 
 In the cradle she loves to rock ; 
 And 'tis for the second Charlie 
 
 She is knitting the httle sock. 
 
 No wonder that grandma sits musing 
 
 While the shining needles fly; 
 No wonder the seam and the turning 
 
 Are marked with a weary sigh. 
 Her work will be rounded and finished 
 
 At the striking of the clock ; 
 And a crowd of tender memories 
 
 Knit into the little sock. 
 
 GRANDMO THER. 
 
 And this is her room and her cushioned 
 chair ; 
 They seem of herself a part ; 
 And here are her caps and her knitting 
 work — 
 They look so like her, dear heart ! 
 
 'Tis many a year since we laid these 
 away 
 In camphor and sighs and tears ; 
 And still I can hear poor grandmother 
 say, 
 " Don't weep when I'm gone, my 
 dears." 
 
 But nature is strong and the will is 
 
 weak 
 
 And we wept, aye, wept full sore. 
 
 When the calm, sweet eyes that we 
 
 loved so well, 
 
 Looked on us no more — no more. 
 
THREE BASKETS.— GRANDPA AND BABY. 
 
 245 
 
 And still I can hear her sweet voice 
 to-day, 
 And feel the touch of her hand, 
 As she blessed us all with a tender 
 smile, 
 Ere she passed to that other land. 
 
 Oh ! the days have been sad and long — 
 
 S9 long. 
 Since grandmother went her way ; 
 And now by the side of these faded 
 
 things, 
 I can only weep and pray. 
 
 But grandmother's God, is He not my 
 God.^ 
 And doth He not rule above ? 
 Oh, yes ! I will trust and smile through 
 my tears, 
 And henceforth look only above. 
 
 THREE BASKETS. 
 
 Bertha's basket ; maiden Bertha, 
 
 With the merry dancing eyes. 
 And the brow whereon a shadow 
 
 Would be such a rare surprise — 
 What has she within this dainty 
 
 Shell of rushes, silken-lined, 
 Where so many maiden musings 
 
 Innocently are enshrined } 
 
 Gayly mingled ends of worsted ; 
 
 Beads that glitter silver-bright ; 
 Fleece of Shetland, light and airy. 
 
 Lying there in waves of white ; 
 'Broidered linen wrought for pastime 
 
 In the dreamy summer hours ; 
 And perhaps a poet's idyl. 
 
 Read amid the leaves and flowers. 
 
 Bertha's basket ; mother Bertha, 
 
 Ah, serener light hath grown 
 In the thoughtful eyes ; the forehead 
 
 Hath some flitting sorrows known. 
 In th.^ larger basket looking, 
 
 Other handiwork we find ; 
 Where the woman's heart, its pleasure, 
 
 Love, and longmg hath enshrined. 
 
 Little aprons ; little dresses ; 
 
 Trousers patched about the knee 
 With tender art, where no keen critic 
 
 Can the mother's piecing see ; 
 Flannel worked with skill and patience, 
 
 And an overflowing store. 
 Every size of little stockings 
 
 Always needing one stitch more. 
 
 Bertha's basket ; grandma Bertha ; 
 
 For the years have run their way. 
 And it seems, in looking backward, 
 
 It was only yesterday 
 That the maiden tripped so lightly, 
 
 That the matron had her cares — 
 Age slips on so gently, gently. 
 
 Like an angel unawares. 
 
 Grandma's work is contemplative. 
 With the scintillance of steel 
 
 Glean the needles, smooth with flash- 
 ing 
 Off the toe or round the heel. 
 
 Leisure days have found the lady ; 
 But her face is deeply lined. 
 
 And her heart is as a temple — 
 
 . Hallowed memories there are 
 shrined. 
 
 As along the dusty high-road 
 
 Rise the milestones one by one. 
 Telling here and there the distance 
 
 Until all the way is done ; 
 So a woman's working basket 
 
 Marks the journey of her life. 
 Working dearest work for others, 
 
 Whether she be maid or wife. 
 
 GRANDPA AND BABY. 
 
 Out on the lawn, one summer's day, 
 I left my baby boy at play. 
 And smiled to hear his gleeful shout 
 And happy voice sing in and out 
 Among the arches of the trees. 
 Then die away upon the breeze ; 
 While all the playful echoes stirred 
 With merry laugh and lisping word. 
 
246 
 
 GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 But when I missed the cheerful noise, 
 Nor longer heard the prattling voice, 
 I rose, and to the window hied. 
 And, looking hence, this vision spied — 
 Oh, memory ! though thy name be pain, 
 Paint, paint that picture o'er again ! 
 
 The western sun his glory threw 
 Along the sward of emerald hue ; 
 Save where, perchance, in playful frown, 
 Some cool, green shadows nestled 
 
 down, 
 And idly shifting with the sun, 
 Crept slowly eastward, one by one. 
 
 Beneath the elm tree's waving crest, 
 "Where the winds tossed the birdlings' 
 
 nest. 
 And where alternate sun and shade 
 Like changing fancies skipped and 
 
 played. 
 The old arm-chair, secure and good, 
 With wide-spread arms, inviting stood ; 
 And in its cushions, broad and deep. 
 Grandpa and baby sat asleep. 
 
 On rounded cheek and golden head 
 The sinking sun his radiance shed, 
 While on the grandsire's silver crown 
 A single ray dropped softly down. 
 And then, in benediction fell 
 On both, and wrapped them in its 
 spell. 
 
 The breeze, in frolic growing bold. 
 Tossed up the rings of shining gold 
 On baby's brow, then with the gray 
 On grandpa's head, began to play. 
 
 In the worn palm, securely pressed. 
 One little dimpled hand found rest ; 
 The other clasped a withered flower. 
 Culled, all at will, in Nature's bower. 
 
 Fixed was the look of sad content. 
 On the worn face, a trifle bent ; 
 And forward drooped, to rest the chin, 
 My baby's clustered curls within ; 
 While on the collar of his coat 
 The gray and gold together float. 
 
 Such tinting one might vainly seek 
 As slept on baby's lip and cheek ; 
 But thin and pale the other one, 
 And sad and care-worn in the sun ; 
 And so the evening shadows fell. 
 And deeper grew, but all was well. 
 
 The elm-tree boughs now gaunt and 
 
 bare, 
 Are tossed about the wintry air. 
 While pale, wan shadows come and 
 
 go 
 Upon the lawn, all white vath snow; 
 But never more, at eve or dawn. 
 On garden-walk or grassy lawn, 
 May I, in vision fair, behold 
 That little head, with crown of gold. 
 Nor evermore, on summer day. 
 That other one, with crown of gray. 
 Aneath the dreary, drifted snow, 
 The silver head, and gold, he low ; 
 Yet evermore, in joy and pain, 
 Oh, memory ! paint that scene again. 
 
 GRAND MO THERS. 
 
 Grandmothers are very nice folks ; 
 
 They beat all the aunts in creation. 
 They let a chap do w^hat he likes, 
 
 And don't worry about education. 
 
 I'm sure 1 can't see it at all. 
 What a poor fellow ever could do 
 
 For apples, and pennies, and cakes, 
 Without a grandmother or two. 
 
 And if he is bad now and then, 
 
 And makes a great racketing noise. 
 
 They only look over their specs, 
 
 And say, "Ah, these boys will be 
 boys ! 
 
 " Life is only short at the best ; 
 
 Let the children be happy to-day," 
 Then they look for awhile at the sky. 
 
 And the hills that are far, far away. 
 
 Quite often, as twilight comes on, 
 Grandmothers sing hymns very low, 
 
FOURSCORE AND THREE.-SEVENTY YEARS. 247 
 
 To themselves as they rock by the fire 
 About Heaven, and when they shall 
 go- 
 
 And then, a boy stopping to think, 
 Will find a hot tear in his eye, 
 
 To know what will come at last ; _ 
 For grandmothers all have to die. 
 
 I wish they could stay here and pray, 
 For a boy needs their prayers ev'ry 
 night ; 
 
 Some boys more than others, I s pose ; 
 Such as I, need a wonderful sight. 
 
 FOURSCORE AND THREE. 
 
 Apart in the golden glory. 
 
 With eyes that look afar. 
 From the weary way behind you 
 
 To the sunset gates ajar. 
 
 I see you sitting, dreaming. 
 In the dear old rocking-chair, 
 
 While the snow of eighty winters 
 Sleeps softly in your hair. 
 
 The birthday words are spoken 
 By the loved ones at your side ; 
 
 But your heart has gone a-Maying 
 Down the season's backward tide. 
 
 Again in the dear home circle 
 Are gathered the children all ; 
 
 Again the feet so restless 
 Come running at your call. 
 
 Vau watch their happy playing, 
 \nd hear their shouts of glee ; 
 
 You comfort their childish sorrows, 
 And hold them on your knee. 
 
 Yet another voice is potent 
 To waken the old-time spell ; 
 
 The voic that in Hfe's fair May-time 
 Did its sweet story tell. 
 
 But the vision fades too quickly. 
 And you sit in the sunset ray ; 
 
 The voices are hushed and silent. 
 You are eighty-three to-day ! 
 
 Our little lamb grew weary, 
 And went long ago to sleep ; 
 
 His grave is almost hidden 
 
 In the churchyard grass so deep. 
 
 Past many and many a milestone 
 I've journeyed, hand in hand ; 
 
 Till the Master's call came softly. 
 And one went to the Better Land. 
 
 I But your heart is full of comfort, 
 I You know that the loved ones wait 
 The sound of your sweet home-coming, 
 Through the shining, pearly gate ; 
 
 Linger awhile in the sunset, 
 That we in the vales below 
 
 May catch, as we toil in the shadows, 
 The beautiful golden glow. 
 
 Stretch out your hands in blessing 
 
 On us and our little ones, 
 As Moses, from Mount Nebo, 
 
 Blessed Israel's wayward sons. 
 
 And when the Master's angel 
 Whispers his summons sweet, 
 
 Wait on the shining hills of heaven 
 The coming of our feet ! 
 
 SEVENTY YEARS. 
 
 And is this age? There's wrinkles 
 o'er her brow, 
 And snow has fallen on the nut- 
 brown hair. 
 The rose is faded too— but where are 
 now 
 The strain of struggle, and the stamp 
 of care ? 
 
 All gone. Her struggle's past, her 
 care is dead ; 
 Her only labor is to rest and wait. 
 
248 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 And need one envy girlhood's restless 
 joy, 
 "Who sits and watches close to 
 heaven's gate ? 
 
 Where is the love that cheered her 
 youthful days ? 
 Where all the faces that she used to 
 see ? 
 Ay, where the darlings of her later 
 age, 
 The child that learned to pray beside 
 her knee ? 
 
 All gone before her. Yet she is con- 
 tent ; 
 Her pleasures now bloom freshly 
 every day : 
 She's happy when her neighbor's lin- 
 net sings, 
 She's happy when her neighbor's 
 children play. 
 
 She grieves (for with no pain, there 
 is no peace). 
 She grieves o'er sorrows that are not 
 her own. 
 She used to watch two brothers pass 
 to school — 
 She sighs to see the elder pass alone ! 
 
 And thus she sits and waits at heaven's 
 gates : 
 There's but one thought that ever 
 shades her brow : 
 She had one son she lost before he 
 died : 
 Long, long before — but he is buried 
 now. 
 
 Yet, having seen much sorrow and 
 much joy. 
 She has seen nothing that need breed 
 Despair ; 
 So, when she thinks of heaven's golden 
 street. 
 She hopes to meet her missing dar- 
 ling there ! 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 Softly, O softly, the years have swept 
 by thee. 
 Touching thee lightly, with tender- 
 est care ; 
 Sorrow and death they have often 
 brought nigh thee, 
 Yet they have left thee but beauty to 
 wear. 
 
 Growing old gracefully. 
 Gracefully fair. 
 
 Far from the storms that are lashing 
 the ocean, 
 Nearer each day to the pleasant 
 Home-light ; 
 Far from the waves that are big with 
 commotion, 
 Under full sail, and the harbor in 
 sight : 
 
 Growing old cheerfully, 
 Cheerful and bright. 
 
 Past all the winds that were adverse 
 and chilling. 
 Past all the islands that lured thee 
 to rest. 
 Past all the currents that lured thee, 
 unwilling. 
 Far from thy course to the Land of 
 the Blest : 
 
 Growing old p?acefully, 
 Peaceful and blest. 
 
 Never a feeling of envy or sorrov/ 
 When the bright faces of children 
 are seen ; 
 Never a year from the young wouldst 
 thou borrow — 
 Thou dost remember what lieth be- 
 tween : 
 
 Growing old v^^illingly, 
 Thankful, serene. 
 
 Rich in experience that angels might 
 covet, 
 Rich in a faith that has grown with 
 thy years, 
 
GROWING OLD. 
 
 249 
 
 Rich in a love that grew from and 
 above it, 
 Soothing thy sorrows and hushing 
 thy fears : 
 
 Growing old wealthily, 
 Loving and dear. 
 
 Hearts at the sound of thy coming are 
 brightened, 
 Ready and willing thy hand to re- 
 lieve ; 
 
 Many a face at thy kind word has 
 brightened — 
 
 " It is more blessed to give than re- 
 ceive ": 
 
 Growing old happily. 
 Ceasing to grieve. 
 
 Eyes that grow dim to the earth and 
 its glory 
 Have a sweet recompense youth can- 
 not know ; 
 Ears that grow dull to the world and 
 its story 
 Drink in the songs that from Para- 
 dise flow : 
 
 Growing old graciously, 
 Purer than snow. 
 
LOOKING BACKWARD. 
 
THE OLDEST AND THE YOUNGEST. 
 
LOOKING BACKWARD 
 
 THREESCORE AND TEN, 
 
 Threescore and ten ! How the tide 
 rolls on, 
 Nearing the limitless sea ; 
 Bearing the voyager over life's flood 
 To boundless eternity, 
 
 On, through the childhood's sunny 
 
 hours, 
 On, through youth with its golden 
 
 flowers. 
 On, through manhood's ripened 
 powers. 
 Till age appears. 
 With its crown of years. 
 And the time-worn mariner, sisfhing 
 
 for rest. 
 Anchors at last in the port of the blest. 
 
 Threescore and ten ! How the rolling 
 years 
 Are checkered with sunshine and 
 shade ! 
 The calm chased away by the pitiless 
 storm. 
 Earth's joy into sorrow must fade. 
 Spring with its bloom and perfume 
 
 sped. 
 Fruit-laden summer quickly fled, 
 Autumn come with weary tread. 
 Bent with the load 
 Of treasured food. 
 And then stern winter, with frosty 
 
 breath. 
 Throws over the fields the pall of 
 death. 
 
 Threescore and ten ! And if we shall 
 reach 
 
 The bound to hfe that here is set, 
 How few of the comrades of early years 
 
 Around us will linger yet ! 
 
 Father and mother, their journey is 
 
 o'er ; 
 Brothers and sisters, we greet them 
 
 no more ; 
 Our loved ones stand thronging 
 the further shore. 
 They beckon us on. 
 They point to the crown. 
 And with longing hearts they wait 
 To lead us through the pearly gate. 
 
 Threescore and ten ! And the snows 
 of years 
 Are resting upon that brow ; 
 But, as backward we glance o'er the 
 way we have trod. 
 Before God our Father we bow. 
 And joyous we bring Him our 
 
 song of praise. 
 His mercies have cheered us 
 
 through all our days, 
 And we fervently pray that life's 
 setting rays 
 Through love divine 
 May cloudless shine — ■ 
 Melting away in purer light 
 That illumines the land which knows 
 no night. 
 
 Threescore and ten ! Stand firm in 
 
 thy lot. 
 
 Faithful and true to the end ; 
 
 Bending thine ear to catch every word 
 
 Ofthe message the Master doth send ; 
 
 Wakeful thine eye, for far spent is 
 
 the night ; 
 Burnished thine armor, thou 
 
 soldier of light ; 
 Ready to march, for the day-star 
 is bright ; 
 Bold in the fight 
 For truth and right ! 
 (253) 
 
254 
 
 I'M SIXTY TO-DAY.— LIFE'S WEST WINDOWS. 
 
 Thou a conqueror shalt stand 
 
 With the exulting blood-bought band. 
 
 Threescore and ten ! And what shall 
 we add 
 To measure the earthly strife ? 
 How many sands are left in the glass. 
 Counting the years of life.'* 
 One by one they silently fall, 
 One by one till have fallen all, 
 One by one till thy God shall call : 
 " Thy race is run, 
 Servant, well done ! 
 Faithful in thy Lord's employ, 
 Enter now into His joy ! " 
 
 VM SIXTY TO-DA V. 
 
 In the far away past, when with me 
 
 life was new, 
 The dim, distant future arose to my 
 
 view. 
 And the years seemed like mile-stones 
 
 arranged on my way. 
 But I've passed fifty-nine and reached 
 
 sixty to-day. 
 
 Looking forward, the youth scarce the 
 
 path can discern, 
 But the eye glancing back sees each 
 
 crook and each turn ; 
 And now I see oft where my steps 
 
 went astray, 
 But I would not retrace them though 
 
 sixty to-day. 
 
 Though fortune her favors to me seldom 
 
 sends, 
 I have wealth without stint in the love 
 
 of my friends ; 
 While my locks are yet brown with 
 
 scarce one thread of gray, 
 And my step is elastic, though sixty 
 
 to-day. 
 
 The past of my life often seems like a 
 
 dream, 
 As I've mourned over loved ones that 
 
 crossed the dark stream, 
 
 But the Comforter whispers, they're 
 not far away, 
 
 I soon shall rejoin them ; I'm sixty to- 
 day. 
 
 The morning of life brought its sun- 
 shine and flowers. 
 
 The midday its labors and oft-needed 
 showers, 
 
 But high noon is passed, and I watch 
 down the way. 
 
 Knowing soon 'twill be sunset ; I'm 
 sixty to-day. 
 
 Yet I'll try while the day lasts to make 
 
 others glad, 
 I'll help those in trouble and cheer 
 
 them when sad, 
 I'll weep with the mourner and laugh 
 
 with the gay. 
 And I'll keep my heart young though 
 
 I'm sixty to-day. 
 
 LIFE'S WEST WINDOWS. 
 
 We stand at life's west windows, 
 And think of the days that are 
 gone ; 
 Remembering the coming sunset, 
 We too must remember the morn ; 
 But the sun will set, the day will close, 
 And an end will come to all our woes. 
 
 As we watch from the western case- 
 ments, 
 Reviewing our happy youth. 
 We mourn for its vanished promise 
 Of honor, ambition, and truth; 
 But hopes will fail and pride decay. 
 When we think how soon we must 
 away. 
 
 We stand at life's west windows, 
 
 And turn not sadly away. 
 To watch on our children's faces 
 The noontide of sparkling day ; 
 But our sun must set, our lips grow 
 
 dumb. 
 And to look from our windows our chil- 
 dren come. 
 
"THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE."— HEARTSEASE. 255 
 
 Still looking from life's west win- 
 dows ; 
 And we know we would not again 
 Look forth from the eastern lattice, 
 And live over all life's pain ; 
 Though life's sunlight be brilliant, its 
 
 sunset is sweet, 
 Since it brings longed-for rest to our 
 weary feet. 
 
 " I think of the friends that are gone, 
 
 Robin, 
 
 They are dear to my heart as then, 
 
 But the best and dearest among them 
 
 all 
 
 I have never wished back again ! '' 
 
 " THE DA YS THA T ARE GONEr 
 
 «'Do ye think of the days that are 
 gone, Jeanie } 
 As ye sit by your fire at night. 
 Do ye wish that the morn might bring 
 back the time 
 When your heart and your step were 
 light?" 
 
 ♦' I think of the days that are gone, 
 Robin, 
 
 And all that I joyed in then, 
 But the fairest that ever arose on me 
 
 I have never wished back again." 
 
 «' Do you think of the hopes that are 
 gone, Jeanie ? 
 As ye sit by your fire at night. 
 Do ye reckon them o'er, as they faded 
 fast, 
 Like buds in an early blight ?" 
 
 «' I think of the hopes that are gone, 
 Robin, 
 But I mourn not their stay was fleet, 
 For they fell as the leaves of the red 
 rose fall. 
 That even in fading are sweet." 
 
 " Do ye think of the friends that are 
 gone, Jeanie } 
 As ye sit by your 'fire at night. 
 Do ye wish they were round you again 
 once more. 
 By the hearth that they made so 
 bright?" 
 
 HEARTSEASE. 
 
 Southward still the sun is slanting 
 day by day. 
 Skies that brim with gold and azure 
 slowly change ; 
 Beauty waxes cold and dim and can 
 not stay. 
 Into tone and tint steals something 
 ill and strange. 
 
 Threat of evil finds its way to every 
 ear. 
 Lurks in light and shade and sounds 
 in every breath ; 
 From the pathless snow-fields comes a 
 warning drear, 
 And the shuddering north-wind car- 
 ries news of death. 
 
 Stealthy step of Winter near and 
 nearer draws : 
 Locking earth beneath him, terrible 
 with might, 
 Strides he from the icy zone without a 
 pause. 
 Swift and sure and fierce, with 
 ready hand to smite. 
 
 Dearest, when without the door he 
 threatening stands, 
 Having rendered desolate the fair 
 green earth. 
 And sent her happy birds to sunnier 
 lands. 
 And choked with sullen snows her 
 summer mirth. 
 
 We shall sit together, you and I once 
 more. 
 Warm and quiet, shut away from 
 storm and cold ; 
 
256 
 
 BEYOND THE HILLS OF SNOW. 
 
 We shall smile to hear him blustering 
 at the door. 
 While the room glows with the fire- 
 light's ruddy gold. 
 
 How safe my heart keeps every mem- 
 ory sweet, 
 Holding still your picture, as you 
 used to sit, 
 Ever lovely, full of grace from head to 
 feet, 
 With that heap of snowy wool I 
 watched you knit ; 
 
 With the lamplight falling on your 
 cloudy hair — 
 On the rich, loose bands of brown, 
 so soft to touch ; 
 On the silken knot of rose you used to 
 wear. 
 On the thoughtful little face I love 
 so much. 
 
 You remember, when aloud I read to 
 you, 
 Sometimes silence intervened. You 
 would not move. 
 But in your radiant cheek the blushes 
 grew ; 
 For you knew I paused to gaze at 
 you, my love ! — 
 
 Paused to realize my heaven, till with 
 kind. 
 Clear, and questioning gray eyes you 
 sought my face — 
 What a look ! Its kindling glor}^ struck 
 me blind. 
 'Twas a splendor that illumined all 
 the place. 
 
 What to us are Winter's blows and 
 hate and wrath? 
 And what matter that the green 
 earth's bloom is fled ? 
 There has been immortal Summer in 
 our path 
 All the happy, happy years since we 
 were wed. 
 
 BE YOND THE HILLS OF SNO W, 
 
 There is a picture in my heart — 
 
 A little sunny face — 
 So sweetly framed in amber hair. 
 
 So full of childish grace. 
 A little form that idly leans 
 
 Upon a low stone-wall. 
 She does not heed the rolDin's song 
 
 Nor yet the brooklet's call. 
 
 A little foot-path, smoothly worn, 
 
 Leads to an open door ; 
 The leafy lights and shadows dance 
 
 Upon the oaken floor. 
 The pine-trees stand like sentinels 
 i Around that little home ; 
 The sunlight warms no fairer spot 
 i Beneath the sky's blue dome. 
 
 I A day in summer, sweet and still, 
 
 ! The world seems half asleep. 
 
 ! The grassy hill-sides, toward the east 
 
 The shadows longer creep, 
 The sunlight lingers lovingly 
 
 Among the wreathing vines : 
 ! The shadows nestle soft and cool 
 j Among the guardian pines. 
 
 The soft white clouds, like snow-clad 
 
 hills, 
 ; Lie shining in the west, 
 j A line of golden tracery 
 
 Marks out their feathery crest. 
 Oh, tender, dreamy, childish eyes. 
 
 So full of happy light ! 
 The sweet blue sky on which you gaze 
 Is not more clear and bright. 
 
 What lies beyond those gleaming 
 heights 
 
 The young heart longs to knov/, 
 What fairy regions hid away 
 
 Beyond the hills of snow. 
 
 To-day I rest my weary self 
 j Upon the same old wall ; 
 From out the far-off woodland glen 
 I hear the brooklet call. 
 
NEARING THE SHORE.— NOTHING TO DO BUT TO GO. 257 
 
 Oh, hills and slopes ! Oh, clouds and 
 pines. 
 
 Oh, tender summer skies ! 
 Where is the glory that ye wore 
 
 To childhood's trusting eyes ? 
 
 The fairest spot on earth — and yet 
 
 I can but long to go. 
 As when a little dreaming child, 
 
 Beyond the hills of snow. 
 
 NEARING THE SHORE. 
 
 An old man sat in a worn arm-chair ; 
 
 White as snow is his thin soft hair; 
 
 Furrowed his cheek by time and care : 
 And back and forth he sways ; 
 
 There's a far-away look in his dim, 
 dim eye. 
 
 Which tells of thoughts of the long 
 gone-by. 
 
 For he sits once more 'neath a cloud- 
 less sky, 
 And in childhood merrily plays. 
 
 He rests his cheek on the head of his 
 
 cane. 
 And, happily smiling, dreams over 
 
 again 
 Of that home, the brook, the meadow, 
 
 the lane, 
 Drenms all with a vision clear ; 
 Then childhood yields unto manhood's 
 
 place. 
 And he looks once more in his bright, 
 
 bright face, 
 And down in the starry eyes he can 
 
 trace 
 A love remembered and dear. 
 
 Then he wakes and sighs: " It seems 
 
 but a dream 
 That comes to me now like a golden 
 
 gleam. 
 Or the shimmering glow of the sun's 
 
 last beam, 
 But 'tis pleasant to think it o'er. 
 That youth was so sweet, but now it is 
 
 past ; 
 Those days of love were too precious 
 
 to last, 
 
 But over yonder their pleasures are 
 cast, 
 And I am nearing the shore." 
 
 He is gliding on in his little boat ; 
 O'er the calm still water they peacefully 
 
 float ; 
 But echo full oft brings a well-known 
 
 note 
 From the land he has left behind. 
 But Time will row back for him no 
 
 more. 
 And he gazes away to that other shore, 
 And knows when the voyage of life 
 
 shall be o'er. 
 That his dream beyond he will find. 
 
 The seeds of youth, which in youth 
 
 we sow, 
 Adown through the isles of the future 
 
 will grow, 
 And shed on age a beautiful glow. 
 
 As they come in memory's gleams. 
 Loved faces will come to dimming 
 
 sight ; 
 Sweet words will echo in day-dreams 
 
 bright. 
 And circle old age with their halos of 
 
 light 
 As they mingle in beautiful dreams. 
 
 NOTHING TO DO BUT TO GO. 
 
 A WANDERER I've been, and have 
 traveled for years. 
 By the stage coach, the steamboat, 
 the train ; 
 I have known joyful meetings, have 
 shed parting tears, 
 With friends I might ne'er meet 
 again. 
 And I've learned— let my farewells be 
 joyous or s?.d — 
 No haste or distraction to show, 
 But with baggage pre-checked, and 
 with passage prepaid. 
 To have nothing to do but to go. 
 
258 
 
 THE OLD COUPLE. 
 
 The loiterer, when over the iron-clad 
 track 
 The train is heard coming apace, 
 For his ticket will clamor, and urge for 
 his check, 
 In a whirl of impatient distress ; 
 "While others, more timeful, with un- 
 disturbed mien. 
 Will composedly pace to and fro. 
 Or, quietly seated, will wait for the 
 train. 
 With nothing to do but to go. 
 
 Oh, thus — I have thought — when we're 
 called 10 depart 
 For the land whence we never return, 
 May we feel we are fully prepared for 
 the start 
 When the death-sounding note we 
 discern. 
 With our ticket secured, and our cares 
 all at rest. 
 No disquieting thoughts may we 
 know. 
 But tranquilly waiting to be found at 
 the last, 
 With nothing to do but to go. 
 
 THE OLD COUPLE. 
 
 It stands in a sunny meadow, 
 Tlie house so mossy and brown ; 
 
 With its cumbrous, old stone chimneys. 
 And the gray roof sloping down. 
 
 The trees fold their green arms around 
 it, 
 The trees, a century old ; 
 And the winds go chanting through 
 them. 
 And the sunbeams drop their gold. 
 
 The cowslips spring in the marshes. 
 And the roses bloom on the hill ; 
 
 And beside the brook on the pastures. 
 The herbs go feeding at will. 
 
 The children have gone and left them. 
 
 They sit in the sun alone ! 
 And the old wife's tears are falling. 
 
 As she harks to the well-known tone, 
 
 That won her heart in her girlhood. 
 That has soothed her in many a care, 
 
 And praises her now for the brightness 
 Her old face used to wear. 
 
 She thinks again of her bridal — 
 Hovv, dressed in her robe of white. 
 
 She stood by her gay, young lover. 
 In the morning's rosy light. 
 
 Oh, the morning is rosy as ever, 
 
 But the rose from her cheek is fled ; 
 
 And the sunshine still is golden. 
 But it falls on a silvered head. 
 
 And the girlhood dreams, once van- 
 ished. 
 
 Come back in her winter-time, 
 Till her feeble pulses tremble 
 
 With the thrill of spring-time's prime. 
 
 And looking forth from the window. 
 She thinks how the trees have grown. 
 
 Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, 
 She crossed the old door-stone. 
 
 Though dimmed her eye's bright azure, 
 And dimmed her hair's young gold ; 
 
 .The love in her girlhood plighted 
 Has never grown dim nor old. 
 
 They sat in peace in the sunshine. 
 Till the day was almost done ; 
 
 And then, at its close, an angel 
 Stole over the threshold stone. 
 
 He folded their hands together — 
 He touched their eyelids with balm ; 
 
 And their last breath floated upward. 
 Like the close of a solemn psalm. 
 
 Like a bridal pair they traversed 
 
 The unseen, mystical road 
 That leads to the beautiful city, 
 
 " Whose Builder and Maker is God." 
 
 Perhaps in that miracle country 
 They will give her lost youth back ; 
 
 And the flowers of a vanished spring- 
 time 
 Will bloom in the spirit's track. 
 
EYES.— TWO PICTURES. 
 
 259 
 
 One draught from the Hving waters 
 Shall call back his manhood's prime; 
 
 And eternal years shall measure 
 The love that outlived time. 
 
 But the shapes that they left behind 
 them, 
 
 The wrinkles and silver hair, 
 Made holy to us by the kisses 
 
 The angel had printed there. 
 
 We will hide away 'neath the willows. 
 When the day is low in the west ; 
 
 Where the sunbeams can not find them, 
 Nor the winds disturb their rest. 
 
 And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone. 
 With its age and date, to rise 
 
 O'er the two who are old no longer 
 In the Father's House in the skies. 
 
 E YES. 
 
 Sweet baby eyes, 
 That look around with such a grave 
 surprise. 
 
 What do you see ? 
 A strange new world, where simple 
 
 things 
 Engender wild imaginings 
 
 And fancies free ? 
 A resting place that is not home, 
 A Paradise wherein to roam 
 
 For years may be ! 
 Oh, placid, wondering baby eyes. 
 The mystery that in you lies 
 
 Oft puzzles me. 
 
 Clear, boyish eyes. 
 Whose fearless glance unconsciously 
 defies 
 
 Trouble and care ; 
 When babyhood is passed and gone. 
 What is it that ^ou gaze upon } 
 
 A land most fair ; 
 A sunny shore with pleasure rife, 
 And that great, glorious gift of life 
 
 'Tis bliss to share. 
 Oh, happy, trustful, boyish eyes, 
 Let sages en\y, fools despise 
 
 The faith you wear. 
 
 The anxious eyes 
 Of manhood, slowly piercing earth's 
 disguise. 
 
 Discover — what ? 
 That life at best is quickly done. 
 That hopes fulfilled and wishes won 
 
 Are dearly got ; 
 That shadows chased in headlong 
 
 haste. 
 And golden fruit he strove to taste. 
 
 Delight him not ; 
 Oh, restless, doubting, troubled eyes. 
 To learn in sorrow to be wise 
 
 In manhood's lot. 
 
 Dim, aged eyes, 
 Gazing across the wreck of broken ties, 
 
 What do they see ? 
 Behind— dead leaves that withered fall, 
 A fading wilderness where all 
 
 Is vanity ; 
 Before — to gladden weary sight, 
 A glimpse, a promise of the bright 
 
 Eternity. 
 Oh, dim, and tearful aged eyes. 
 If waiting till that daw'n shall rise. 
 
 Blessed are ye ! 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 I. 
 An old farm-house, with meadows 
 
 Vv'ide, 
 And sweet with cloA'er on each side ; 
 A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
 The door with woodbine wreathed 
 
 about, 
 And wishes his one thought all day : 
 "Oh ! if I could but fly away 
 From this dull spot the world to see. 
 
 How happy, happy, happy, 
 How happy I should be." 
 
 II. 
 
 Amid the city's constant din, 
 A man who round the world has been, 
 Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng, 
 Is thinking, thinking all day long : 
 
2bo 
 
 MY BIRD AND I.— WATCHING COWS. 
 
 ** Oh ! could I only tread once more 
 The field-path to the farm-house door, 
 The old, green meadow could I see. 
 
 How happy, happy, happy. 
 How happy I should be." 
 
 MY BIRD AND I. 
 
 The day is young and I am young, 
 
 The red-bird whistles to his mate ; 
 He sits the tender leaves among, 
 
 I swing upon the garden gate ; 
 He sings that life is always gay — 
 
 " A day so fair can never die." 
 I laugh and cast my flowers away ; 
 
 We are so weary, he and I. 
 
 Deep wading through the yellow wheat. 
 
 My sheaves unbound within my 
 hand, 
 I sink, to rest my tired feet. 
 
 And noonday heat broods o'er the 
 land ; 
 The red-bird falters in his song — 
 
 We fear the day will never die ; 
 The minutes drag the hours along — 
 
 We are so weary, he and I. 
 
 I stand alone ; my work is done ; 
 
 The bird lies dying at my feet ; 
 There's promise in the setting sun ; 
 
 The evening air blows soft and 
 sweet. 
 My binded sheaves I lay aside ; 
 
 The day is dead ; I too must die. 
 When stars come out at eventide 
 
 We shall be resting, he and I. 
 
 WATCHING COWS. 
 
 When we Hved down in Mapledale, 
 
 You and I, dear brother Joe, 
 On the great farm below the mill. 
 
 Forty years or more ago. 
 And we watched the cows, long sum- 
 mer days, 
 
 Eating the grass and clover. 
 How long it seemed to us before 
 
 Our boyhood would be over. 
 
 No wonder now, we often say, 
 
 Summer days were longer then. 
 Our father, wiien the daylight came. 
 
 Called the boys as well as men ; 
 And when the milking all was done. 
 
 We trudged, with feet bare and 
 brown, 
 Out in the fields to watch the cows 
 
 Till the great, round sun went down. 
 
 Ah ! when we walked off down the 
 lane, 
 
 'Neath those broad-brimmed hats 
 we wore, 
 How father watched us from the bam, 
 
 Mother from the kitchen door. 
 " Keep out an eye," our father cried ; 
 
 Mother, " Mind, boys, where you go." 
 How very hard and slow it came. 
 
 The butter and cheese then, Joe. 
 
 'Twas steady work that watching cows. 
 
 Oft we sat down to complain, 
 And then, you know, the cows were sure 
 
 To get off into the grain. 
 We'd never seen the great world then : 
 
 Days at school had been but few. 
 But lessons learned in those green 
 fields 
 
 Have helped us our long life through. 
 
 All work of hfe is very much 
 
 Like that of watching cows, Joe. 
 For, when v/e don't keep out an eye, 
 
 Grain is trampled down, you know. 
 And folks are some like cows, I've 
 found ; 
 
 They're always wand'ring over: 
 Thinking their own not half as good 
 
 As neighbor's grass and clover. 
 
 Father and mother long have lain 
 In the church-yard, side by side ; 
 
 And we've traveled many a mile 
 From Mapledale, since they died. 
 
 But when I've strayed in paths of sin, 
 I've seen mother in the door, 
 
 And heard her say, " Mind where you 
 
 go." 
 Just as she did years before. 
 
EVERY YEAR.— THE HOME OF MY HEART. 
 
 261 
 
 Oft, when I've grumbled at my lot, | 
 
 Leaning on my neighbor's fence, | 
 And, looking over on his side, ] 
 
 Wished 1 had his pounds and pence, j 
 I've heard my father, from the loft | 
 
 In our old barn, shout again, | 
 
 " Keep out an eye," and looking back 
 
 Saw the cows eating my grain. 
 
 Well, you and I are getting old. 
 
 We'll soon be done watching, Joe, 
 For in that home beyond, there is 
 
 No trampling down of grain, you 
 know. 
 There we shall all rest satisfied. 
 
 For each will love the other. 
 And no one want the place that God 
 
 Has given to his brother. 
 
 EVERY YEAR. 
 
 The spring has less of brightness 
 
 Every year ; 
 And the snow a ghastlier whiteness 
 
 Every year ; 
 Nor do summer flowers quicken, 
 Nor autumn fruitage thicken 
 As they once did, for they sicken 
 
 Every year. 
 
 It is growing darker, colder, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And the heart and soul grow older 
 
 Every year ; 
 I care not now for dancing, 
 Or for eyes with passion glancing, 
 Love is less and less entrancing 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Of the loves and sorrows blended 
 
 Every year ; 
 Of the charms of friendship ended 
 
 Every year ; 
 Of the ties that still might bind me 
 Until Time to Death resigned me. 
 My infirmities remind me 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Ah ! how sad to look before us 
 
 Every year ; 
 While the cloud grows darker o'er us 
 
 Every year ; 
 When we see the blossoms faded, 
 That to bloom we might have aided. 
 And immortal garlands braided. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 To the past go more dead faces 
 
 Every year ; 
 As the loved leave vacant places 
 
 Every year ; 
 Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. 
 In the evening's dusk they greet us, 
 And to come to them entreat us, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 " You are growing old," they tell us; 
 
 " Ev. ry year ; 
 You are more alone," they tell us, 
 
 " Every year ; 
 You can win no new affection, 
 You have only recollection. 
 Deeper sorrow and dejection. 
 
 Every year." 
 
 Yes ! the shores of life are shifting 
 
 Every year ; 
 And we are seaward drifting 
 
 Every year ; 
 Old pleasures, changing, fret us. 
 The living more forget us. 
 There are fewer to regret us 
 
 Every year. 
 
 But the truer life draws nigher 
 
 Every year ; 
 And its morning star climbs higher 
 
 Eveiy year ; 
 Earth's hold on us grows slighter. 
 And the heavy burden lighter. 
 And the Dawn Immortal brighter 
 
 Every year. 
 
 THE HOME OF MY HEART. 
 Not here in the populous town, 
 
 In the play-house or mart. 
 Not here in the ways gray and brown. 
 But afar on the green-swehing down, 
 
 Is the home of my heart. 
 
262 
 
 AMONG THE OLD LACES. 
 
 There the hillside slopes down to a 
 dell 
 Whence a streamlet has start ; 
 There are woods and sweet grass on 
 
 the swell, 
 And the south winds and west know 
 it well ; 
 'Tis the home of my heart. 
 
 There's a cottage o'ershadowed by 
 leaves 
 
 Growing fairer than art, 
 Where under the low sloping eaves 
 No false hand the swallow bereaves : 
 
 'Tis the home of my heart. 
 
 And there as you gaze down the lea. 
 
 Where the trees stand apart, 
 Over grassland and woodland may be 
 You will catch the faint gleam of the 
 sea 
 From the home of my heart. 
 
 And there in the rapturous spring. 
 When the morning rays dart 
 
 O'er the plain, and the morning birds 
 sing, 
 
 You may see the most beautiful thing 
 In the home of my heart. 
 
 For there at the casement above, 
 Where the rose-bushes part. 
 
 Will blush the fair face of my love ; 
 
 Ah, yes ! it is this that will prove 
 'Tis the home of my heart. 
 
 AMONG THE OLD LACES. 
 
 She spread them softly upon her knee, 
 The rare old webs of costly thread, 
 With here a border and there a shred 
 
 Of fabric filmy and fair to see ; 
 
 " They once were lovely," she sighed 
 to me. 
 " They are lovely still," I said. 
 
 She drew them near with the aged 
 hand. 
 Whose ling'ring touch was a faint 
 caress. 
 
 " You speak of the laces, child } Ah, 
 yes ! 
 But I was thinking " — she paused and 
 
 scanned 
 The tiny flaw in a woven strand 
 With a half forgetfulness. 
 
 " Was thinking, dear, in a fond old way. 
 That a mother has, when she sits 
 
 alone. 
 When plumes are left, but the birds 
 have tlown. 
 How long we treasure and fold away 
 Such small reminders of those who stray 
 From the nest so soon outgrown. 
 
 " Now this " — uplifting a tiny shred 
 Whose yellow mesh was an antique 
 
 prize — 
 " Was fashioned under my loving 
 eyes. 
 An infant crown for my son's fair head. 
 You scarce would think that } Ah ! 
 truly said. 
 My Willie has grown so wise, 
 
 " But these he wore on his christening 
 day, 
 Above the dimples they fell like 
 
 snow ; 
 But lace will rust while the shoulders 
 grow, 
 And honors fairer than these they say 
 He carries proudly, and yet I pray 
 He may wear them so purely, so. 
 
 " This leaf, wrought edge and the 
 
 fleecy net 
 
 My Maiy wore as she smiling stood 
 
 Where books were closed and her 
 
 womanhood 
 
 Lay wide beyond. I had hoped — and 
 
 yet 
 Since she rests sweetly, can I regret 
 The loss of an earthly good } 
 
 " My other daughters ? Yes, one by 
 one 
 They knelt for mother to drape this 
 veil 
 
.'THE BOYS."-" DIE LIEBE WINTERT NICHT." 263 
 
 With bridal blessing. My heart did 
 fail , , 
 
 That last sad morn when the task was 
 
 done. 
 Poor veil, liow long, as the years go on 
 Will you read me your thrice-told 
 tale?" 
 
 She paused. I waited, and scanned 
 her face. 
 The eyes were full of the far away, 
 And memory walked in the yester- 
 
 Sweet drJams had peopled the films of 
 
 I read the token, and yielded place ; 
 Forgotten— I need not stay. 
 
 Do tell us, neighbor, what's your 
 name ? 
 Who are you ? — What's the use of 
 asking ? 
 
 You once were George, or Bill, or Ben : 
 There's you, yourself— there's yon, 
 that other ; 
 I know you now— I knew you then— 
 You used to be your younger 
 brother ! 
 
 ''THE BOYSr 
 Are we " the boys " that used to make 
 
 The tables ring with noisy follies ? 
 Whose deep-lung'd laughter oft would 
 shake , , n :> 
 
 The ceiUng with its thunder-volleys ? 
 
 Are we the youths with lips unshorn, 
 At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors. 
 
 Whose memories reach traditions 
 morn — 
 The days of prehistoric tutors f 
 
 "The boys" we knew— but who are 
 these - „, 
 
 Whose heads might serve for Plu- 
 tarch's sages. 
 Or Fox's martyrs, if you please. 
 
 Or hermits of the dismal ages .'' | 
 
 " The boys " we knew— can these be \ 
 
 those ? • . ui u 
 
 Their cheeks with morning s blush 
 were painted. 
 Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes, 
 ' With whom we once were well ac- 
 quainted ? 
 
 If we are they, we're not the same;^ 
 If they are we, why, then they re 
 masking ; 
 
 - DIE LIEBE WINTER T NICHTr 
 
 " No winter-time in love 1 " 
 The little child we kissed in years 
 agone. 
 It went to sleep one eve. 
 And woke not when the morning 
 touched its cheek, 
 Ne'er woke again to grieve. 
 It wears the wild-rose tint in its solt 
 cheek. 
 It keeps its rings of gold 
 Above the pure-veined lorehead, white 
 as snow ; 
 It ne'er to us grew old. 
 
 " No winter-time in love ! " 
 The earth wears different blossoms 
 every month, 
 And it is even so 
 With her who sits beside me, in her 
 heart 
 New graces bloom and grow. 
 She is more patient than in years 
 agone ; 
 In place of the lush rose, _^ 
 
 Deep-hearted lilies over " pearls ot 
 peace 
 On quiet waters close. 
 
 " No winter-time in love ! '' 
 One hinted gently of the white hoar- 
 frost . 
 That gleamed upon our hair : 
 We smiled as one who keeps his secret 
 well. 
 
264 
 
 THE WIFE OF MY YOUTH.— MEAR. 
 
 Oh, heart, how young you are ! 
 How full of tender pulses, leaping 
 quick 
 At thrill of any bird, 
 And answering to the patter of small 
 feet. 
 
 " No winter-time in love ! " 
 We call it winter when some cheek is 
 cold, 
 Son.e cheek we loved to press ; 
 Only a moment, then we Hft our eyes 
 
 And tenderly we bless 
 Th' one who, walking in the garden 
 of the heart, 
 Made an eternal spring — 
 There is no winter and there can not be 
 After love's entering-. 
 
 THE WIFE OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 The yellow light of day is spent, 
 
 And fading into gray ; 
 And creeping shadows, silently. 
 
 Lengthen about my way. 
 
 A dampness gathers on the air. 
 And through my frame it sends 
 
 A chill that's coldest at my heart — 
 I know what it portends. 
 
 I know what lieth just beyond : 
 
 My failing eye discerns 
 The dim, mysterious vale, from which 
 
 No traveler returns. 
 
 I do not shrink, I do not fear ; 
 
 I know that this must be ; 
 The evening and the silent night 
 
 Bring welcome rest to me. 
 
 Yet 'twas not thus, alone, I thought 
 
 The hillside to descend ; 
 But hand in hand to journey down 
 
 With a devoted friend. 
 
 I hoped her presence would beguile 
 
 The sadness of the way. 
 And make as pleasant as the morn 
 
 The evening shadows gray. 
 
 But hers is not the voice I hear. 
 
 Is not the face I see. 
 When she that bears my name draws 
 near 
 
 To talk or walk wnth me. 
 
 Ah, me ! 'tis not her love I need, 
 
 'Tis not for her I sigh. 
 As, wearily and drearily, 
 
 I journey down to die. 
 
 Oh, Thou that from the hill's high top 
 
 Didst in my sight ascend, 
 Leaving me desolate ! return. 
 
 And cheer my journey's end. 
 
 My life's best love, my heart's desire ! 
 
 All other loves grow cold. 
 As round my head and round my heart 
 
 The mists and shadows fold. 
 
 To thee, to thee I turn again, 
 
 With all my early truth ; 
 Yearns not thy soul to answer mine. 
 
 Wife of my happy youth } 
 
 I miss thee more and more, as down. 
 With feeble steps and slow. 
 
 An old, a sad, a weary man. 
 Unto my grave I go. 
 
 MEAR. 
 
 I HEARD the words of the preacher. 
 As he read that hymn so dear. 
 
 Which mother sang at our cradle 
 To the ancient tune of Mear. 
 
 And I felt her angel presence, 
 
 As sung were those b,lessed words; 
 
 My heart with rapture filling 
 As sweet as the sound of birds. 
 
 I longed for the land of Summer, 
 Life's River, with waters clear. 
 
 For the calm, sweet eyes of mother, 
 Who sung the old tune of Mear. 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE.— GAINS AND LOSSES. 265 
 
 Oh, tale of the shepherds watching 
 Over their flocks in the night ! 
 
 Of the dear Lord, sending angels 
 Enshrouded in glory bright ! 
 
 Oh, story ! told in the Orient, 
 
 To each wandering shepherd's ear; 
 
 That story, sung by my mother 
 To the hallowed tune of Mear. 
 
 Oh, pure white Babe of the manger ! 
 
 Thy story shall ever run, 
 Till redemption's work is finished. 
 
 All souls to God's kingdom won ! 
 
 To-day, that e'er welcome cadence 
 Of song floated back to me ; 
 
 Over the paths of my childhood 
 It lovingly came, all free. 
 
 I thanked the good All-Father, 
 For this memory brightly clear ; 
 
 The saintly smile of my mother, 
 And her low voice singing Mear. 
 
 Ah me ! the father has rested 
 
 Many and many a year ; 
 The mother, who sang by our cradle, 
 
 Has gone to a higher sphere. 
 
 Brothers and sisters have parted ; 
 
 Some live in the Better Land , 
 And some are waiting their summons, 
 
 Sojourners yet on life's strand. 
 
 I feel when we meet up yonder 
 Where cometh no sigh nor tear, 
 
 Our mother will softly sing us 
 The grand old tune of Mear. 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 I RAT an hour to-day, John, 
 
 Bezide the old brook-stream — 
 Where we were school-boys in old 
 time 
 
 When manhood was a dream. 
 The brook is choked with fallen leaves, 
 
 The pond is dried away ; 
 I scarce believe that you would know 
 
 The dear old place to-day. 
 
 The school-house is no more, John, 
 
 Beneath our locust trees ; 
 The wild rose by the window's side 
 
 No more waves in the breeze ; 
 The scattered stones look desolate. 
 
 The sod they rested on 
 Has been plowed up by stranger hands 
 
 Since you and I were gone. 
 
 The chestnut-tree is dead, John, 
 
 And, what is sadder now. 
 The broken grape-vine of our swing 
 
 Hangs on the withered bough. 
 I read our names upon the bark, 
 
 And found the pebbles rare 
 Laid up beneath the hollow side, 
 
 As we had piled them there. 
 
 Beneath the grass-grown bank, John» 
 
 I looked for our old spring, 
 That bubbled down the alder path 
 
 Three paces from the swing ; 
 The rushes grow upon the brink, 
 
 The pool is black and bare. 
 And not a foot for many a day 
 
 It seems has trodden there. 
 
 I took the old blind road, John, 
 
 That wandered up the hill — 
 'Tis darker than it used to be, 
 
 And seems so lone and still : 
 The birds yet sing upon the boughs 
 
 Where once the sweet grapes hung, 
 But not a voice of humankind 
 
 Where all our voices rung. 
 
 I sat me on the fence, John, 
 
 That lives as in old time. 
 The same half panel in the path 
 
 We used so oft to climb. 
 And thought how, o'er the bars of life, 
 
 Our playmates had passed on. 
 And left me counting on the spot 
 
 The faces that were gone. 
 
 GALNS AND LOSSES. 
 
 The twilight deepening fast 
 
 Enwrapped me, ruled me, with its 
 shadowy spell — 
 
266 
 
 GAINS AND LOSSES. 
 
 Cares half forgotten — griefs whose pain 
 
 had passed — 
 Losses once mourned — 1 knew the 
 
 phantoms well, 
 Stole back like noiseless ghosts from 
 
 out a tomb, 
 And thronged my musing heart, my 
 
 quiet room. 
 
 Came faces fondly loved, 
 Beneath their coffin-lids long shut 
 away — 
 And others, fair, despite their falsehood 
 proved — 
 Dead hopes — dead dreams — these 
 swelled the long array — 
 Dim spectral shapes of joys long 
 
 craved, denied. 
 Like beggars famishing and hungry- 
 eyed. 
 
 Until at last I said : 
 " If I might but forget ! might blot 
 from sight 
 This useless past — might bid its 
 shrouded dead 
 To haunt me nevermore, by day or 
 night — 
 Might be made free of memories, whose 
 
 chain, 
 Heavier with years, can bring mc 
 naught but pain. 
 
 " I need forgetfulness ! 
 The ' sorrow's crown ' of which the 
 poet sings. 
 My aching temples heavily doth press. 
 And added thorns methinks the fu- 
 ture brings ; 
 Then let me at some lethe drink my 
 
 fill. 
 And say to memory (if not 'Peace'), 
 'Be still.'" 
 
 The words were scarcely said 
 When a white angel rustled in the 
 gloom, 
 And as with sudden awe I bent my 
 head 
 His soft clear accents floated through 
 my room. 
 
 So strangely pitiful, I hear them yet — 
 And thus he spake: "Wouldst thou 
 indeed /oro^e^ ? 
 
 " Forget thy many crosses — 
 Thy dark despondent days — thy bit- 
 ter tears — 
 The lonely hours that followed grievous 
 losses — 
 The burthens of the slowly gliding 
 years — 
 Dead hopes and disappointed dreams — 
 
 ah me ! 
 Forget all these ? how poor then 
 wouldst thou be ! 
 
 " Canst thou forget a grief. 
 And yet remember how God's grace 
 was sent 
 To comfort and to keep thee.? On 
 each leaf 
 Of thy life's record tears and smiles 
 are blent 
 So closely that in blotting out the />a/n 
 Thou must efface the peace, thy greater 
 gain. 
 
 " For He who knows thee best. 
 And knowing, loves thee with a love 
 divine. 
 Has given Memory for thy life-long 
 guest — 
 Canst thou not trust His tender dis- 
 cipline ? 
 Or wilt thou, wayward, faithless, 
 
 tempt e'en yet 
 Life's saddest doom — to lose and then 
 forget f 
 
 " From heavenly heights some 
 day 
 Thou shalt look back, serene, on 
 present pain, 
 And then, remembering all the cross- 
 marked way, 
 Shalt learn how losses widen into i 
 gain- 
 How the dear Master's love and tender 
 
 care 
 Held back the bud to give the blossom 
 fair ! " 
 
THE OLD CHESTS IN THE GARRET.— THE DEPARTED. 267 
 
 Then from my sight he passed, 
 The shining one — and all that dusky 
 place 
 Shone with soft gleams from robe and 
 feature cast. 
 The twilight wore a newer, sweeter 
 grace — 
 And, like a strain of heavenly music, 
 
 stole 
 A calm deep peace upon my wearied 
 soul. 
 
 THE OLD CHESTS IN THE 
 GARRET. 
 
 Up in the garret one rainy day. 
 
 Where the rafters were hung with the 
 cobwebs gray, 
 
 Where the dust lay thick on chest and 
 board. 
 
 Where the wind up great wide chim- 
 neys roared, 
 
 I came to think awhile. 
 
 Round about the room in a row. 
 Were chests of treasures of long ago : 
 Quaint old fans of sandal-wood, 
 Silks that alone in their glory stood, 
 On some day long passed by. 
 
 India muslins fine and old, 
 Costly lace as yellow as gold, 
 Satin with its silvery sheen, 
 Strings of pearls fit for a queen, 
 Carefully stored away. 
 
 Into my fancy a picture came, 
 Of royal knight, of stately dame, 
 Of laughing eyes, of glossy curls 
 Fastened back with these strings of 
 pearls, 
 
 Some by-gone Christmas eve. 
 
 I closed the chest-lid with a sigh. 
 And hung the key on a rafter nigh, 
 For many a Christmas eve had gone, 
 Passed had many a Christmas morn, 
 While they slept under the snow. 
 
 Resting there, for their work was done. 
 Of deeds, of words, and honor won ; 
 Those in memory will stay. 
 Though lord and lady have passed 
 away, 
 
 And treasures fall to dust. 
 
 I opened another chest to find 
 Packs of letters with ribbons twined, 
 Some of the ribbons were bright and 
 
 gay, 
 Others were black and seemed to say, 
 Sad news was with them bound. 
 
 One letter writ in a manly hand, 
 Came over the sea from a foreign land. 
 Telling when the ship should sail ; 
 But the vessel sank in a fearful gale 
 And the sailor came no more. 
 
 I started, for the tears fell fast 
 O'er this reminder of the past, 
 But softly speaking in my ear 
 An angel's voice I seemed to hear, 
 And this it said to me : 
 
 " Weep not for a past which is over 
 
 and gone. 
 The friends whose memory you mourn 
 Safe through the storms of life's rough 
 
 sea 
 By the dear Christ's side are awaiting 
 thee. 
 
 Soon shalt thou meet them 
 there." 
 
 The dusky garret with peace was 
 
 filled. 
 The pattering rain on the roof v.as 
 
 stilled. 
 The sunbeams flickering through the 
 
 room, 
 Came like light from my Father's home. 
 Or a smile from loved ones gone. 
 
 THE DEPARTED. 
 
 One dear friend after another 
 Is called away from earth, 
 
 And leaves in our hearts a shadow 
 Of lonehness and dearth. 
 
268 
 
 BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."— NOT LOST. 
 
 We think, with a wistful longing, 
 Of the ever-gathering band 
 
 Who await our own home-coming 
 In the blessed sinless land. 
 
 We stand around the death-bed 
 Of the friend who has passed away, 
 
 And our bitter tears are falling 
 O'er his unconscious clay. 
 
 But oh, where our friends are dwelling, 
 With what delight they press 
 
 To greet the dear new-comer 
 With joy and tenderness ! 
 
 What comfort after sorrow, 
 
 What rest from life's long pain, 
 
 When he knows that death is over. 
 When he finds his own again ; 
 
 His, all that the years hath taken, 
 
 Of memory, joy, or power, 
 And his life's fair tree stands laden 
 
 With all its fruit and flower ! 
 
 The friends whom death had taken. 
 Of wliom the thought for years 
 
 Had been steeped in mortal sadness, 
 Deep pain, and lonely tears. 
 
 They now are the dear home-circle, 
 Whose smiles make glad his day. 
 
 The halo of sorrow around them 
 Has melted in light away. 
 
 Ah me ! in their boundless g'adness, 
 
 In their infinite content, 
 Does one longing for us mingle ? 
 
 Is one sigh for absence blent? 
 
 Nay, dear ones true and tender. 
 
 Not a shadow of our woe 
 Can dim your heavenly sunshine ; 
 
 We are glad to have it so. 
 
 ''BLESSED ARE THEY THAT 
 MOURN r 
 
 Ance I had a wife o' my ain. 
 
 An ingle warm and bright, 
 A candle in my window set 
 
 To cheer me hame at night. 
 And now the wife's in heaven aboon, 
 
 An' through its opened door. 
 Heaven's glory's handing up my heart, 
 
 Across earth's lanely moor. 
 
 Ance I had a bit bonnie farm. 
 
 And watched for rain and shine, 
 But noo I look on a' the land. 
 
 And a' the land seems mine. 
 And in the vera sun i' the lift 
 
 I feel to have my share ; 
 There's something in me sib to all 
 
 That's living anywhere. 
 
 An' thochts come ben, I canna tell; 
 
 In talk they'd only look 
 Like butterflies wi' pins stuck through 
 
 An' fastened in a book. 
 I'd rather let 'em flutter out 
 
 On God's own bonnie trees; 
 The eyes may aften ha' a glimpse 
 
 O' what hands shouldna seize. 
 
 There's depth in life man canna sound. 
 
 There's a height he canna reach, 
 But there's a Light that shines for all. 
 
 And There's a Way for each. 
 And turning to the right is joy. 
 
 And to the wrong is hell, 
 Yet there's one thing he canna miss. 
 
 An' that is God Himsel'. 
 
 But let our memory enter 
 Into your thankful song, 
 
 For our hearts are yours and love 
 And we shall come ere long. 
 
 yoUj 
 
 ^OT LOST. 
 
 " The flowers are here, and violet eyes 
 Are blue as summer's sunny skies ; 
 There comes a fragrance as we pass. 
 From blossoms hidden in the grass. 
 And daisies star the meadows green, 
 My love will now grow glad, I ween." 
 " The flowers but creep above the dead, 
 And hide my flower," was all she said. 
 
COMING BACK. 
 
 269 
 
 " But see, the birds have come again, 
 Their songs will charnv away your 
 
 pain ; 
 In leafy bowers new nests are made, 
 New madrigals rmg throug-h the shade. 
 You can not now be sad when from 
 Each bower such merry greetings 
 
 come." 
 " Ah, me ! their songs but pierce my 
 
 breast, 
 As weep I o'er my empty nest." 
 
 " But it is now on hillsides green 
 That flocks of snow-white lambs are 
 
 seen." 
 " Speak not of lambs," she sadly said. 
 " The lamb that on my love was fed 
 Has wandered from the fold, while I 
 Out in the dark can only cry, 
 I would not see a happy fold 
 While my one lamb lies in the cold." 
 
 *' But there are children everywhere ; 
 Can they not share your love and 
 
 care ? " 
 " Ah, me ! each little child I kiss 
 Reminds me of my own lost bliss. 
 And gaze I in each baby face 
 In vain my darling's looks to trace. 
 Oh, no ! " she sobbed, with bitter 
 
 moan, 
 " I want my own ! I want my own ! 
 
 " I can not bear the flowers : they bloom 
 For me but over one small tomb ; 
 The birds but mock with empty glee 
 One voice forever still for me ; 
 The very sunshine on the floor 
 But makes me miss my sunbeam more. 
 How can my achmg heart throb on, ^^ 
 When what it beat for now is gone ? 
 
 Poor heart ! I see now why you break ; 
 You thought that our dear Lord could 
 
 take 
 Away what He had meant to be 
 Your own through all eternity. 
 They do not know a mother's heart— 
 Who knows but God, our sweet, sad 
 
 part ?— 
 
 That say, when our sweet bird has 
 
 flown, 
 " The child belongs to God alone." 
 
 You need not give up love, oh, no ; 
 God does not mock a mother so : 
 The earth may claim the robe of white 
 Which waving green hides from your 
 
 sight ; 
 But not an angel pure that sings 
 Before the Throne on earthward wings. 
 On acts of love, belongs more true 
 To God than that, dear child, to you. 
 
 Dear heart, look up, for you have given 
 One more to sing the song of heaven. 
 'Tis happiness to feel upon 
 Your breast a soul that is your own ; 
 But it is deeper bliss to know, 
 While angels watch a blossom grow 
 Fairer and sweeter every day, 
 " It is her child," they fondly say. 
 
 Oh I it is wealth to have your best 
 Safe from life's sorrow and unrest ; 
 Nor need you lose your treasure while 
 She dwell's beneath the Father's smile; 
 For God's bright home is not so far. 
 And near you like a guiding star. 
 Your angel child her wings will fold. 
 And open wide the gates of gold. 
 
 COMING BACK. 
 
 They say, if our beloved dead 
 
 Should seek the old, familiar place. 
 
 Some stranger would be there instead, 
 And they would And no welcoming 
 face. 
 
 I can not tell how^ it might be 
 In other homes ; but this I know. 
 
 Could my lost darling come to me, 
 That she would never And it so. 
 
 Twelve times the flow^ers have come 
 and gone. 
 Twelve times the winter wmds have 
 blown. 
 The while her peaceful rest went on ; 
 And I have learned to live alone. 
 
270 
 
 IF WE'D THOUGHT."-THE TWO LIGHTS. 
 
 Have slowly learned from day to day, 
 In all life's tasks to bear my part; 
 
 But whether grave or whether gay, 
 1 hide her memory in my heart. 
 
 And if my darling comes to share 
 My pleasant fireside warm and 
 bright. 
 
 She still will find her empty chair, 
 Where it has waited day and night. 
 
 Fond, faithful love has blessed my way, 
 And friends are round me, true and 
 tried. 
 
 They have their places; hers to-day 
 Is empty as the day she died. 
 
 How would I spring with bated breath, 
 And joy too deep for word or sign, 
 
 To take my darling home from death, 
 And once again to call her mine. 
 
 I dare not dream the blissful dream. 
 It fills my heart with wild unrest ; 
 Where yonder cold, white marbles 
 gleam. 
 She still must slumber ; God knows 
 best. 
 
 But this I know, that those who say 
 Our best beloved would find no 
 
 place, 
 Have never hungered, every day. 
 Through years and years, for one dear 
 
 face. 
 
 ''IF WE'D thought:' 
 
 If we'd thought at our last meeting 
 
 With the friend wc loved so dear. 
 By his grave we'd soon be standing. 
 
 Dropping down the silent tear, 
 Would that word we spoke so lightly 
 
 Have been uttered by us then } 
 Would that in our silent sorrow 
 
 We could call it back again ! 
 
 If we'd thought that soon a parting 
 Would us sever far and wide, 
 
 That some of the gladsome faces 
 Would be soon across the tide. 
 
 Would the hasty word and action, 
 Would the satire sharp and keen 
 
 From our lips have ever fallen, 
 Or the action e'er been seen } 
 
 If we'd thought the friendly counsel 
 
 Was the last we e'er should hear, 
 Would we then have scoffed so lightly.'^ 
 
 Let our heedlessness appear? 
 If we'd thought the kind inquiry 
 
 Soon would cease forevermore. 
 Would it then have been a trouble. 
 
 Would we then have wished it o'er? 
 
 If we'd thought that act of kindness 
 
 Was the last our friend should seek, 
 Would we have by cruel harshness 
 
 Brought the blushes to his cheek? 
 If we'd thought our heartless folly 
 
 Would have left so deep a sore. 
 Would we then have spoken rudely ? 
 
 Would we not have hushed it o'er? 
 
 If we'd though! — alas ! the sorrows 
 
 That the words awaken now : 
 If we'd thought — ah ! then the wrinkles 
 
 Would be fewer on the brow. 
 " If we'd thought that death v\'as com- 
 ing," 
 
 Will that be our latest cry? 
 God forbid ! we know He's coming, 
 
 Let us think — He draweth nigh ! 
 
 THE TWO LIGHTS. 
 
 " 'When I'm a man ! ' is the poetry of youth, 
 ' When I was young ! ' is the poetry of old age.' '* 
 
 " When I'm a man," the stripling cries. 
 And strives the coming years to 
 scan — 
 
 " Ah, then I shall be strong and wise. 
 When I'm a man ! " 
 
 " W^hen I was young," the old man 
 sighs, 
 
 " Bravely the lark and linnet sung 
 Their carol under sunny skies, 
 
 When I was young ! " 
 
AN OLD MAN'S DREAM.— NOT AS I WILL. 
 
 2/1 
 
 " When I'm a man, I shall be free 
 To guard the right, the truth up- 
 hold." 
 
 "When I was young I bent no knee 
 To power or gold." 
 
 "Then shall I satisfy my soul 
 
 With yonder prize, when I'm a man." 
 
 *' Too late I found how vain the goal 
 To which I ran." 
 
 "When I'm a man these idle toys 
 Aside forever shall be flung." 
 
 " There was no poison in my joys 
 When I was young." 
 
 The boy 's bright dream is all before, 
 The man's romance lies far behind ; 
 
 Had we the present and no more, 
 Fate were unkind. 
 
 But, brother, toiling in the night, 
 Still count yourself not all unblest 
 
 If in the east there gleams a light, 
 Or in the west. 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Oh, for one hour of youthful joy ! 
 
 Give back my twentieth spring ! 
 I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy, 
 
 Than reign a gray-haired king. 
 
 Off with the wrinkled spoils of age ; 
 
 Away with learning's crown ; 
 Tear out life's wisdom-written page, 
 
 And cast its trophies down. 
 
 One moment let my life-blood stream 
 From boyhood's fount of flame ; 
 
 Give m.e one giddy, reeling dream 
 Of life, and love, and fame. 
 
 My listening angel heard the prayer 
 
 And calmly smiling, said, 
 " If I but touch thy silvered hair. 
 
 Thy hasty wish had sped. 
 
 " But is there nothing in the track 
 
 To bid thee fondly stay. 
 While the swift seasons hurry back. 
 
 To find the wished-for day } " 
 
 Ah, truest soul of womankind. 
 Without thee what were life ? 
 
 One bliss I can not leave behind — 
 I'll take my precious wife. 
 
 The angel took a sapphire pen, 
 And wrote in rainbow hue, 
 
 " The man would be a boy again, 
 And be a husband too. 
 
 "And is there nothing yet unsaid. 
 Before the change appears ? 
 
 Remember, all thy gifts have fled 
 With these dissolving years." 
 
 " Why, yes, I would one favor more : 
 
 My fond paternal joys — 
 I could not bear to lose them all ; 
 
 I'll take my girls and boys." 
 
 The smihng angel dropped his pen, 
 
 "Why, this will never do ; 
 The man would be a boy again. 
 
 And be a father too ! " 
 
 And so I laughed. My laughter woke 
 The household with its noise. 
 
 I wrote my dream when morning broke, 
 To please my girls and boys. 
 
 NOT AS I WILL. 
 
 Not as I will ; how can I say it, Lord ? 
 
 The faces, dear as life itself could be. 
 
 Are out of sight beneath the heav>' 
 
 sward ; 
 
 I call ; the dumb lips never answer 
 
 me. 
 
 Behind me lie the long and lonely 
 years ; 
 But through the days all overworn 
 with care, 
 
272 
 
 AT MITHER'S KNEE. 
 
 I still have kept the thought, too sad 
 for tears, 
 Of the dear faces cold and deathly 
 fair. 
 
 Only in dreams I see them as of old, 
 And even then my joy is touched 
 with pain. 
 For as their fingers would my own en- 
 fold, 
 The blessed vision vanishes again, 
 
 And I but hear the winter wind with- 
 out ; 
 I know how cold and dark their 
 dwellings lie. 
 How drearily the snow is tossed about 
 By homeless winds beneath the mid- 
 night sky. 
 
 The festal seasons of the year return ; 
 And scattered households gladly re- 
 unite ; 
 Upon the hearths the cheerful home- 
 fires burn. 
 And the gay circles gather in their 
 light. 
 
 For me, I sit alone ; the empty chair 
 At my still fire-side, waits no coming 
 guest ; 
 But haunting thoughts and memories 
 are there. 
 And those sad inmates, heartache 
 and unrest. 
 
 I know the heavenly city safely stands. 
 Fair beyond all things that v;e deem 
 most fair. 
 Eternal in the heavens, not made with 
 hands ; 
 I know all beauty and all joy are 
 there. 
 
 But earthly love is passionate and 
 strong. 
 O God, forgive the hearts that Thou 
 hast made ; 
 Forgive us that our days seem sad and 
 long. 
 And that we weep and grieve o'er 
 hopes decayed. 
 
 Lead Thou Thy lonesome children ; 
 help us say. 
 Though sobs break all our speech. 
 Thou still canst hear, 
 " Not as I will," for, oh, we long and 
 pray 
 To yield our idols without doubt or 
 fear ; 
 
 To Thine own hands, that, pierced and 
 torn for us, 
 Have taught our hearts how strong 
 true love may be ; 
 Help us to learn these lessons well, for 
 thus 
 Our stricken hearts alone may rest 
 in Thee. 
 
 A T MITHER'S KNEE. 
 
 At mither's knee I waitin' stood, 
 
 Wi' fingers link'd behin' me, 
 The bauldest o' the bairnheid brood : — ■ 
 
 That hour they seldom fined me ; 
 My mither's weel-arch'd bree aboon, 
 
 Wi' lo'e-lit e'e, a' droopin' — 
 The deid, the gaun, they gather roun', 
 
 In memory's halie groupin' ! 
 
 Her han* she placed upon my heid ; 
 
 Hoo aften I've caressed it ! 
 An' syne it mould'red wi' the deid, 
 
 Hoo aft wi' tears ha'e blessed it ! 
 Hoo sweet she tauld us o' Christ's lo'e, 
 
 Hoo He lay in the manger : 
 Hoo, then, she leuked our hale life thro', 
 
 An' mapped out ilka danger. 
 
 A roguish, rompin' bairn was I, 
 
 Wi' een deep-set, biue-blinkin', 
 Wha speir'd o' things 'baith laigh and 
 high. 
 
 An' had a way o' thinkin' : 
 Her leuk o' lo'e could mak' the tear 
 
 Adoon my cheek fast trickle — 
 But, ah, nae bairn lang face lang wears, 
 
 He has o' joys sic mickle. 
 
A SCATTERED FAMILY.— IN THE ORCHARD. 
 
 73 
 
 IN THE ORCHARD. 
 
 Cool, restful shadows 'neath the old, 
 gnarled trees, 
 A fresh-mown meadow, stretching 
 to the right, 
 
 She never thought her wark was gran 
 
 Nor bruited it, nor tauld it : 
 But, kept at it, wi' silent han'. 
 Our bairnheid life to mould it ; 
 
 iShe blent' it wi' the halie sphere, ^ 
 
 ( Ower whilk she stretch'd lo'e's j ggy^j^^l^^lark^clruid firs on bended knees 
 
 Before their shrine of hills aflame 
 with light. 
 When, dipping low, October's magic 
 
 cup 
 From gloomy fens transmuted gold 
 draws up ! 
 
 A dreamy quiet reigns — no brooding 
 
 bird 
 Startles the shade where dainty nests 
 
 are hid ; 
 \ Ended the summer's work, and naught 
 ! is heard 
 
 1 Save drowsy drones repeating what 
 ! " she did, 
 
 ^ She didjit, she did'' — when days 
 ! w^ere long and bright, 
 
 ' And full of busy noise from morn till 
 
 nisrht. 
 
 scepter 
 
 The harvest o' hfe's comin' year, 
 Hopefu' through a' this kept her. 
 
 For, like the sources o' the burn, 
 
 Frae rocks an' trees doon-drappin', 
 These deft-hid things that first we 
 learn. 
 
 Still oot they maun be crappin', 
 I've lang forgot the beuks 1 read. 
 
 The wise things taught i' college: 
 But time'll na dri'e frae oot my head 
 
 That ither bairnheid knowledge ! 
 
 A SCATTERED FAMILY. 
 
 the 
 
 We have been all together on 
 
 earth ; 
 But now the band that bound our 
 
 gentle sheaf 
 Is loosed — the powerful magic bond of 
 
 birth 
 
 Oh, rare, such autumn life ! Oh, buds of 
 June ! 
 Beneath these weighted boughs of 
 gold and red. 
 Our hearts no longer turn one golden ^s one who sudden hears a long-lost 
 leaf tune, 
 
 Each day ; no more, though every with hushed and almost reverent 
 winter night, step I tread, 
 
 Brightening within though skies Breathing once more the delicate 
 without may frown, perfume 
 
 We all are gathered close about one of fresh-plowed earth and flash of 
 
 light. 
 
 With loving wreaths the warm quick 
 hours to crown ; 
 For the one word of " Home," which 
 we had worn, 
 From the soul's lips, to worldly lan- 
 guage clear. 
 Returns an alien answer to its sound. 
 From other firesides, winter-lighted, 
 
 borne 
 
 " Home ! " — 'twas a word of heaven 
 homeless here. 
 Whose wandering echo in our hearts 
 we found ! 
 
 rosy bloom ! 
 
 Oh, promises fulfilled ! Oh, hopes of 
 
 youth ! 
 With humble heart I place them 
 
 side by side, 
 Thankful to Higher strength if aught, 
 
 forsooth, 
 Of ripened, golden harvest doth 
 
 abide ; 
 And for the rest— ah, well ! the dear 
 
 Lord knew 
 Why some fair buds to fruitage ne\ei 
 
 grew ! 
 
2/4 
 
 AN EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.— THE OLD HOME. 
 
 AN EIGHTIETH BIRTHDA Y. 
 
 How swiftly rise the rolling years ! 
 
 How fast they come and go ! 
 Through storm and sunshine, joy and 
 tears, 
 
 They keep their mighty flow 
 Onward from childhood's merry play. 
 
 Through youth's romantic page, 
 Through " heat and burden of the 
 day " 
 
 Down to declining age. 
 
 Hither from busy life we come, 
 
 Round the old hearth to meet, 
 We gather in this ancient home, 
 
 About our Mother's feet ; 
 We bring the tribute of the heart. 
 
 The tribute of the hand, 
 To her who bore the Mother's part, 
 
 Amid our household band. 
 
 To-day the Past unseals its urn, 
 
 And pours its treasures back, 
 The golden memories return 
 
 Along their noiseless track ; 
 It rises up — the olden time. 
 
 The years of long ago, 
 When life was in its early prime. 
 
 And gladness in its flow. 
 
 When parsons stayed till hair grew 
 gray. 
 
 And disd amid their flocks. 
 And little gains were latd away, 
 
 Without such ponderous locks ; 
 When he who taught the winter school 
 
 Was one of great renown. 
 And all the greater, as a rule, 
 
 If from another town. 
 
 When spelling - school and husking- 
 bee, 
 
 With trainings now and then. 
 Gave ample range for jollity 
 
 To boys and grown-up men ; 
 When fife and drum along the street 
 
 Were good as modern bands, 
 And home-made music sounded sweet 
 
 As that from foreign lands. 
 
 When dresses, cut from calico, 
 
 Made lasses look as fair 
 As all the silks and velvets do 
 
 Which modern lasses wear ; 
 When Love knew how to find the 
 heart 
 
 And easily prevail. 
 And did not have to wing his dart 
 
 Through fashion's coat of mail. 
 
 When churches yet were minus stoves. 
 
 And preachers read their notes 
 Dressed up in good warm buckskin 
 gloves 
 And solid overcoats ; 
 When through the winter cold and 
 storm 
 The hearers — high and low — 
 Would rap their feet to keep them 
 warm, 
 And hail the time to go. 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 I HAVE gone — I can not always go, you 
 know ; 
 
 Best 'tis so — 
 Home across the distant ridges of the 
 year, 
 
 With my ear : 
 And the old house, standing still on the 
 old ground, 
 
 There I found. 
 
 In the parlor, in my fancy, I could 
 trace 
 
 Father's face ; 
 And my mother, with her old accus- 
 tomed air. 
 
 Sitting there ; 
 While beside them brothers, sisters, 
 true and good, 
 
 Silent stood. 
 
 Through the stillness swam the song 
 of summer bird. 
 
 And there stirred 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS.— OUR SAINT. 
 
 75 
 
 On the wall the leaf-flecked sunshine ; 
 and its glow 
 
 Faded slow ; 
 Eut, from all the loving lips I watched 
 around — 
 
 Not a sound. 
 
 Then I went up-stairs, slow entering 
 'mid their glooms 
 
 All the rooms ; 
 And I trod with softened step along 
 the floors ; 
 
 Opened doors ; 
 But I never heard a voice or met a soul 
 In the whole. 
 
 Of the breaths that stirred the draperies 
 to and fro 
 
 Long ago ; 
 Of the eyes that through the casement 
 used to peep 
 
 Out of sleep ; 
 Of the feet that in these chambers used 
 to run — 
 
 Now are none. 
 
 Of the sunshine pouring downward 
 from the sky, 
 
 Blue and high ; 
 Of the leafage and the ancient garden 
 plot, 
 
 Brown and hot ; 
 Of the streamlet and the shingle and 
 the tide— 
 
 These abide. 
 
 But beyond the azure vaulting over- 
 head 
 
 Are my dead ; 
 Though their graves were dug apart in 
 many lands. 
 
 Joining hands, 
 They have gathered and are waiting 
 till I come. 
 
 That is home ! 
 
 BOYS AND GIRLS. 
 
 When we are young our boys are 
 
 sweet. 
 They climb our knees and lie at our 
 
 feet ; 
 
 When we are old they are hard to 
 please. 
 
 Cold as the rock and wild as the 
 breeze ; 
 
 They kiss us kindly and speak us fair, 
 
 But we know their hearts are other- 
 where. 
 Oh, my son's my son till he gets him 
 
 a wife, 
 But my daughter's my daughter all 
 my life. 
 
 When we are young our days are 
 
 bright, 
 And full of hope from morn till night ; 
 When we are old we sit alone. 
 And think of pleasant days long gone. 
 When the house was full of the chil- 
 dren's noise. 
 The willful girls and naughty boys. 
 Oh, my son's my son till he gets 
 
 him a wife. 
 But my daughter's my daughter all 
 my life. 
 
 OUR SAINT. 
 
 There was a woman once so pure and 
 
 fine 
 That men half wondered if she were 
 
 divine. 
 And there were those would reverently 
 
 confess 
 Dark sins to her of their unsaintliness. 
 
 She was not canonized, as some have 
 
 been, 
 And yet you could not trace the taint 
 
 of sin 
 In any of her cheery words and ways 
 Of any place or day of all her days. 
 
 And so we thought her saint, and called 
 
 her such. 
 While here and there came one who 
 
 longed to touch 
 Her garment's hem, if haply it mi^ht 
 
 be 
 A holy charm to set a chained sou\ 
 
 free. 
 
2/6 
 
 OUR SAINT. 
 
 Madonna ? No ; and yet it always 
 
 seemed 
 That the still influences which from her 
 
 streamed 
 Were like those ancient ones where 
 
 knelt and trod 
 In Galilee the mother of our God. 
 
 Some saints are named upon the 
 Church's books 
 
 Who paved their lives with penance, 
 and whose looks 
 
 Were overshadowed with a gloom in- 
 tense — 
 
 Error's sincere, but bitter eloquence. 
 
 Not such an one was she — our saint — 
 ah, no ; 
 
 From all her being shone the ardent 
 glow 
 
 Of loves and hopes that fed on happi- 
 ness, 
 
 Receiving which, she could the better 
 bless. 
 
 She even chided with a helpful smile. 
 And chiding, longed to say " well done " 
 
 the while. 
 Then beamed on goodness with so 
 
 bright a grace 
 That all sweet things seemed nestling 
 
 in her face. 
 
 The rankling hates and envies of man- 
 kind. 
 
 That steal their hope and truth and 
 make them blind, 
 
 And keep them back from virtue's path 
 and goal. 
 
 Were scared and scattered by her gen- 
 tle soul. 
 
 She never fluttered like a bird at sight 
 Of any ill, for love o'ercame all fright. 
 And stirred the mother-feeling, which 
 
 is wont 
 To stand protectingly in danger's front. 
 
 Her voice, more winning than the voice 
 
 of lute. 
 Did speak its word in season, then 
 
 was mute, 
 
 Pausing and waiting willingly to learn. 
 While other speech, or silence, had its 
 turn. 
 
 Her changing eyes and changing lips 
 
 were pleas 
 For thousands to all tender sympathies. 
 Revealing there a soul that could not 
 
 rest 
 From wishing blessings on each life 
 
 unblest. 
 
 Her willing feet and willing hands 
 
 would haste 
 To give each new-found sufferer a taste 
 Of whatsoever thing might soothe or 
 
 heal 
 The body or the soul, for cither's weal. 
 
 Could you have heard her pray, as we 
 
 have heard. 
 To the dear God, each softly-uttered 
 
 word 
 Seeming to fly straight upward to His 
 
 throne. 
 You would have wished to make her 
 
 faith your own. 
 
 You would have felt the secret of her 
 
 power. 
 And wondered not that almost every 
 
 hour 
 New strength and courage unto her 
 
 were sent, 
 Nor that she shared them whereso'er 
 
 she went. 
 
 Could you have heard her sing, as we 
 
 have heard. 
 Her notes more pure than those of any 
 
 bird, 
 And praise and tenderness in every 
 
 one. 
 You'd half have worshiped her, as we 
 
 have done. 
 
 She was herself a very prayer and song, 
 E'en though her lips kept silence, all 
 day long ; 
 
COMING HOME.— THE LOST BABIES. 
 
 277 
 
 You saw her such in every move and 
 
 look, 
 And read her such, as in an open book. 
 
 A perfect woman ? No ; but almost 
 
 this, 
 And needed to foreshow the love and 
 
 bliss 
 Of unseen future, so that we might 
 
 strive 
 The more to keep our altar fires alive. 
 
 How much of good and warmth one 
 glowing heart 
 
 Can to this bad and chilly world im- 
 part ! 
 
 How clearly, too, its light o'ershines 
 the way 
 
 Through these dark days unto the per- 
 fect day ! 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 Oh, brothers and sisters growing old, 
 
 Do you all remember yet. 
 That home, in the shade of the rustling 
 trees. 
 
 Where once our household met ? 
 
 Do you know how we used to come 
 from school, 
 
 Through the summer's pleasant heat. 
 With the yellow fennel's golden dust 
 
 On our tired little feet. 
 
 And how sometimes, in an idle mood, 
 
 We loitered by the way, 
 And stopped in the woods to gather 
 flowers, 
 
 And in the fields to play ? 
 
 Till warned by the deepening shadow's 
 fall, 
 That told of the coming night, 
 We climbed to the top of the last long 
 hill, 
 And saw our home in sight ? 
 
 And brothers and sisters, older now 
 Than she whose life is o'er, 
 
 Do you think of the mother's lovmg 
 face, 
 That looked from the open door.? 
 
 Alas, for the changing things 01 time ! 
 • That home in the dust is low, 
 1 And that loving smile was hid from us 
 i In that darkness long ago. 
 
 I And we come to life's last hill, 
 
 i From which our weary eyes 
 
 I Can almost look on that home that 
 
 i shines 
 
 i Eternal in the skies. 
 
 ! 
 
 So, brothers and sisters, as we go, 
 Still let us move as one, 
 
 Always together keeping step 
 Till the march of hfe is done. 
 
 For that mother, who wrd^.ed for us here, 
 
 Wearing a smile so sweet. 
 Now waits on the hills of Paradise 
 
 For her children's coming feet. 
 
 THE LOST BABIES. 
 
 Come, my wife, put down the Bible, 
 
 Lay your glasses on the book, 
 Both of us are bent and aged — 
 
 Backward, mother, let us look. 
 This is still the same old homestead. 
 
 Where I brought you long ago. 
 When the hair was bright with sun- 
 shine. 
 
 That is now like winter's snow. 
 Let us talk about the babies 
 
 As we sit here all alone. 
 Such a merry troop of youngsters ; 
 
 How we lost them one by one. 
 
 Jack, the first of all the party, 
 Came to us one winter's night. 
 
 Jack, you said, should be a parson. 
 Long before he saw the light. 
 
 Do you see that great cathedral. 
 Filled, the transept and the nave, 
 
2/8 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD.— NOTHING. 
 
 Hear the organ grandly pealing, j 
 
 Watch the silken hangings wave ; 
 See the priest in robes of office. 
 With the altar at his back- 
 Would you think that gifted preacher 
 Could be our own Httle Jack ? 
 
 Then a girl with curly tresses 
 
 Used to climb upon my knee. 
 Like a little fairy princess 
 
 Ruling at the age of three. 
 With the years there came a wedding — 
 
 How your fond heart swelled with 
 pride 
 When the lord of all the country 
 
 Chose your baby for his bride ! 
 Watch that stately carriage coming, 
 
 And the form reclining there — 
 Would you think that brilliant lady 
 
 Could be your own little Clare ? 
 
 Then the last, a blue-eyed youngster — 
 
 1 can hear him prattling now — 
 Such a strong and sturdy fellow. 
 
 With his broad and honest brow. 
 How he used to love his mother ! 
 
 Ah ! I see your trembling lip ! 
 He is far off on the water, 
 
 Captain of a royal ship. 
 See the bronze upon his forehead. 
 
 Hear the voice of stern command — 
 That the boy who clung so fondly 
 
 To his mother's gentle hand ? 
 
 Ah ! my wife, we've lost the babies. 
 
 Ours so long and ours alone : 
 What are we to these great people. 
 
 Stately men and women grown ? 
 Seldom do we even see them ; 
 
 Yes, a bitter tear-drop starts, 
 As we sit here in the fire-light, 
 
 Lonely hearth and lonely hearts. 
 All their lives are full without us ; 
 
 They'll stop long enough one day 
 Just to lay us in the church-yard. 
 
 Then they'll each go on their way. 
 
 How like some sweet, familiar face 
 
 My childhood's home appears ; 
 The grand old trees beside the door 
 
 Still spread their branches wide ; 
 The river wanders as of yore, 
 
 With sweetly murmuring tide ; 
 The distant hills look green and gay. 
 
 The flowers blooming wild. 
 And everything looks glad to-day, 
 
 As when I was a child. 
 
 Regardless how the years have flown, 
 
 Half wondering I stand, 
 I catch no fond, endearing tone, 
 
 I clasp no friendly hand ; 
 I think my mother's smile to meet, 
 
 I list my father's call, 
 I pause to hear my brother's feet 
 
 Come bounding through the hall ; 
 But silence all around me reigns, 
 
 A chill creeps through my heart — 
 No trace of those I love remains. 
 
 And tears unbidden start. 
 
 What though the sunbeams fall as fair j 
 
 What though the budding flowers 
 Still shed their fragrance on the air. 
 
 Within life's golden hours ; 
 The loving ones that cluster here 
 
 These walls may not restore ; 
 Voices that filled my youthful ear 
 
 Will greet my soul no more ; 
 And yet I quit the dear old place 
 
 With slow and lingering tread. 
 As when we kiss a clay-cold face 
 
 And leave it with the dead. 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Ah ! here it is, that dear old place 
 Unchanged through all these years ; 
 
 NOTHING. 
 
 There is nothing to see ! 
 
 It is only a silver birch ; 
 But it comes like a beautiful joy to me, 
 Like the joy you feel so calm and free, 
 When all is still as still can be. 
 
 After a psalm in the church. 
 
 It is so fair and light ! 
 
 It grows on a rock by a well I 
 
MEMORIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN. 
 
 279 
 
 The rock is so strong and the birch is 
 
 so slight, 
 That they fill my heart with a strange 
 
 delight, 
 And I think they make a wonderful 
 
 sight. 
 Though why I can never tell ! 
 
 The rock I grasp and reach, 
 
 And the birch-tree I can not touch ; 
 But its rustling leaves have a tender 
 
 speech, 
 For I feel a particular love for each. 
 And I know that their whispered words 
 can teach 
 And comfort me very much. 
 
 The rock is strong and wild, 
 
 And the well is wide and deep ; 
 So I nodded my little head and smiled, 
 For I felt they could both protect a 
 
 child ; 
 And the birch-tree murmured soft and 
 mild, 
 And so I fell fast asleep. 
 
 Why should this written be ? 
 
 And what have I got to tell? 
 The wise, wise people will laugh at me. 
 And say there is nothing at all to see. 
 Only a rock, and only a tree, 
 
 And only a little well ! 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE OLD 
 KITCHEN. 
 
 Far back in my musings, my thoughts 
 have been cast 
 
 To the cot where the hours of my child- 
 hood were passed. 
 
 I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and 
 hall. 
 
 But that blessed old kitchen was dearer 
 than all. 
 
 Its chairs and its table, none brighter 
 could be, 
 
 Fo-r all its surroundings were sacred to 
 me, 
 
 To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on 
 
 the door ; 
 And I loved every crack of that old 
 
 kitchen floor. 
 
 I remember the fire-place with mouth 
 
 high and wide. 
 The old-fashioned oven that stood by 
 
 its side, 
 Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came 
 
 puddings and pies, 
 That fairly bewildered and dazzled our 
 
 eyes ; 
 And then, too. Saint Nicholas, slyly and 
 
 still. 
 Came down, every Christmas, our 
 
 stockings to fill ; 
 But the dearest of memories I've laid 
 
 up in store. 
 Is the mother that trod that old 
 
 kitchen-floor. 
 
 Day in and day out, from morning till 
 
 night. 
 Her footsteps were busy, her heart 
 
 always light ; 
 For it seemed to me then that she 
 
 knew not a care, 
 The smile was so gentle her face used 
 
 to wear. 
 I remember with pleasure what joy 
 
 filled our eyes 
 When she told us the stories that chil- 
 dren so prize ; 
 They were new every night, though 
 
 we'd heard them before 
 From her lips, at the wheel, on the old 
 
 kitchen-floor. 
 
 I remember the window where morn- 
 ings I'd run. 
 
 As soon as the daybreak, to watch for 
 the sun ; 
 
 And I thought, when my head scarcely 
 reached to the sill, 
 
 That it slept through the night, in the 
 trees on the hill. 
 
 And the small tract of ground that my 
 j eyes there could view 
 
 Was all of the world that my fancy 
 I knew : 
 
28o 
 
 A LIFE'S REGRET.— LOOKING BACK. 
 
 Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 
 For a world in itself was that old 
 kitchen-floor. 
 
 To-night those old visions come back 
 
 at their will, 
 But the wheel and its music forever are 
 
 still ; 
 The band is moth-eaten, the wheel 
 
 laid away. 
 And the fingers that turned it lie 
 
 mould'ring in clay : 
 The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 
 
 'twas then. 
 And the voices of children ring out 
 
 there again ; 
 The sun through the window looks in 
 
 as of yore. 
 But it sees stranger feet on the old 
 
 kitchen-floor. 
 
 I ask not for honor, but this I would 
 
 crave — 
 That when the lips speaking are closed 
 
 in the grave, 
 My children will gather theirs round at 
 
 their side. 
 And tell of the mother that long ago 
 
 died: 
 'T would be more enduring, far dearer 
 
 to me 
 Than inscription on marble or granite 
 
 could be. 
 To have them tell often, as I did of 
 
 yore. 
 Of the mother that trod the old kitchen- 
 floor. 
 
 A LIFE'S REGRET. 
 Turning the leaves in an idle way 
 Of a book I was skimming the other 
 
 day. 
 I found a line at the end of a song, 
 Which keeps on haunting me all day 
 
 long 
 With Its sweet and mournful melody, 
 " Oh, love, my love, had you loved but 
 
 me ! " 
 Sadder a burden could never be 
 Than " love, my love, had you loved 
 
 but me ! " 
 
 Few words and simple : but, oh, how 
 
 much 
 The singer has told in that little touch ! 
 How hard a story of chances lost. 
 Of bright hopes blighted and true love 
 
 crossed. 
 Is heard in the whispered melody, 
 "Oh, love, my love, had you loved but 
 
 me ! " 
 To many a sorrow the key may be 
 That " love, my love, had you loved 
 
 me ! " 
 
 I don't believe in what poets have said 
 Of hearts that are broken and lives 
 
 that are dead ; 
 Lives well ordered will stand to their 
 
 course. 
 And hearts of true metal ring litde the 
 
 worse. 
 But — they vibrate still that melody, 
 " Oh, love, my love, had you loved but 
 
 me ! " 
 My life is well ; but what would it be. 
 Sweet " love, my love, had you loved 
 
 but me ! " 
 
 The world rolls on and the years roll 
 
 by, 
 
 Day-dreams vanish and memories die ; 
 But it surges up with a restless pain. 
 That fond lost longing ever again 
 Bre.ithed in the passionate melody, 
 " Oh, love, my love, had you loved but 
 
 me ! " 
 It might have been, but it can not be ! 
 Yet " love, my love, had you loved but 
 
 me ! " 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 This is the old farm-house, 
 
 With its deep, rose-tangled porch, 
 Where hover and rise white butterflies. 
 
 And honey bees hold debauch. 
 Oh, many a time and oft 
 I have followed the lark aloft ! 
 
 And my heart, my heart flies back 
 
 On the dead years' shadowy track. 
 And now in the lane, on a loaded wain, 
 
 I'm a happy and hot little boy again ! 
 
THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 
 
 281 
 
 Just such a windless noon 
 As this in a buried June, 
 
 When the scented hay in the 
 meadows lay, 
 And the thrushes were all in tune. 
 On the staggering load exultant 
 rode, 
 And the red-faced wagoner, "wey'd 
 and whoa'd." 
 Long ago in a buried June ! 
 
 Days when to breathe was bliss, 
 Perfect, and pure, and strong. 
 
 No pulse of the heart amiss, 
 
 No be? of the brain- work wrong, 
 
 When care was a word and love an 
 absurd 
 Fabrication of story and song. 
 
 Is it so long ago, 
 
 This life of color and light ? 
 Will it not show some after-glow 
 
 Ere the day dips into the night ? 
 Oh, youth, have ye left me quite ? 
 Oh, years, have ye dimmed my sight ? 
 
 Lo, the light is shade and the colors 
 fade, 
 And the day dips into the night. 
 
 01/, FOR A SWING IN THE OLD 
 ELM TREE. 
 
 Oh, for a swing in the old elm tree 
 And a breath from the clover fields ! 
 
 I'd give the state of a palace hall 
 And the spices that India yields 
 
 To see again in the old-time way 
 
 The meadows and pastures I knew. 
 The hills and the valleys, the rocks 
 and the trees. 
 And the woods where the wild- 
 flowers grew ; 
 
 To lie once more in the thick, soft grass 
 With the sweet winds brushing by. 
 
 The world outside and a heart at peace. 
 And above the summer sky: 
 
 To watch the clouds in their shifting 
 lights 
 And the mists on the distant hills, 
 And dream to the music oi rustling 
 leaves 
 And the voices of dancing rills ; 
 
 To wade once more in the cooling 
 
 stream 
 
 That wound by the roadside below. 
 
 Where the laurel bloomed, and the 
 
 eglantine 
 
 And the maiden-hair used to grow ; 
 
 To kneel again in the little church 
 Where I prayed with a childish trust 
 
 Ere the haunting doubts of a later 
 time 
 Had touched it with moth and rust ; 
 
 To sleep once more 'neath the moss- 
 grown roof: 
 
 My spirit would find again 
 The long-lost chord of that happy time 
 
 And take up the glad refrain. 
 
 My heart grows sick and my eyes are 
 dim 
 For a sight of familiar things ; 
 The grassy nook and the old elm tree 
 Would be more than the throne of 
 kings. 
 
 Ah, me, how the years have stretched 
 between ! 
 What chances and changes they've 
 wrought ! 
 What gains and what losses, what 
 hopes and what fears. 
 How little of promise they've 
 brought ! 
 
 THE DA YS THA T ARE NO 
 MORE. 
 
 Oh, memories of green and pleasant 
 places, 
 Where happy birds their wood-notes 
 twittered low ! 
 Oh, love that lit the dear, familiar faces 
 We buried long ago ! 
 
282 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 From barren heights their sweetness 
 we remember. 
 And backward gaze with wistful, 
 yearning eyes. 
 As hearts regret, 'mid snowdrifts of 
 December, 
 The summer's sunny skies. 
 
 Glad hours that seemed their rainbow 
 tints to borrow 
 From some illumined page of fairy 
 lore ; 
 Bright days that never lacked a bright 
 to-morrow. 
 Days that return no more. 
 
 Fair gardens, with their many-blossom- 
 ed alleys. 
 And red, ripe roses breathmg out 
 perfume ; 
 Deep violet nooks in green, sequestered 
 valleys, 
 Empurpled o'er with bloom. 
 
 Sunset that lighted up the brown- 
 leaved beeches, 
 Turning their dusky glooms to glim- 
 mering gold ; 
 Moonlight that on the river's fern- 
 fringed beaches 
 Streamed white-rayed, silvery cold. 
 
 O'er moorlands bleak we wander 
 weary-hearted, 
 Throug mhany a tangled, wild, and 
 thorny maze. 
 Remembering as in dreams the days 
 departed. 
 The by-gone, happy days. 
 
 I thought they always, always grew 
 Where free birds sung and skies were 
 
 blue — 
 These tiny bells too frail to touch ; 
 It would not matter half so much 
 How high the sun or few the flowers ; 
 But Jeannie waits and counis the hours, 
 And listens in her earnest way 
 To hear me coming, and to-day 
 I promised something nice to bring — 
 Some little, dainty, sweetened thing — 
 And promised not to stay. Alas ! 
 To hunt for violets in the grass — 
 For violets sweet, and bells of snow — 
 With many, many miles to go, 
 And then to see them in the street — 
 Those tiny little bells so sweet — 
 Is not so easy quite, I think, 
 yVs gathering flowers upon the brink 
 Of brooks, as once so long ago 
 We used to do. Oh, Belles-of-snow ! 
 I'm sure if you could only see 
 The pale face waiting there for me. 
 You would peep out and let me find 
 Your bells to gather up and bind ; 
 It is a face so pale and sad — 
 Not even bread to make it glad — 
 The lips that whispered in a prayer 
 Were cold to-day ; oh, tell me w here 
 The little clumps of violets grow. 
 Those lily-bells as white as snow ! 
 
 TELL ME WHERE THE VIOLETS 
 GRO W. 
 
 I WONDER where the violets grow. 
 The lily-bells as white as snow ; 
 A single tiny stem I've found 
 Close nestled in the leaves around ; 
 One tiny stem, a single one, 
 And yet hov/ high the morning sun ! 
 
 A SUMMER DA Y. 
 
 Deep down beside the tangled sedge 
 
 The meadow-lark sings all the day. 
 And bursts at times from out the hedge 
 
 The mimic chatter of the jay ; 
 And here and there a wandering note, 
 
 A cricket's chirp, comes sweet and 
 clear. 
 Where dreamy mists of summer float 
 
 At noon upon the grassy mere. 
 
 Afar away below the hill 
 
 I ste the noisy mill-wheel go. 
 
 The smooth, broad lake above toe mill, 
 The flash of foam that roars below ! 
 
THE FIR-TREE.-" NOT DEAD, BUT RISEN.' 
 
 283 
 
 And on the even slopes that rise 
 So gently toward the mountain's 
 brow. 
 
 The cattle watch with sleepy eyes 
 The lazy plowboy at the plow. 
 
 My soul is sleeping, and its dreams 
 
 Ah, sad and sweet that dreaming 
 thrills, 
 For there are other vales and streams. 
 
 And other flocks on other hills — • 
 The hills whereon I climbed to pull 
 
 The golden-rods and weeds of May, 
 When all the world was beautiful 
 
 And all my life a summer day. 
 
 THE FIR-TREE. 
 
 Hear'st thou the song it sings to me? 
 The endless song of the dark fir-tree. 
 Before my window, beside my door. 
 It sighs and whispers forevermore. 
 By dawn, or daylight, or night's mid- 
 hour, 
 I hear its still small voice of power, 
 
 " Eternity ! Eternity ! " 
 Is the hourly message it brings to me. 
 
 When I am weary and woni with pain. 
 And the burning sunshine fires my 
 
 brain. 
 Faint, and listless, and fit for death. 
 It swings and rustles with fragrant 
 
 breath : 
 "Hot and lonely thy noon may be, 
 But there is a long, long rest for thee : 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! " 
 This is the psalm of the old fir-tree. 
 
 Sometimes the storms of summer pour. 
 The lightnings dazzle, the thunders ' 
 
 roar ; 
 Those dark boughs groan, and writhe, 
 
 and sway. 
 But, sighing and moaning, still they 
 
 say: 1 
 
 "An end of the tempests of earth shall 
 
 be; 
 A tranquil morning awaiteth thee — 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 Beyond this fateful and angry sea." 
 
 When winter hath scattered leaf and 
 
 rose, 
 And the boughs bend low with heavy 
 
 snows. 
 Their pati&nt drooping a lesson lends. 
 To a life borne dov^n with the care He 
 
 sends. 
 " Bend to thy burden ! awhile, for thee 
 The weight and wear of toil must be. 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 From care and carking shall set thee 
 
 free." 
 
 If the ways of man my spirit vex. 
 And the ways of God my soul perplex, 
 When He hath taken my life's desire, 
 And molten my heart in His 'fining fire ; 
 When the dearest eyes I can not see, 
 And the voice 1 longed for is dead to 
 
 me : 
 " Wait ! for thy longing shall find the 
 
 key; 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 There shall the dayspring come back 
 
 to thee," 
 Softly singeth the dark fir-tree. 
 
 When I shall sleep in my quiet grave. 
 Oh, kindly fir-tree, above me wave ! 
 Utter thine anthems to one who grieves 
 Under thy shining, singing leaves : 
 " Keep thy faith like the fadeless tree ! 
 Tender and true let memory be. 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 There thy lost love is waiting far thee ! " 
 Blest be thy music, oh, dark fir-tree ! 
 And blessed the Maker who fashioned 
 thee ! 
 
 ''NOT DEAD, BUT risen: 
 
 He who died at Azim sends 
 This to comfort all his friends: 
 
 Faithful friends ! It lies, I know. 
 Pale and white, and cold as snow ; 
 And ye say, " Abdallah's dead ! " 
 Weeping at the feet and head. 
 I can see your falling tears ; 
 I can hear your sighs and prayers ; 
 
!84 
 
 SOUNDS. 
 
 Yet I smile and whisper this : 
 /am not the thing you kiss ; 
 Cease your tears, and let it lie — 
 It was mine — it is not I. 
 
 Sweet friends ! What the women lave 
 For the last sleep of the grave, 
 Is a hut which I am quitting ; 
 Is a garment no more fitting ; 
 Is a cage from which at last. 
 Like a bird, my soul has passed. 
 Love the inmate, not the room — 
 The wearer, not the garb — the plume 
 Of the eagle, not the bars 
 That kept him from those splendid 
 stars ! 
 
 Loving friends ! Be wise, and dry 
 Straightway every weeping eye. 
 What ye lift upon the bier 
 Is not worth a single tear. 
 'Tis an empty sea-shell — one 
 Out of which the pearl has gone ; 
 The shell is broken — it lies there : 
 The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 
 'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid 
 Allah sealed the while it hid 
 That treasure of his treasury — 
 A mind that loved. Let it lie ; 
 Let the shard be earth's once more. 
 Since the gold is in his -store ! 
 
 Allah glorious ! Allah good ! 
 Now thy world is understood ; 
 Now the long, long wonder ends ! 
 Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
 While the man whom ye call dead. 
 In unspoken bliss instead. 
 Lives and loves you ; lost, 'tis true 
 For the light that shines for you ; 
 Bat in the light ye can not see, 
 Of undisturbed felicity — 
 In a pefect paradise. 
 And a life that never dies. 
 
 Farewell, friends ! But not farewell ; 
 Where I am, ye too shall dvv^ell. 
 I am gone before your face 
 A moment's worth, a little space. 
 When ye come where I have stept, 
 Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
 
 Ye will know, by true love taught. 
 That here is all, and there is naught. 
 Weep awhile, if ye are fain — 
 Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
 Only not a death — for death, 
 Now we know, is that first breath 
 Which our souls draw when we enter 
 Life, which is of all life center. 
 
 Be ye certain, all seems love 
 Viewed from Allah's throne above ! 
 Be ye stout of heart and come 
 Bravelv onward to your home ! 
 La-il Allah ! Allah la ! 
 Oh, love divine ! Oh, love alway ! 
 
 He who died at Azim gave 
 
 This to those who made his grave. 
 
 SOUNDS. 
 
 There are countless sounds in this 
 world of ours, 
 Where hidden music dwells; 
 The song of birds when the day is 
 young, 
 The chime of distant bells ; 
 The echo of children's voices, borne 
 From the shady primrose dells. 
 
 The tiny tread of a childish foot, 
 
 That strays about the room , 
 The tiny voice of a childish song. 
 That comes to you through the 
 gloom 
 When the evening shadows are long 
 without, 
 And the light grows dim at home. 
 
 The murmuring rustle of the leaves 
 That breathes a quiet tune , 
 
 The gentle dripping upon the grass 
 Of a midnight shower in June , 
 
 The far-off voice of a hidden brook. 
 That sings low to the moon. 
 
 The voice you have waited for so long, 
 The greeting kind and free ; 
 
 The word that calls back to your heart 
 Some old, old memory, 
 
BUBBLES.— A WIDOW'S THOUGHT. 
 
 285 
 
 That sealed the promise your soul has 
 held 
 Silent and sacredly. 
 
 There are many sounds in these hearts 
 of ours, 
 
 That speak to us alone ; 
 Voices that reach not other ears, 
 
 Unheard save by our own ; 
 Footsteps that echo back agam 
 
 From the past with a muffled tone. 
 
 Oh, is there naught in those sounds to 
 you ? 
 
 No tender meaning there ? 
 Can you not hear their echoes now, 
 
 As the cry of some despair? 
 Or is your hfe so crowned with bliss 
 
 You can forget they were ? 
 
 That, however I mocked it gaylv. 
 And guessed at its hoUownes's, 
 Still shone, with each bursting bubble, 
 ' One star in my soul the less. 
 
 BUBBLES. 
 I. 
 
 I STOOD on the brink in childhood, 
 And watched the bubbles go 
 
 From the rock-fretted, sunn} ripple 
 To the smoother tide below. 
 
 And over the wide creek-bottom. 
 
 Under them every one, 
 Went golden stars in the water. 
 
 All luminous with the sun. 
 
 But the bubbles broke on the surface. 
 And under, like stars of gold 
 
 Broke ; and the hurrying water 
 Flowed onward, swift and cold, 
 
 II. 
 
 I stood on the brink in manhood, 
 And it came to my weary brain. 
 
 And my heart, so dull and heavy 
 After the years of pain — 
 
 That every hollowest bubble 
 Which over my Hfe had passed 
 
 Still into its deeper current 
 
 Some heavenly gleam had cast ; 
 
 A WIDOW'S THOUGHT. 
 
 Sing on, ye happy warblers, nor re- 
 frain, 
 
 Ye can not bring him pleasure now, 
 nor pain ; 
 
 Thou merry brooklet, dancing in the 
 sun. 
 
 Haste on thy way, till play and work 
 be done. 
 
 Thou careless herdsboy, whistling o'er 
 
 the lea, 
 I would not that my sorrow^ saddened 
 
 thee ; 
 And ye, ye tender flow^'rets that he 
 
 loved, 
 I'd have ye bloom where'er his feet 
 
 have roved. 
 
 I would not that the children in the 
 
 street 
 E'en for a moment stilled their busy 
 
 feet; 
 I would not close the casement from 
 
 the hght, 
 I would not drive loved faces from my 
 
 sight. 
 
 I would not other eves should fade and 
 
 fill, 
 I would not other hearts should doubt 
 
 His will ; 
 Oh, heav'nly Father, even in my grief 
 I'll ask submission, and 'twill bring 
 
 behef. 
 
 My load no earthly friend I'll ask to 
 
 share. 
 For Thou hast taught us where to cast 
 
 our care, 
 My shadow shall not cloud another's 
 
 way — 
 The light on others' paths I'd gladly 
 
 stay. 
 
286 PARSON KELLY.— THE BROKEN HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 And it may be, in soothing others' 
 pain, 
 
 That peace and hope shall come to me 
 again. 
 
 And I may prove why God in love de- 
 nies. 
 
 And chooses thus to bless the faith 
 He tries. 
 
 PARSON KELLY. 
 
 Old Parson Kelly's fair young wife, 
 Irene, 
 Died when but three months wed. 
 And no new love has ever come be- 
 tween 
 His true heart and the dead. 
 Though now for sixty years the grass 
 has grown j 
 
 Upon her grave, and on its simple 
 stone 
 The moss 
 
 And yellow lichens creep her name 
 across. 
 
 Outside the door, in the warm summer 
 air. 
 The old man sits for hours. 
 The idle wind, that stirs his silver hair. 
 
 Is sweet with June's first flowers ; 
 But dull his mind, and clouded with 
 
 the haze 
 Of life's last weary, gray November 
 days ; 
 And dim 
 
 The past and present look alike to 
 him. 
 
 The sunny scene around, confused and 
 blurred, 
 The twitter of the birds, 
 Blend in his mind with voices long 
 since heard — 
 Glad childhood's careless words. 
 Old hymns and Scripture texts ; while 
 
 indistinct 
 Yet strong, one thought with all fair 
 things is linked — 
 The bride 
 Of his lost youth is ever by his side. 
 
 By its sweet weight of snowy blossoms 
 bowed, 
 The rose-tree branch hangs low. 
 And in the sunshine, like a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Sways slowly to and fro. 
 " Oh, is it you ? " the old man asks 
 
 "Irene ! " 
 And smiles, and fancies that her face 
 he's seen 
 Beneath 
 The opening roses of a bridal wreath ! 
 
 Down from the gambrel roof a white 
 dove flits, 
 The sunshine on its wings. 
 And lighting close to where the 
 dreamer sits, 
 A vision with it brings — 
 A golden gleam from some long van- 
 ished day, 
 " Dear love," he calls ; then, " Why 
 will you not stay } " 
 He sighs. 
 
 For, at his voice, the bird looks up 
 and flies ! 
 
 Oh, constant heart ! whose failing 
 thoughts cling fast 
 To one long laid in dust. 
 Still seeing, turned to thine, as in the 
 past, 
 Her look of perfect trust. 
 Her soft voice hearing in the south 
 
 wind's breath. 
 Dream on ! Love pure as thine shall 
 outlive death. 
 And when 
 
 The gates unfold, her eyes meet 
 thine ag^ain ! 
 
 TLLE BROKEN HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 Our foot struck hard against a broken 
 stone — 
 A hearthstone 'mid the com : 
 It was the hearthstone that our child 
 ish feet 
 In the years past had worn. 
 
THE BROKEN HEARTHSTONE, 
 
 287 
 
 We bowed, not heavy with a load of 
 grief, 
 
 But tender tears came, making our be- 
 lief 
 
 r 
 
 More fresh within us ; not as to a 
 grave 
 We came to seek the place, 
 But o'er the stones we bent most ten- i 
 derly 
 Our sober homeward face ; 
 We came as one who duly understands 
 The house he seeketh — one not made 
 with hands. 
 
 But we would lean our homew^ard face 
 once more 
 Upon earth's altar stones, 
 A?id if we cling too closely to the 
 place. 
 New tenderness atones 
 For anything of doubt or human dread, 
 And in the place our soul was com- 
 forted. 
 
 A soft hand, fragrant as an angel's 
 
 wing, 
 Reached from the stones and laid 
 Its touch upon us, there we found a 
 
 string 
 Of pearls hung in the shade 
 Of the green waving corn ; we knew 
 
 the clear. 
 White valley lilies, to our childhood 
 
 dear. 
 
 They came up through the chinks of 
 tlie mossed stone ; 
 They had crept from the still 
 
 To the old hearth. Perhaps most ten- 
 derly 
 Their fibers felt the chill 
 
 Of loneliness and crept more near, and 
 near, 
 
 As we do to the hearthstone every 
 year. 
 
 However, there they were, the valley 
 bells ' ; 
 
 A-tremble on their strings- 
 
 The frail, yet the enduring, the un- 
 changed. 
 As if an angel's wmg 
 
 Had swept our heart, it trembled, and 
 we said. 
 
 Yea, Lord, our pilgrim soul is com- 
 forted ! 
 
 The corn above us waved triumph- 
 antly ; 
 Vale-lilies bent beneath. 
 
 And all things said — not less our 
 heart within — 
 " There is, there is no death ! " 
 
 We will not put our human yearnings 
 by, 
 
 They knit our soul to that which can 
 not (lie; 
 
 But when we go on love's lone pil- 
 grimage. 
 And when our tears like rain 
 Fall down on broken hearths, let us 
 arise 
 In hope renewed again : 
 "We seek a better country," even 
 
 where 
 The many mansions of the Father are. 
 
 And for the tenderness and for the 
 tears 
 That welled as if from springs, 
 We thank Thee, God, and for the 
 trembling notes 
 That hope within us sings ! 
 She catches up the rustle of the corn. 
 The faintest whisper in the lily born. 
 
 And runs them on the white threads 
 
 of the heart. 
 And they are sadly sweet — 
 Not chance nor change, nor any frost 
 
 of time 
 Our soul's life can defeat. 
 Our home is an abiding city ; there, 
 
 with God, 
 Are those v.ho, v.ith us, earth's poor 
 
 hearthstones trod. 
 
288 
 
 IN AUTUMNS LONG AGO.— A FAREWELL. 
 
 IN AUTUMNS LONG AGO. 
 
 The hills were veiled in purple mist, 
 The trees set as a zone ot gold, 
 
 And far avva}'^ as eye could reach 
 The still green prairie onward rolled. 
 
 The sky was blue as blue could be, 
 The cotton fields were white as now : 
 
 Oh, what a trance of joy had we 
 In autumns long ago ! 
 
 Two happy children on a hill, 
 
 And seeing m the sunset clouds 
 Haroun's enchanted city loom 
 
 'Mid seas all white with fairy shrouds, 
 We gaze till all the golden depths 
 Held Bagdad's splendid pomp and 
 glow: 
 The scents of Samarcand embalm 
 The autumns long ago. 
 
 We were so earnest as we planned 
 
 Such lives as never could have been— 
 Lives like some gorgeous phantasy 
 With words of love dropped in be- 
 tween. 
 I've had as foolish plans since then, 
 
 Yet wanting all the warmth and glow 
 That made life an enchanted dream 
 In autumns long ago. 
 
 Oh, could I see with those same eyes. 
 Or wave again the magic wand 
 
 That set among the sunset skies 
 The palaces of fairy-land, 
 
 We'd walk once more in scented grass. 
 And feel the cool Gulf breezes blow. 
 
 Love ! half life's glory died with thee, 
 One autumn long ago. 
 
 Oh, young brave heart that trod alone 
 
 The wondrous road so dim and cold ; 
 
 How did thy small feet find their way 
 
 To that fair land with streets of gold ? 
 
 For, far beyond the sunset clouds. 
 
 And far beyond all lands I know. 
 Thy sweet soul passed, and left me 
 here, 
 
 One autumn long ago. 
 
 Some day I shall feel tired of life, 
 
 And, full of rest from head to feet. 
 Shall fall on sleep and w^ait for thee 
 To lead me up iihe golden street. 
 Oh, then, beloved, our hopes and 
 dreams 
 Shall all to sweet completion grow. 
 And we shall link eternal joys 
 With autumns long ago. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, days, and months, and 
 
 years ; 
 Farewell, thoughts, and hopes, and 
 
 fears ; 
 Farewell, old delight, and woe ; 
 Farewell, self of long ago ! 
 In the old familiar place 
 Time sped on at slower pace — 
 Past recall, indeed, you lie. 
 Days, and months, and years gone by. 
 Now the old familiar door 
 Shuts us out forexermore ! 
 
 Farewell, house — no more our home ! 
 Others, in the years to come. 
 Hither homeward will return — 
 On the hearth their fires will burn ; 
 Children that we do not know 
 Gather round the blithesome glow ; 
 Other feet will tread ihe stair, 
 Other guests be welcomed there. 
 We, whose home it was before. 
 Shall be strangers evermore ! 
 
 May be, in the years to come. 
 Past the house our feet may roam- 
 Over all a subtle change 
 Will have stolen and made it s range, 
 And the house we leave to-day 
 Will have vanished quite away. 
 In this house's joy and care 
 We shall have no lot nor share ; 
 All our life herein will seem 
 Like a half- forgotten dream. 
 We shall be as ghosts, that come 
 Ling'ring round their ancient home, 
 If our feet pass evermore 
 Near the old familiar door. 
 
IN EXILE.— APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 289 
 
 Farewell, days, and months, and years ; 
 Farewell, buried hopes and fears ! 
 Wheresoe'er our footsteps stray, 
 Whether long or brief our stay, 
 \^'' hatsoever good we find, 
 Alany graves we leave behind. 
 So, farewell, old joy and pain, 
 We shall never know again ! 
 Farewell, all things that we leave ! 
 Surely, life and warmth must cleave 
 To the house, when we are gone. 
 Can it empty seem, and lone, 
 Wiien the echoes of the years, 
 Hopes and joys, and griefs and fears, 
 Scarce have died from roof and wall ? 
 Surely, ghostly steps will fall 
 On the bare dismantled floors, 
 Gliding in at open doors. 
 Flitting up and down the stair. 
 Will not shadows wander there — 
 Shades more vague than shadows are, 
 Or than ghosts that break death's bar? 
 Sure our wraiths, when we are gone, 
 Oft will haunt the chambers lone — 
 Come to seek (ah, ne'er to find !) 
 All the years we leave behind ? 
 Farewell, house, forevermore ! 
 Farewell, old familiar door ! 
 Farewell, home — yet no, not so — 
 Home goes with us where we go ! 
 
 nv EXILE. 
 
 The sea at the crag's base brightens, 
 
 And shivers in waves of gold ; 
 And overhead, in its vastness. 
 
 The fathomless blue is rolled. 
 There comes no wind from the water. 
 
 There shines no sail on the main, 
 And not a cloudlet to shadow 
 
 The earth with its fleecy grain. 
 Oh ! give in return for this glory. 
 
 So passionate, warm, and still. 
 The mist of a Highland valley — 
 
 The breeze from a Scottish hill. 
 
 Day after day glides slowly, 
 
 Ever and ever the same ; 
 Seas of intensest splendor, 
 
 Airs which smite hot as flame. 
 
 Birds of imperial plumage, 
 
 Palms straight as columns of fire, 
 Flutter and glitter around me ; 
 
 But not so my soul's desire. 
 I long for the song of the laverock. 
 
 The cataract's leap and flash. 
 The sweep of the red deer's antlers,, 
 
 The gleam of the mountain ash. 
 
 Only when night's quiescent, 
 
 And peopled with ahen stars, 
 Old faces come to the casement. 
 
 And peer through the vine-leaved 
 bars. 
 No words ! But I guess their fancies — - 
 
 Their dreamings are also mine — 
 Of the land of the cloud and heather — 
 
 The region of Auld Lang Syne. 
 Again we are treading the mountains, 
 
 Below us broadens the firth. 
 And billows of light keep rolling 
 
 Down leagues of empurpled heath. 
 
 Speed swift through the glowing 
 tropics. 
 Stout ship, which shall bear me 
 home ; 
 Oh, pass, as a God-sent arrow. 
 
 Through tempest, darkness, and 
 foam. 
 Bear up through the silent girdle 
 
 That circles the flying earth. 
 Till there shall blaze on thy compass 
 
 The lode-star over the north. 
 That the winds of the hills may greet 
 us, 
 That our footsteps again may be 
 In the land of our heart's traditions. 
 And close to the storied sea. 
 
 APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 The orchard grass is sunshine barred, 
 And starry-white upon the sward 
 
 The pretty daisies lie ; 
 I rest beneath a mossy tree, 
 And through its waving branches see 
 
 The sapphire of the sky. 
 
290 
 
 WILLOW WHISTLES. 
 
 I feel the balmy breeze of May 
 Soft blowing down the grassy way, 
 
 And in the boughs above 
 The little birds break into song, 
 And praise in thrilling strains and 
 strong, 
 
 Spring's halcyon days of love. 
 
 The apple-blossoms fall around, 
 And tleck the daisy-checkered ground 
 
 As breezes softly blow ; 
 I stretch a lazy hand aloft. 
 And grasp a chister, silken-soft. 
 
 Like rosy-tinted snow. 
 
 I look at every tender leaf. 
 And marvel while a life so brief 
 
 To such sweet things is given ; 
 Why not for them a longer space 
 To blossom gayly in their place. 
 
 Beneath the summer heaven ? 
 
 Why not for them a longer time 
 To feel the sun at morning prime, 
 
 To see the moon at night ? 
 To quiver by soft breezes stirred : 
 To listen when God's morning-bird 
 
 Sings heavenward his delight. 
 
 Ah, me, my heart ! it must be so. 
 The blossom drops that fruit may 
 grow. 
 
 The sweetness of the flower 
 Dies early on the vernal breeze. 
 That Autumn time may bless the trees [ 
 
 With gold and crimson dower. | 
 
 Ah, me, my heart ! so must thou see 
 The rtowery hopes that gladden thee 
 
 In this thy morning prime, ! 
 
 Fade in the fair place where they grow. 
 Drop round thee swiltly, like the snow | 
 
 Of apple-blossom time. i 
 
 .>ut if they leave thee, good and true, j 
 And pure as when they blossomed new, ! 
 
 Then gladly let them sro ; 
 Where now these fairy blossoms be, | 
 In God's good time thine eyes shall see 
 
 Thy life's fair harvest glow ! ' 
 
 WILLOW WHISTLES. 
 
 'TWAS long ago — 'tis but a dream — 
 
 Enwoven, like a silver thread 
 In emerald velvet, wound the stream 
 
 Down through the daisy-flowei^eJ 
 mead. 
 Where flaming dandelions grew. 
 
 And shone like gold amid the green, 
 And violets from dells of dew 
 
 Looked shyly out upon the scene. 
 
 A barefoot boy and sim-browned lass 
 
 Sat making whistles by the brook ; 
 The willows, at the nodding grass, 
 
 Their sunlit tresses gayly shook. 
 And through the rushes' amorous ranks 
 
 The wooing winds of summer sighed. 
 And white-robed hawthorns on the 
 banks 
 
 Embraced above the silvery tide. 
 
 And thus flew by the light-winged 
 hours ; 
 Then on the stream in childish play. 
 They cast their broken twigs ap.d 
 flowers, 
 And watched them slowly drift away. 
 And hoped that Time, in coming years, 
 Might gently bear their lives along, 
 Where love's sweet light on Sorrow's 
 tears 
 Arch rainbows over vales of song. 
 
 But, gliding like that singing stream, 
 
 The passing years sweep ever on ; 
 And hopes which filled that loving 
 dream 
 
 Are, like the drifting flowers, gone. 
 He flung his boyhood's toy away 
 
 To listen to the trump of fame. 
 And she forgot the merry lay 
 
 That from the willow whistle came. 
 
 The willow died ; the nodding grass 
 And rushes are no longer there ; 
 
 The fickle winds have sought, alas ! 
 And wooed a thousand scenes as 
 fair. 
 
 And he recalling, like a dream. 
 
 That summer day, has often sighed 
 
THANKSGIVING.— THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 291 
 
 That one as lovely as the stream, 
 Should prove as changeful as its 
 tide. 
 
 The hawthorn stands where then it 
 stood — 
 
 No flower or leaf its head adorns — 
 She wears her crown of womanhood, 
 
 And finds it but a crown of thorns ; 
 And he, 'mid sorrow's blasting- flame, 
 
 Has seen his cloud-built castles fall. 
 And finds, alas ! the trump of fame 
 
 A willow whistle after all. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings 
 
 Of the days that are no more, 
 Hov>/, with each recurring season. 
 
 Wakes their mem'ry o'er and o'er: 
 When the hearts of men were simpler. 
 
 And the needs of life were less, 
 And its mercies were not reckoned 
 
 By the measure of excess. 
 
 What a happy turning homeward. 
 
 On the eve of that glad day ; 
 What a throng of recollections 
 
 Round each object on the way. 
 Here the school-house with its maple. 
 
 Leafless now, and dark, and grim. 
 Shaking with each gust that crossed it 
 
 Threat'ning rods on every limb. 
 
 There the hill whose towering summit 
 
 Boyish feet had loved to climb. 
 When the distant peaks stood beck'n- 
 
 In the glow of eventime ; 
 And where bo)ish hearts had won- 
 dered, 
 
 Till the coming of the stars, 
 Of the great wide worlil that waited 
 
 Far beyond those sunset bars. 
 
 Ah, how gladly manhood's footsteps 
 Took again the homeward way. 
 
 Fain to leave the world behind them. 
 Were it only for a day ; 
 
 Fain to seek the dear old hearthstone, 
 Warm with loving hearts and true, 
 
 While in simple, guileless pleasures 
 Youth and joy returned anew. 
 
 Then how sweet and safe the sleeping 
 
 'Neath the sheltering roof once more, 
 With the sentry poplars keeping 
 
 Guard above it as of yore. 
 Homely though the old square cham- 
 ber, 
 
 And its couch but quaint and rude. 
 Still the dreams that sought its pillow 
 
 Were a bright beatitude. 
 
 Heaven send the glad Thanksgiving 
 
 Of that older, simpler time, 
 Tarry with us not in fancy, 
 
 Not in retrospective rhyme ; 
 But in true and living earnest. 
 
 May the spirit of that day, 
 Artless, plain, and unpretending. 
 
 Once again resume its sway. 
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 Not what we would, but what we 
 must. 
 Makes up the sum of living ; 
 Heaven is both more or less than just 
 
 In taking and in giving. 
 Swords cleave to hands that sought 
 
 the plow. 
 And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 
 
 Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 
 Have worn its stony highways. 
 
 Familiar with its loneliest street — 
 Its ways were never my ways. 
 
 My cradle was beside the sea. 
 
 And there, I hope, my grave will be. 
 
 Old homestead ! in that gray old town 
 Thy vane is seaward blowing ; 
 
 Thy slip of garden stretches down 
 To where the tide is flowing ; 
 
 Below they lie ; their sails are furled.. 
 
 The ships that go about the world. 
 
292 
 
 THE BONNIE WEE WELL. 
 
 Dearer that little country house, 
 
 Inland, with pines beside it ; 
 Some peach - trees, with unfruitful 
 boughs, 
 A well, with weeds to hide it ; 
 No flowers, or only such as rise 
 Self-sown, poor things, which all de- 
 spise. 
 
 Dear country home, can I forget 
 The least of thy sweet trifles ? 
 
 The window-vines that clamber yet, 
 Whose blooms the bee still rifles } 
 
 The roadside blackberries, growing 
 ripe, 
 
 And in the woods the Indian pipe ? 
 
 Happy the man who tills the field. 
 
 Content with rustic labor ; 
 Earth does to him her fullness yield. 
 
 Hap what may be to his neighbor. 
 Well days, sound nights — oh ! can 
 
 there be 
 A life more rational and free ? 
 
 Dear country life of child and man ! 
 
 For both the best, the strongest, 
 That with the earliest race began. 
 
 And hast outlived the longest ; 
 Their cities perished long ago ; 
 Who the first farmers were we know. 
 
 Perhaps our Babels, too, will fall ; 
 
 If so, no lamentations. 
 For Mother Earth will shelter all. 
 
 And feed the unborn nations ! 
 Yes, and the swords that menace now 
 Will then be beaten to the plow. 
 
 THE BONNIE WEE WELL. 
 
 The bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae. 
 That shinkles sae cauld in the sweet 
 
 smiles o' day. 
 An' croons a laigh sang a' to pleasure 
 
 itsel', 
 
 The bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae 
 Seems an image tae me o' a bairnie at 
 
 play ; 
 For it springs frae the yird wi' a flicker 
 
 o' glee. 
 And kisses the flowers, while its ripple 
 
 they pree. 
 
 The bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae 
 Wins blessings on blessings fu' monie 
 
 ilk day ; 
 For the wayworn and wearie aft rest 
 
 by its side, 
 And man, wife, and wean a' are richly 
 
 supplied. 
 
 The bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae. 
 When the hare steals to drink in the 
 
 gloamin' sae gray. 
 Where the wild moorlan' birds dip 
 
 their nebs and take wing, 
 And the lark wets his whistle, ere 
 
 mounting to sing. 
 
 Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae, 
 My memory oft haunts thee by nicht 
 
 and by day. 
 For the friends I ha'e loved in the 
 
 years that are gane, 
 Ha'e knelt by the brim, and thy gush 
 
 ha'e parta'en'. 
 
 Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' 
 
 the brae, 
 While I stoop to thy bosom, my thirst 
 
 to allay, 
 I will drink to the loved ones who come 
 
 back nae mair. 
 And my tears will but hallow thy bosom 
 
 sae fair. 
 
 Thou bonnie wee well on the briest o' 
 
 the brae, 
 My blessing rests v.'ith thee, wherever 
 
 I stray ; 
 In joy and in sorrow, in sunshine and 
 
 gloom, 
 
 As it jinks 'neath the breckan and I will dream of thy beauty, thy fresh- 
 genty blue-bell. I ness and bloom. 
 
CLOSING DAYS.— " WAGES. 
 
 293 
 
 In the depths of the city, midst turmoil 
 and noise, 
 
 I'll oft hear with rapture thy love- 
 teaching voice, 
 
 While fancy takes wing- to thy rich 
 fringe of green. 
 
 And quaffs thy cool waters in noon's 
 govvden sheen. 
 
 CLOSING DAYS. 
 
 The splashing breakers on the beach 
 
 Seem to the listening ear 
 To wail a sott, sweet, plaintive dirge 
 
 For the departing year. 
 The yellow leaves, whirl'd o'er the path 
 
 By the sharp autu.nn breeze, 
 In eddying clouds are falling fast 
 
 From all the rustling trees. 
 
 The frost-beads sprinkle on the grass. 
 
 Bright in the chilly dawn ; 
 The mateless thrush his lonely meal 
 
 Seeks on the rectory lawn. 
 The laurustinus 'gins to show 
 
 Her white and roseate flowers — 
 Sure token that have fled at last 
 
 The summer's golden hours. 
 
 Blackberries on the privet hang, 
 
 The ash shows clusters red. 
 Crowned with a scarlet diadem 
 
 King Oak's majestic head ; 
 The elms are orange, the queen beech 
 
 Is robed in russet brown, 
 And from the graceful pendant birch 
 
 Dun leaves come showering down. 
 
 Close in the furze the linnet lies, 
 
 The lark's shrill voice is mute. 
 No longer from the cherry-bough 
 
 The blackbird tunes his flute ; 
 The white-throat and the nightingale 
 
 To sunnier climes have flown, 
 And on the berried holly-bough 
 
 The redbreast smgs alone. 
 
 Ah, sweet and solemn are the days 
 That mark the dying year, 
 
 Waking, like music, in the heart 
 Some slumbering memories dear — 
 
 Of times gone by, of friends long dead. 
 Of happy fleeting hours, 
 
 When our fond youth was one long 
 dream 
 Of love and joy and flowers. 
 
 " WAGESr 
 I. 
 
 It was a merry brook, that ran 
 Beside my cottage door all day ; 
 
 I heard it, as I sat and span. 
 Singing a pleasant song away. 
 
 I span my thread with mickle care ; 
 The weight within my hand in- 
 creased ; 
 The spring crept by me unaware ; 
 The brook dried up — the music 
 ceased. 
 
 I missed it little, took small thought 
 That silent was its merry din. 
 
 Because its melody was wrought 
 Into the thread I sat to spin. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was a lark that sang most sweet 
 Amongst the sunrise clouds so red ; 
 
 I knew his nest lay near my feet, 
 Although he sang so high o'erhead. 
 
 And though he sang so loud and clear 
 Up in the golden clouds above. 
 
 His throbbing song seemed wondrous 
 near , 
 I twined it with the web I wove. 
 
 The long days' glory still drew on ; 
 Then Autumn came ; the Summer 
 fled; 
 The music that I loved was gone ; 
 The song was hushed — the singer 
 dead. 
 
294 
 
 YEARS AFTER.— THE OLD MILL. 
 
 III. 
 
 I wove on with a steadfast heart ; 
 
 My web grew greater, fold on fold, 
 I bore it to the crowded mart ; 
 
 They paid my wage in good red 
 gold- 
 Red gold, and fine. I turned me back, 
 
 The city's dust was in my throat — 
 No brook ran babbling down its track; 
 
 No bird trilled out a tender note — 
 
 But city noise, and rush, and heat. 
 
 The gold was red like minted blood; 
 Oh ! for the cool grass to my feet. 
 The bird's song, and the babbling 
 flood. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I turned me, and I went my way — 
 My lonely, empty way, alone ; 
 
 The gold within my bosom lay ; 
 
 My woven web of dreams was gone! 
 
 Did the gold pay me ? No ; in sooth. 
 Gold never paid for brook and bird, 
 
 Nor for the coined dreams of youth, 
 Nor for the music that I heard. 
 
 My web is gone ! The gold is mine, 
 And they who bought it, can they 
 see 
 
 What dreams and fancies intertwine 
 With every woven thread for me ? 
 
 YEARS AFTER. 
 
 I KNOW the years have rolled across 
 
 thy grave 
 Till it has grown a plot of level 
 
 grass — 
 All Summer does its green luxuriance 
 
 wave 
 In silken shimmer on the breast, 
 
 alas ! 
 And all the Winter it is lost to sight 
 Beneath a winding-sheet of chilly 
 
 white. 
 
 I know the precious name I loved so 
 much 
 Is heard no more the haunts of men 
 among ; 
 
 The tree thou plantedst has outgrown 
 thy touch, 
 And sings to alien ears its murmur- 
 ing song ; 
 
 The lattice-rose forgets thy tendance 
 sweet, 
 
 The air thy laughter, and the sod thy 
 feet. 
 
 Through the dear wood where grew 
 
 the violets, 
 Like the worn track of travel, toil, 
 
 and trade ! 
 And steam's imprisoned demon fumes 
 
 and frets, 
 With shrieks that scare the wild 
 
 bird from the shade, 
 Mills vex the lazy streams, and on its 
 
 shore 
 The timid harebell swings its chimes 
 
 no more. 
 
 But yet — even yet— if I, grown changed 
 
 and old. 
 Should lift my eyes at opening of 
 
 the door. 
 And see again thy fair head's v^'aving 
 
 gold. 
 And meet thy dear eyes' tender 
 
 smiles once more, 
 These tears of parting like a breath 
 
 would seem. 
 And I should say, " I know it was a 
 
 dream ! " 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 Oh, the merry mill-stream ! it is spark- 
 ling and bright 
 
 As it runs down the hill-side in shad- 
 ow and light ; 
 
 Now it circles in pools, and now 
 throws a cascade, 
 
 And laughs out in high glee at the leap 
 it has made. 
 
THE ROUND OF LIFE. 
 
 295 
 
 With its ripples are mingled on many 
 a day, 
 
 The shouts and the laughter of chil- 
 dren at play ; 
 
 And many a picnic is joyously spread 
 
 On its banks, where the green branches 
 wave overhead. 
 
 But the joUiest place is the old ruined 
 
 mill, 
 With the great wooden water-wheel, 
 
 solemn and still ; 
 Once it whirled round and round with 
 
 the rush of the stream. 
 Till a new mill was built to be driven 
 
 by steam. 
 
 Now the children chmb over its big 
 
 wooden spokes, 
 But the wheel into motion they never 
 
 can coax ; 
 They may clamber and push, they may 
 
 tug with a zest. 
 They cannot awake the old giant from 
 
 rest. 
 
 And perhaps, if it only could speak, it 
 would say : 
 
 *' After all the hard labor I've done in 
 my day, 
 
 It is pleasant to know that the chil- 
 dren may still 
 
 Find their happiest times in the old 
 ruined mill." 
 
 THE ROUND OF LIFE. 
 
 Two children down by the shining 
 strand. 
 With eyes as blue as the summer 
 see, 
 While the sinking sun fills all the land 
 With the glow of a golden mystery : 
 Laughing aloud at the sea-mew's cry, 
 Gazing with joy on its snowy breast, 
 Till the first star looks from the even- 
 ing sky. 
 And the amber bars stretch over the 
 west. 
 
 A soft green dell by the breezy shore, 
 
 A sailor lad and a maiden fair ; 
 Hand clasped in hand, while the tale 
 of yore 
 
 Is borne again on the listening air. 
 For love is young, though love be old, 
 
 And love alone the heart can fill ; 
 And the dear old tale, that has been 
 told 
 
 In the days gone by, is spoken still. 
 
 A trim-built home on a sheltered bay : 
 A wife looking out on the glistening 
 sea ; 
 A prayer for the loved one far away. 
 And prattling imps 'neath the old 
 roof-tree ; 
 A lifted latch and a radiant face 
 
 By the open door in the falling night ; 
 A welcome home and a warm embrace 
 J.^'rom the love of his youth and his 
 children bright. 
 
 An aged man in an old arm-chair ; 
 A golden light from the western 
 sky; 
 His wife by his side, with her silvered 
 hair, 
 And the open Book of God close by; 
 Sweet on the bay the gloaming falls. 
 And bright is the glow of the even- 
 ing star ; 
 But dearer to them are the jasper walls 
 And the golden streets of the Land 
 afar. 
 
 An old churchyard on a green hill-side, 
 Two lying still in their peaceful rest; 
 The fisherman's boat going out with 
 the tide 
 In the fiery glow of the amber west. 
 Children's laughter and old men's 
 sighs, 
 The night that follows the morning 
 clear, 
 A rainbow bridging our darkened 
 skies, 
 Are the round of our lives from year 
 to year. 
 
296 THE AGED BELIEVER AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 THE AGED BELIEVER AT THE 
 GATE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 I'm kneeling at the threshold, 
 
 Weary, faint, and sore ; 
 Waiting for the dawning. 
 
 For the opening of the door ; 
 Waiting till the Master 
 
 Shall bid me rise and come 
 To the glory of His presence — 
 
 To the gladness of His home. 
 
 A weary path Fve travelled, 
 
 'Mid darkness, storm, and strife ; 
 Bearing many a burden — 
 
 Struggling for my life ; 
 But now the morn is breaking, 
 
 My toil will soon be o'er ; 
 I'm kneeling at the threshold — 
 
 My hand is on the door. 
 
 Methinks I hear the voices 
 
 Of the blessed as they stand, 
 Singing in the sunshine 
 
 Of the sinless land. 
 O ! would that I were with them, 
 
 Amid their shining throng. 
 Mingling in their worship — 
 
 Joining in their song. 
 
 The friends that started with me 
 
 Have entered long ago ; 
 One by one they lefi me 
 
 Struggling with the foe. 
 Their pilgrimage was shorter, 
 
 Their triumph sooner won ; 
 How lovingly they'll greet me 
 
 When my toil is done ! 
 
 With them, the blessed angels, 
 
 That know nor grief nor sin, 
 T see them by the portals, 
 
 Prepared to let me in. 
 O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure ; 
 
 Thy time and v/ay are best ; 
 But O ! so worn and weary, 
 
 Dear Father, bid me rest. 
 
 THE OLD FARM. 
 
 Out in the meadows the farm-house 
 lies, 
 
 Old and gray, and fronting the west. 
 Many a swallow thither flies 
 Twittering under the evening skies, 
 
 In the old chimneys builds her nest. 
 
 Ah ! how the sounds make our old 
 hearts swell ! 
 Send them again on an eager quest : 
 Bid the sweet winds of heaven tell 
 Those we have loved so long and well 
 Come again home to the dear old 
 nest. 
 
 When the gray evening, cool and still, 
 Hushes the brain and heart to rest, 
 Memory comes with a joyous thrill, 
 Brings the young children back at will. 
 Calls them all home to the gray old 
 nest. 
 
 Patient we wait till the golden morn 
 
 Rise on our weariness half-confessed; 
 Till, wdth the chill and darkness gone, 
 Hope shall arise with another dawn. 
 And a new day to the sad old nest. 
 
 Soon shall we see all the eager east 
 Bright with the Day-star, at heav- 
 en's behest ; 
 Soon, from the bondage of clay re- 
 leased. 
 Rise to the Palace, the King's own 
 feast. 
 Birds of flight from the last year's 
 nest. 
 
 AT THE LAST. 
 
 Three little words within my brain 
 Beat back and forth their one refrain ; 
 Three little words, whose dull distress 
 Means everything and nothingness. 
 Unbidden move my lips instead 
 Of other utterance : She is dead. 
 
MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 297 
 
 Here, lingering, we talked of late 
 Beside the hedge-grown garden gate ; 
 Till, smiling, ere the twilight fell 
 She bade me take a last farewell. 
 Those were the final words she said — 
 But yesterday — and she is dead ! 
 
 I see the very gown she wore, 
 
 The color I had praised before; 
 
 The swaying length, where she would 
 
 pass, 
 Made a light rustle on the grass : 
 There in the porch she turned her 
 
 head 
 For one last smile — and she is dead ! 
 
 Could I have known what was to 
 
 come, 
 Those hours had not been blind and 
 
 dumb! 
 I would have followed close with 
 
 Death, 
 Have striven for every glance and 
 
 breath ! 
 But now — the final word is said. 
 The last look taken — she is dead ! 
 
 We were not lovers — such as they 
 Who pledge a faith to last for aye ; 
 Yet seems the Universe to me 
 A riddle now without a key: 
 What means the sunshine overhead, 
 The bloom below — now she is dead? 
 
 So new my grief, its sudden haze 
 Bewilders my accustomed ways ; 
 And yet so old, it seems my heart 
 Was never from its pain apart : — 
 What was and is and shall be, wed 
 With that one sentence — She is dead. 
 
 MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 In the twilight alone I am sitting, 
 And fast through my memory are flit- 
 ting 
 
 The dreams of youth. 
 The future is smiling before me, 
 And hope's bright visions float o'er 
 me — 
 
 Shall I doubt their truth ? 
 I know that my hopes may prove bub- 
 bles, 
 
 Too frail to endure. 
 And thick-strewn be the cares and the 
 troubles 
 
 That life has in store. 
 
 But 'tis best we know not the sorrow 
 That comes with a longed-for to- 
 morrow, 
 
 And the anguish and care : 
 If the veil from my future were lifted, 
 Perhaps at the sight I had drifted 
 
 Down into despair ; 
 If I knew all the woes that awaited 
 
 My hurrying feet, 
 My pleasures might oftener be 
 freighted 
 
 With bitter than sweet. 
 
 And yet, though my life has been lonely, 
 Some flowers I have plucked that 
 could only 
 
 From trials have sprung ; 
 Some joys I have known that did bor- 
 row 
 Their brightness from contrast with 
 sorrow- 
 That over me hung. 
 For the moonbeams are brighter in 
 seeming 
 
 When clouds are gone by. 
 If only a moment their gleaming 
 Be hid from the eye. 
 
 Sad indeed would be Life's dewy 
 
 morning 
 If, all Hope's bright promises scorning, 
 
 O'erburdened with fears, 
 We saw but the woe and the sorrow 
 That would come to our hearts on the 
 morrow. 
 
 The sighs and the tears. 
 So 'tis best that- we may not discover 
 
 What Fate hath in store, 
 Nor lift up the veil that hangs over 
 
 What lieth before. 
 
298 
 
 THE OLD HOME.— DANIEL GRAY. 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 Yes, still the same, the same old spot ; 
 The years may go, the years may 
 come, 
 Yet through them all there changeth 
 not 
 The old familiar home. 
 
 The poplars by the old mill stream 
 A trifle taller may have grown ; 
 
 The ivies round the turret green 
 Perchance more thickly thrown. 
 
 Yet still the same green lands are here 
 That brought their violet scents in 
 Spring, 
 And heard through many a golden 
 year 
 The winsome echoes ring, 
 
 Of children, in the April morn. 
 
 Knee-deep in yellow cowslip blooms; 
 
 Of lovers' whispers lightly borne 
 Through sultry twilight glooms. 
 
 And out upon the red-bricked town. 
 The quaint old houses stand the 
 same ; 
 
 The same old sign swings at the Crown, 
 Ablaze in sunset flame. 
 
 Yet, still 'tis not the same old spot — 
 The old familiar friends are gone, 
 
 I ask of those who know them not ; 
 All strangers, every one. 
 
 The morning brooks may sing the 
 same ; 
 The white thorns blossom in the 
 May ; 
 But each long-loved, remembered 
 name 
 Has passed in turn away. 
 
 BABTS CURL. 
 
 I FOUND, to-day, amid some treasured 
 things, 
 
 Kept long with loving care. 
 
 Some faded flowers, love notes and 
 
 broken rings. 
 And — dearest far of all love's offerings, 
 This httle curl of hair. 
 
 The silent, burning tears fell unre- 
 pressed 
 
 For the dear curly head 
 My willing fingers have so oft caressed. 
 Till every childish grief was soothed to 
 rest, 
 
 I number with ray dead. 
 
 Never again my eager hands shall stray 
 Amid the clustering hair. 
 
 Where in the long ago this sweet curl 
 lay ; 
 
 For the dear head is lying far away. 
 Beyond my love and care : 
 
 Beyond the reach and need of love's 
 caress ; 
 
 The precious, curly head 
 Can never feel again my warm lips 
 
 press. 
 Or know with what a depth of tender- 
 ness 
 
 I hold this silken thread. 
 
 What wonder that the tears fall thick 
 and fast. 
 
 Here in the twilight dim ! 
 For this, my darling's ringlet, is the 
 
 last 
 And only relic of a sacred past ! 
 'Tis all I have of him. 
 
 DANIEL GRAY. 
 
 If I shall ever win the home in heaven 
 For whose sweet rest I humbly hope 
 
 and pray. 
 In the great company of the forgiven 
 I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 
 
 I knew him well ; in truth, few knew 
 
 him better ; 
 For my young eyes oft read for him 
 
 the Word, 
 
DANIEL GRAY. 
 
 299 
 
 And saw how meekly from the crystal 
 
 letter 
 He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 
 
 Old Daniel Gray was not a man who 
 lifted 
 
 On ready words his freight of grati- 
 tude, 
 
 Nor was he ever called among the gifted, 
 
 In the prayer-meetings of his neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 He had a few old-fashioned words and 
 phrases, 
 
 Linked in with sacred texts and Sun- 
 day rhymes ; 
 
 And I suppose that in his prayers and 
 graces, 
 
 I've heard them all at least a thousand 
 times. 
 
 I see him now — his form, his face, his 
 motions. 
 
 His homespun habit, and his silver 
 hair, — 
 
 And hear the language of his trite de- 
 votions. 
 
 Rising behind the straight -backed 
 kitchen chair. 
 
 I can remember how the sentence 
 sounded — 
 
 " Help us, O Lord, to pray and not 
 to faint ! " 
 
 And how the " conquering and to con- 
 quer " rounded 
 
 The loftier aspiration of the saint. 
 
 He had some notions that did not im- 
 prove him, 
 
 He never kissed his children — so they 
 say; 
 
 And finest scenes of rarest flowers 
 would move him 
 
 Less than a horse-shoe picked up in 
 the way. 
 
 He had a hearty hatred of oppression. 
 And righteous word for sin of every 
 kind ; 
 
 Alas, that the transgressor and trans- 
 gression 
 
 Were linked so closely in his honest 
 mind ! 
 
 He could see naught but vanity in 
 beauty, 
 
 And naught but weakness in a fond 
 caress. 
 
 And pitied men whose views of Chris- 
 tian duty 
 
 Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 
 
 Yet there were love and tenderness 
 
 within him ; 
 And I am told that when his Charley 
 
 died. 
 Nor nature's need nor gentle word 
 
 could win him 
 From his fond vigils at the sleeper's 
 
 side. 
 
 And when they came to bury little 
 
 Charley, 
 They found fresh dewdrops sprinkled 
 
 in his hair. 
 And on his breast a rosebud gathered 
 
 early. 
 And guessed, but did not know who 
 
 placed it there. 
 
 Honest, faithful, constant in his call- 
 ing. 
 
 Strictly attendant on the means of 
 grace. 
 
 Instant in prayer, and fearful most of 
 failing, 
 
 Old Daniel Gray was always in his 
 placi. 
 
 A practical old man and yet a dreamer, 
 
 He thought that in some strange, un- 
 looked-for way 
 
 His mighty Friend in Heaven, the 
 great Redeemer, 
 
 Would honor him with wealth some 
 golden day. 
 
300 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 This dream he carried in a hopeful 
 spirit 
 
 Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 
 
 And his Redeemer called him to in- 
 herit 
 
 The heaven of wealth long garnered 
 up for him. 
 
 So, if I ever win the home in Heaven 
 f^or whose sweet rest I humbly hope 
 
 and pray, 
 In the great company of the forgiven 
 I shall be sure to find old Daniel 
 
 Gray. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 All day the land in golden sunlight lay, 
 
 All day a happy people to and fro 
 Moved through the quiet Summer ways; 
 all day 
 I wandered with bowed head and 
 footsteps slow, 
 A stranger in the well-remembered 
 
 place. 
 Where Time has left not one familiar 
 face 
 
 I knew long years ago. 
 
 By marsh-lands golden with bog as- 
 phodel, 
 I saw the fitful plover wheel and 
 scream ; 
 The soft winds swayed the foxglove's 
 purple bell ; 
 The iris trembled by the whispering 
 stream ; 
 Gazing on these blue hills which know 
 
 not change. 
 All the dead years seemed fallen dim 
 and strange. 
 
 Unreal as a dream. 
 
 Unchanged as in my dreams lay the 
 fair land, 
 The laughter-loving lips, the eager 
 feet, 
 The hands that struck warm welcome 
 to my hand. 
 The hearts that at my coming higher 
 beat. 
 
 Have long been cold in death ; no glad 
 
 surprise 
 Wakens for me in any living eyes. 
 
 That once made lite so sweet. 
 
 Slowly the day drew down the golden 
 west ; 
 The purple shadows lengthened on 
 the plain, 
 Yet I unresting through a world at rest. 
 Went sihnt with my memory and 
 my pain ; 
 Then, for a little space, across the years 
 To me, bowed down with time and 
 worn with tears, 
 
 My friends came back again. 
 
 By many a spot where Summer could 
 not last. 
 In other days, for all our joy too long, 
 They came about me from the shad- 
 owy past, 
 As last I saw them, young and gay 
 and strong ; 
 And she, my heart, came fair as in the 
 
 days 
 When at her coming all the radiant 
 ways 
 
 Thrilled into happy song. 
 
 Ah me ! once here, on such a Summer 
 night. 
 In silent bliss together she and I 
 Stood watching the pale lingering 
 fringe of light 
 Go slowly creeping round the north- 
 ern sky. 
 Ah, love, il all the weary years could give 
 But one sweet hour of that sweet night 
 to live 
 
 With thee — and then to die ! 
 
 The old sweet fragrance fills the Sum- 
 mer air. 
 The same light lingers on the north- 
 ern sea. 
 Still, as of old, the silent land lies fair 
 Beneath the silent stars, the melody 
 Of moving waters still is on the shore, 
 And I am here again — but nevermore 
 Will she come back to me. 
 
UNTO THE DESIRED HAVEN. 
 
 301 
 
 UNTO THE DESIRED HA VEN. 
 
 What matter how the winds may 
 blow, 
 
 Or blow they east, or blow they west ? 
 What reck I how the tides may flow, 
 
 Since ebb or flood alike is best ? 
 No summer calm, no winter gale, 
 
 Impedes or drives me from my way : 
 I steadfast toward tbe haven sail, 
 
 That lies, perhaps, not far away. 
 
 I mind the weary days of old, 
 
 When motionless I seemed to lie ; 
 The nights when fierce the billows 
 rolled, 
 
 And changed my course, I knew not 
 why. 
 I feared the calm, I feared the gale, 
 
 Foreboding danger and delay. 
 Forgetting I was thus to sail 
 
 To reach what seemed so far away. 
 
 I measure not the loss and fret 
 
 Which through those years of doubt 
 I bore : 
 I keep the memory fresh, and yet 
 Would hold God's patient mercy 
 more. 
 What wrecks have passed me in the 
 gale. 
 What ships gone down on summer 
 day: 
 While I, with furled or spreading sail, 
 Stood for the haven far away. 
 
 What matter how the winds may blow. 
 
 Since fair or foul alike are best : 
 God holds them in His hand, I know. 
 
 And I may leave to Him the rest, 
 Assured that neither calm nor gale 
 
 Can bring me danger or delay, 
 As still I toward the haven sail, 
 
 That lies, I know, not far away. 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A baby's boot and a skein of wool 140 
 
 A broken toy, a task that held away ^^ ^ 
 
 A dear little maid came skipping out ceila thaxter. S3 
 
 A face on which the years lie gently g. e. s. 23S 
 
 A fair little girl lord houghtox. 54 
 
 A four-leafed clover in mv chamber drawer mary w. plummfr. 89 
 
 A garret grows a human thing ben-jamin f. taylor. 151 
 
 A generous basket piled to the brim adele macdonald. 239 
 
 A hard, close man was Solomon Ray E. a. c. 1 14 
 
 Ah, here it is, that dear old place 278 
 
 Ah, whither, fair maiden E- ^- 73 
 
 A kiss when I wake in the morning A. E. fa.beus. 25 
 
 A little dreaming such as mothers know. • • 203 
 
 A little elbow leans upon your knee MAY riley smith. 194 
 
 A little maid in the morning sun ^^ 
 
 A little roil of flannel fine FRANCES A. M. JOHXSON. 46 
 
 Ah, there he is, lad, at the plow i^4 
 
 All day the children's busy feet s. B. T02 
 
 All day the white-haired woman sits ^^7 
 
 All the land in golden sunlight lay 300 
 
 A look of yearning tenderness ^^ 
 
 Always I rocked my baby to sleep P. burge smith. 205 
 
 A mile or so from the gray little town I39 
 
 A mother sang beside her little child 202 
 
 A mother sat at her sewing A- ^- ^^ iq7 
 
 Ance I had a wife o' my ain, Isabella Isabella fyvik mayo. 253 
 
 An old, old man, with whiskers white james clarenck harvky. 30 
 
 And is this age ? There's wrinkles o'er her brow " Sunday magazine . 247 
 
 "And the odor of it filled the house ! " Adelaide stout. 226 
 
 And this is her room and her cushioned chair anna cleaves. 244 
 
 And what if I should be kind Elizabeth stuart phelps. 179 
 
 An old farm-house with meadows wide 259 
 
 An old man sat in a v.-oin arm-chair 257 
 
 An old-time ingle warm and wide helen ^v. ludlow. ] 2 r 
 
 A pair of verv chubbv legs '4^ 
 
 Apart in the golden glory sophie bronson titteringtox. 2^7 
 
 Are we "the boys " that used to make Oliver w. holmes. 263 
 
 A round little face peeping out of a shawl 25 
 
 As down the path one Sabbath morn ROSA graham. 43 
 
 As I've sat at mv chamber window ^ ^9 ^ 
 
 As often I pass 'the roadside kane o donnell. 114 
 
 As the sun went down in purple red may b burnett. bi 
 
 A soft grav mist lies low in the valley fanny driscoll. 73 
 
 A stone's-throw from the market-town J. R- Eastwood. 163 
 
 Astorv? Astorv? william m. f. round. 235 
 
 A sunny slope where the first daisies blow mary spring walkhr. 150 
 
 (303) 
 
304 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 A thousand eyes behold the classmates range M. e. Bennett. 75 
 
 A timid knock was at my door F, B. w. loi 
 
 At mither's knee I waitin' stood rev. j, e, rankin, d.d. 272 
 
 A village school-room, this the scene mary b. dodge. 69 
 
 A wall was grown up between the two 182 
 
 A wanderer I've been and have traveled for years Thomas d. james. 257 
 
 Away from the soil that bore them from " the evening journal ". 224 
 
 A wee cot house abune the knowe 105 
 
 A white pine floor and low-ceiled room B. F. taylor. 118 
 
 Aye, artists come to paint it and writers to put in a book 146 
 
 Baby and I are invited " squid scotch". 53 
 
 Baby, baby on my breast mary ainge de vere. 15 
 
 Beautiful little mamma L. c. whiton. 33 
 
 Bed-time for the twittering birdies 139 
 
 Behold, a seraph soaring REV. A. T. pierson, d.d. 221 
 
 Ben Ezra, mourning wild R. W. R. 157 
 
 Bertha's basket maiden. Bertha MARGARET E. sangster, 245 
 
 Blue-veined and wrinkled, knuckly and brown 113 
 
 By-and-by, the evening falls 167 
 
 Bye, baby, day is over 20 
 
 Captive little hand 9' 
 
 Chafed and worn with worldly cares 210 
 
 Close, little weary eyes ^ 126 
 
 Come, my wife, put down the Bible 277 
 
 Coming along by the meadows 100 
 
 Cool, restful shadows 'neath the old gnarled trees B. E. E. 273 
 
 Damaris Brown is a wooden doll from " youth's companion ". 79 
 
 Dame Margery has a lilac bush , . .M. B. c. SLADE. 169 
 
 Dancing like a' sunbeam MRS. j. B. lummis. 20 
 
 Dear little bright-eyed Willie 62 
 
 Dear little hands, I loved them so 1 214 
 
 Deep down beside the tangled sedge C. E. brooks. 282 
 
 Dod will tate tare of baby dear IDA glenwood. 27 
 
 Do not be angry with me I95 
 
 Do not let us take the highway, sweet annie l. muzzie. 96 
 
 Don't go to the theater, concert, or ball 209 
 
 Down in the orchard all the day. emily huntington miller. 52 
 
 Down the quiet country road 107 
 
 Do ve not know me, Donald ? 99 
 
 Do ye think of the days that are gone, Jeanie ? DORA greenwell. 255 
 
 Each day when the glow of sunset '49 
 
 Each year, early in the summer ella farman. 75 
 
 Early in the morning I94 
 
 English child of Eastern birth dinah muloch craik. 205 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky " fanny Forrester". 13 
 
 Every day for a month of Sundays mary e. Bradley. 63 
 
 Fair faces beaming round the household hearth rev. james w. miles. 181 
 
 Family-laden, wee wise maiden 23 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 305 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Far back in my musing, my thoughts have been cast MRS. s, P. snow. 279 
 
 Farewell, days and months and years 288 
 
 Fingers on the holes, Johnny 112 
 
 For threescore years and ten 242 
 
 For us, O Lord, the year has brought hezekiah butterworth. 162 
 
 From out the great world's rush and din mary clemmer. 206 
 
 Gather them close to your loving heart 216 
 
 Gay little velvet coats 19 
 
 Give me a valentine, youth mary Amelia burr. 240 
 
 Gladly now we gather round it 190 
 
 God bless the little stockings may riley smith. 146 
 
 God keep you safe, my little love 178 
 
 God wants the boys, the merry, merry boys " Sunday-school times". 77 
 
 Go forth in the battle of life, my boy 74 
 
 Good-by, good-by, it is the sweetest blessing s. b. rosemeres. 178 
 
 Good-night, the sun is setting 45 
 
 Go to sleep, baby 34 
 
 Grandmamma sits in her quaint old chair marjory west. 231 
 
 Grandmothers arc very nice folks 246 
 
 Hand in hand through the city streets F. j. d. 223 
 
 Hang up the baby's stocking , 32 
 
 Hear'st thou the song it sings to me ? rose terry cookr. 2S3 
 
 He leant beside the church-yard gate from *' chatterbox ". 171 
 
 Here's a stool, and here's a chair from " chatterbox ". 31 
 
 Here I'm sitting stitching, darning MRS. M. G. U. 129 
 
 Her lot is on you — woman's lot she meant . 211 
 
 Her milk pail on her head lydia leigh. 109 
 
 Her step grows slower on the flowery sward sarah doudnky. 150 
 
 He walks beside his mother george cooper. 45 
 
 He who died at Azim, sends edwin Arnold. 2S3 
 
 He wraps me round with riches 93 
 
 His to struggle and defend 176 
 
 Hold closer still my hands, dear love sarah l. joy. 175 
 
 Home again ! Mother, your boy will rest abbie c. m'keever. iio 
 
 Home from his journey, farmer John J. T. Trowbridge. 141 
 
 How many miles to Babyland ? george cooper. 31 
 
 How swiftly rise the rolling years rev. j. n. tarbox, d.d. 274 
 
 Hush-a-by baby ! as the birds fly from " the nursery ". 33 
 
 I am cutting papers to-day, mother 208 
 
 I am kneeling at the threshold REV. thos. guthrie. 296 
 
 I am silting beside my nursery fire , no 
 
 I built a house in my youthful dreams Elizabeth aken allen. hi 
 
 I can scarcely hear, she murmured. I35 
 
 I can tell just how it happened, though Caroline b. le row. 167 
 
 I could not comprehend e. B. 126 
 
 I do not think that I could bear 207 
 
 I found to-day, amid some treasured things 298 
 
 If I could hear one little song 204 
 
 If I had known in the morning 206 
 
 If I shall win the home in heaven J. g. Holland. 298 
 
3o6 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGa 
 
 If we could know julia h. may. 225 
 
 I find it in the garden path mary d. brine. 46 
 
 If in the years to come, dear 1/7 
 
 If only mothers knew, she said Helen rich. 204 
 
 If there should come a time, as well there may .... 180 
 
 If the \vorld seems cold to you 206 
 
 If things go wrong in the household 127 
 
 If we'd thought at our last meeting REV. WILLIAM MITCHELL. 270 
 
 If we knew the woe and heartache L. m. r. 200 
 
 I have gone — I can not always go, you know 274 
 
 I have closed my books and hidden my slate Katharine l. bates. 164 
 
 I have some withered flowers 153 
 
 I heard the words of the preacher 264 
 
 I know the dream is over barton grey. 182 
 
 I know of a dainty blue sky Carrie w. bronson. 34 
 
 I know the years have rolled across thy grave Elizabeth akers. 294 
 
 I looked in the tell-tale mirror 176 
 
 I love to wander through the woodland hoary. ... 130 
 
 " I'm lasted ! Could you find me, please ? " ANNA F. burnham. 30 
 
 I might begin, " the rose is red " KATE KELLOGG. 79 
 
 In a little brown house. ... I2 
 
 In a little white house on a hillside green 141 
 
 In a pleasant, homely chamber 218 
 
 In a wagon made of willow 94 
 
 Ins and outs — whims and pouts 214 
 
 In spring two robins from the warmer lands 132 
 
 In the far away past, when with me life was new 254 
 
 In the farm-house porch the farmer sat 93 
 
 In the shadows ':reeping o'er 140 
 
 In the soft October sunshine LYNDE palmer. 76 
 
 In the twilight alone 1 am sitting EMMIE j. barratt. 297 
 
 Into a ward of the whitewashed walls marie lacoste. 154 
 
 Into the garden I walked Augustus taylor. 97 
 
 I promised to write you, John, I know 24c 
 
 I's a poor 'ittle sorrowful baby hester a. benedict. 22 
 
 I sat an hour to-day, John 265 
 
 I sat, one evening, watching georgiana m'neil. 16 
 
 I see two lilies, white as snow from " christian at work *'. 32 
 
 I sit at the window at early eve mary d, brine. 161 
 
 Is it bright with summer gladness peleg arkwright. 58 
 
 I stood on the brink in childhood w. d. howells. 2S5 
 
 I suppose if all the children 71 
 
 I think you would not care to know this now susAN m. day, 222 
 
 It is an autumn afternoon REBECCA perley reed. 197 
 
 It is easy to glide with its ripples 127 
 
 It matters little where I was born ibg 
 
 I told you the winter would go, love. . . 177 
 
 It's aboot my chubby bit bairn 17 
 
 It stands as it stood in " auld lang syne " 148 
 
 It stands in a sunny meadow 258 
 
 It was a merry brook, that ran from " chambers' journal ". 293 
 
 It was a shining Sunday morn 131 
 
 It was an old and once familiar strain 227 
 
 II v/as only a little blossom charlotta perry. 184 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 307 
 
 I was sitting in my study ^^5 
 
 I wonder where the violets grow GEORGE klingle. 282 
 
 Just a few words, but they blinded georgianna nourse. 180 
 
 Just fair enough to be pretty 95 
 
 Keep a guard on your words, my darlings 77 
 
 Kisses in the morning ^^5 
 
 Kneeling fair in the twilight gray MARY B. dodge. 126 
 
 Knock at the door 33 
 
 Lady sitting in silken gear ELLA M. baker. 193 
 
 Let bygones be bygones ; if bygones were clouded 1^0 
 
 Let every sound be dead ^ " 
 
 Letters ? Four times a day Margaret e. sangster. 237 
 
 Let wind and waters murmur clear WILLIAM freeland. 190 
 
 Life is teeming with evil snares ^9^ 
 
 Light and shadows rise and fall Margaret mason. 117 
 
 Likea wasp, like a sprite george cooper. 51 
 
 Little Bessie wakes at midnight 55 
 
 Little birds sit on the telegraph wires MRS. A. d. t. whitney. 184 
 
 Little blue eyes is sleepy eben e. rexford. 24 
 
 Little Daisy said one day Jessie macgregor. 243 
 
 Little fresh violets "^5 
 
 Little lad slow wandering across the sands so yellow CELIA thaxter. ioO 
 
 Little lichen, fondly clinging R. M. e. 95 
 
 Little Miss Margery sits and sews LUCY D. wiggin. 5b 
 
 Little Miss Meddlesome scattering crumbs JOEL benton. 50 
 
 Look up once again, dear grandma A. leeland scammon. 238 
 
 Long years ago 
 
 Losses on losses— fast they came Harriet m ewen kimball. 210 
 
 Madge, wee woman with earnest look carrie m. Thompson. 40 
 
 'Mid fields with useless daisies white marion douglas. 71 
 
 Mother of our mother dear MRS. m. f. butts. 247 
 
 Mother's baby rock and rest eben e. rexford. 18 
 
 Mouth like a rosebud lucy Randolph Fleming. 31 
 
 My baby sat on the floor 32 
 
 My boy, do you know the boy I love J. T. Trowbridge. 68 
 
 My fairest child 
 
 My family machine ' 
 
 My little son who looked from thoughtful eyes 214 
 
 My lord rides through his palace gates CHARLES g. leland. 138 
 
 .My lover and I stood on the shore lucree. 90 
 
 ' My neighbor's house is not so high ^9^ 
 
 My thoughts are all in yonder town JOHN G. whittier. 169 
 
 Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes 35 
 
 Never did a kinder mother DR- n. macleod. 144 
 
 Never too tired to hear or heed e. v. s. 193 
 
 No fairer day was ever seen mrs. e. t. corbett. 177 
 
3o8 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Not as I will ; how can I say it, Lord ? A. E. s. 271 
 
 Not here in the populous town F. w. bourdillon. 261 
 
 Not long ago I wandered near 50 
 
 Not those I sadly laid away MRS. l. r. janes. 49 
 
 Not what we would, but what we must r. h. stoddard. 291 
 
 Now I lay me down to sleep M. r. h. 125 
 
 Now I lay — say it, darling 18 
 
 No winter time in love ADELAIDE STOUT. 263 
 
 Now tell me, dear^ of all the loves 185 
 
 Of all the bonny buds that blow MARY E. BRADLEY. loi 
 
 Oft within our little cottage 219 
 
 O, God of boundless purity 209 
 
 Oh ! beautiful faith of childhood ! How Margaret j. preston. 30 
 
 Oh, brothers and sisters growing old 277 
 
 Oh, could there in the world be found 122 
 
 Oh, dinna sing the janglin' sangs w. macdonald wood. 232 
 
 Oh, don't be sorrowful, darling 233 
 
 Oh, don't you remember our grandfather's barn 69 
 
 Oh, for a swing in the old elm tree. Elizabeth a. davis. 281 
 
 Oh, for one hour of youthful joy Oliver wendell holmes. 271 
 
 Oh, grandma sits in her oaken chair 163 
 
 Oh, happy are the children on a pleasant summer day 108 
 
 Oh, it is hard when o'er the face Caroline Leslie. 26 
 
 Oh, larks sing out 10 the thrushes mrs. l. c. whiton. 41 
 
 Oh, loved and lost, so long, so long ago mrs. j. g. Bennett. 185 
 
 Oh, memories of green and pleasant places 281 
 
 Oh, mother, what do they mean by blue ? 58 
 
 Oh, my bonny Mary 13 
 
 Oh, sun so far up in the blue sky fanny bennedict. 39 
 
 Oh, sweet and fair ! Oh, rich and rare ..... 89 
 
 Oh, the merry mill-stream ! from " harper's young people". 294 
 
 Oh, the old, old clock of the household stock 1 13 
 
 Oh, the queen in her carriage is passing by 28 
 
 Oh, the tiny curled-up treasure 21 
 
 Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings E. A. smuller. 291 
 
 Oh, why must I always be washed so clean ? 48 
 
 Old ? oh, no ! she can never be old 201 
 
 Old Parson Kelly's fair young wife, Irene marion douglas. 286 
 
 Once in my boyhood's gladsome day thomas mckellrr. 196 
 
 Once in my quiet garden rose terry cooke. 154 
 
 Once I said julia c. r. dorr. 132 
 
 Once more by mount and meadow side . 105 
 
 One day in summer's glow 103 
 
 One day when I came home fatigued 175 
 
 One dear friend after another , mary e. Atkinson. 267 
 
 One in the distance when the star came out.. . .prof, john trow^bridge, s.d. 115 
 
 Only a boy with his noise and fun 52 
 
 Only beginning the journey from " the child's paper". 34 
 
 On the wide porch, thickly shaded Elizabeth olmis. 234 
 
 O sad-voiced winds that sigh about my door ! cHarles l. hildreth. 170 
 
 O-ir Daisy lay down .anna c. bracjcktt. 23 
 
 Our Fannie Angelina didn't want to go to bed 24 
 
 Our foot struck hard against a broken stone Adelaide stout. 286 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 309 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Our little Daisy is rosy and. sweet MRS. M. e. Bradley. 47 
 
 Our varied days pass on and on ^99 
 
 Out of the garret MRS. clara doty bates. 236 
 
 Out in the meadows the farm-house lies clara b. Trowbridge. 296 
 
 Out on the lawn one summer's day 245 
 
 Over dark fields and rivers deep and cold G. s. outram. 132 
 
 Over the fields by winding ways alice m. eddy. 94 
 
 Patience, mother, don't be weary lizzie underwood. 203 
 
 Prithee, tell me, mistress Mary a. d. t. Whitney. 83 
 
 Pull the needle, swing the broom i^i 
 
 Quarter to nine ! Boys and girls, do you hear ? R. i. schoolmaster. 42 
 
 Rickety, old, and crazy ^^7 
 
 Running away from mamma 53 
 
 Sad-eyed Madonnas walk the earth in every land is adore c. gilbert. 189 
 
 Safely guarded by Thy presence e. s. 61 
 
 Scarlet is my baby's color agnes l. hill. 17 
 
 See that crevice in the floor B. F. taylor. 59 
 
 Send the children to bed with a kiss and a smile 201 
 
 She folded up the worn and mended frock may riley smith. 222 
 
 She is sitting very silent in her little crimson chair ellen m. h. gates. 85 
 
 She is my only girl 219 
 
 She lives not in a palace W. ALFRED GAY. 175 
 
 She sits in the gathering twilight ebkn e. rexford. 232 
 
 She spread them softly upon her knee ALICE Arnold crawford. 262 
 
 She turns her great grave eyes towards mine edgar fa^cett. 44 
 
 She was so fair G. N. plunket. 159 
 
 Since I have not for your bridal eleanor s. deane. 92 
 
 Sing a song of Christmas ^^ 
 
 Sing him a cradle song SARAH doudney. 25 
 
 Sing, litde brook, and bid me sleep a. M. 138 
 
 Sing, little daughter, sing • • • ^7 
 
 Sing on, ye happy warblers, nor refrain C w. g. 285 
 
 Sit still, my daughter ^ ^72 
 
 Sitting by the firelight E. V. C. 55 
 
 Sleeps baby, sleep ! for the night draweth nigh 29 
 
 Sleep here in peace ^55 
 
 Sleep, my baby, beside the fire 28 
 
 Softly, O softly, the years have swept by thee 24S 
 
 Some quick and bitter words we said °o 
 
 South and North MRS. M. F. butts. 29 
 
 Southward still, the sun is slanting day by day CELIA thaxter. 255 
 
 Standing on the threshold 97 
 
 Such fun as we had one rainy day 21S 
 
 Sweet baby eyes ;/ 259 
 
 Sweet tangled banks where ox-eyed daisies grow " Sunday magazine ". 171 
 
 Sweetheart, your bonnie eyes were blue millie w. carpknti r. 176 
 
 Swinging on a birch-tree i-UCY larcom. 1 
 
3^0 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Take this letter to my mother 192 
 
 Tell me a story, mamma MRS. d. m. Jordan. 63 
 
 Tell us a storv, mamma dear julia m. dama. 22 
 
 Ten little fingers, so taper and neat MRS. richard grant white. 32 
 
 The bairnie sat on the hillock hard 65 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 109 
 
 The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae HUGH macdonald. 292 
 
 The busy day is over • 16 
 
 The children are going to bed M. e. winslow. 43 
 
 The clock strikes seven in the hall JANE elice Hopkins. 212 
 
 The church bells for service are ringing " harper's young plople". 80 
 
 The church was dim and silent JULIA c. R. dorr. 84 
 
 The children's world is full of sweet surprises sarah doudney. 85 
 
 The clouds had softened when we came from school george h. cooper. 165 
 
 The day is young and I am young 260 
 
 The days are short and the nights are long Margaret e. sangster. 8^ 
 
 The flowers are here and violet eyes myra a. goodwin. 268 
 
 The great Thanksgiving dinner ROSA graham. 46 
 
 The hills were veiled in purple mist 288 
 
 The holiest of all holy days are those H. w. longfellow. 218 
 
 The little children on the stairway LUCY larcom. i 4 
 
 The little weary-winged bees 20 
 
 The old farm-gate hangs sagging down ^.eugene j. hall. 116 
 
 The old man sits in his easv-chair mary d. brine. 237 
 
 The old silver thimble I've worn for years MRS. s. j. megargee. 128 
 
 The orchard blooms in red and white 108 
 
 The orchard grass is sunshine barred » 289 
 
 The pale moon rushed along the stormy sky I34 
 
 The quilting bee was over , 234 
 
 The reapers bend their lusty backs 116 
 
 There are blossoms that hae budded 148 
 
 There are countless sounds in this world of ours 284 
 
 There are some hearts that like the loving vine ; . 183 
 
 There come the boys ! Oh, dear, the noise ! 78 
 
 The reason I call it baby's day MRS. L. c. whiton. 21 
 
 There is a good time coming, boys 77 
 
 There is a picture in my heart march ellinwood. 256 
 
 There is nothing to see 278 
 
 There's a homestead waiting for you, my boy 128 
 
 There's a hurry of half-clipped words M. E. P. 49 
 
 There's a little face at the window 121 
 
 There's not a blossom of beautiful May ii 
 
 There was a woman once so pure and fine george c. bragdon. 275 
 
 The rights of women — what are they ? 207 
 
 The road is long and rough, you see 9^ 
 
 The sea at the crag's base brightens 2S9 
 
 The spirit's trailing garments that have swept Margaret j. preston. 221 
 
 The splashing breakers on the beach 293 
 
 The spring has less of brightness albert pike. 261 
 
 The start it gave me just now to see KATE P. Osgood. 122 
 
 The sweetest spot in the home to me ., mary d. brine. 12 
 
 The tattoo beats— the lights are gone. . . .^Vc.'.C. . . " wojjewall " jackson. 145 
 
 The tears are standing upon her cheeks I33 
 
 The twilight deepening fast MRS. E. j. CORBETT. 265 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 311 
 
 .'■AGE 
 
 The wee bit shoon she used to wear J. c. rankin, d.d. 25 
 
 The woman was old and ragt^ed and gray 72 
 
 The women dressed her for farewell 1S8 
 
 The world goes up, and the world goes down. 17"- 
 
 The worn, scarred veteran from his wars returning G, w. THOMAS, 143 
 
 They break the kitchen windows George cooper. 48 
 
 They brought home the portrait last night to me MRS. s. T. perry. 149 
 
 They drive home the cows from the pasture mary h. krout. 70 
 
 The yellow light of day is spent augusta moore. 26 \ 
 
 They name her " Trouble of the House " h. s. washburn. 78 
 
 They said of her : " She never can have felt ! " lucy larcom. 199 
 
 Thev sav, of our beloved dead A. E. s. 269 
 
 They sat at the spinning together emma m. Johnston. 136 
 
 Thinner the leaves of the larches show mrs. l. c. whiton. 158 
 
 This is the baby I love Harriet m'ewen kimball. 13 
 
 This is the old farm-house • • 280 
 
 Though we may not change the cottage 1 24 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old. 137 
 
 Through the doorway shone the summer morning EMILY H. miller. 166 
 
 Tho' weel I lo'e the budding spring WILLIAM miller. 157 
 
 Three little curlv heads, golden and fair MARY R. high am. 60 
 
 Three little words within my brain FROM " the aldine ". 296 
 
 Threescore-and-ten ! How the tide rolls on 253 
 
 'Tis the quiet hour of twilight KATE allyn. 244 
 
 'Tis the tick of the clock at midnight 210 
 
 'Tis weel to woe, 'tis weel to wed eliza cook. 136 
 
 Tittlebat Titmouse Theodore Van Horn from " ST. Nicholas". *8i 
 
 Together fifty years they trod 247 
 
 Turning the leaves in an idle way 280 
 
 'Tvvas a very simple lesson = 14 
 
 'Twas long ago — 'tis but a dream l;e o Harris. 290 
 
 'Twas milking-time, and the cows came up 92 
 
 'Twas on a bitter winter's day hElen hunt. 80 
 
 Two artless souls I met to-day mary b. dodge. 181 
 
 Two bright heads in the corner emily Huntington miller. 241 
 
 Two faces on a card I see 233 
 
 Two children down by the shining strand alex. lamont. 295 
 
 Two Httle children five years old 53 
 
 Two little dimpled hands julia Thompson. 19 
 
 Two little girls are better than one 42 
 
 Two little souls : a boy and a girl 107 
 
 Two miniature mothers at play on the floor 40 
 
 Two school-boys on their way to school 67 
 
 Under a fir, in the garden-ground 64 
 
 Under the apple-trees, spreading and thick Elizabeth sill. 64 
 
 Under the haj'-stack, little boy blue abby sage Richardson. 36 
 
 Under the lilacs we talked and sat JOEL benton. 163 
 
 Unto my loved ones have I given all susAN MARR spaulding. 100 
 
 Unto the desired haven 30i 
 
 Up and up the baby goes 23 
 
 U p in the garret one rainy day "67 
 
 Up on the breezy headland 120 
 
312 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Valleys lay in sunny vapor , G. P. lathrop. 136 
 
 Waiting at a wayside station emma a. smullkr, 70 
 
 Wait not till the little hands are at rest louise s. upham. 200 
 
 Wearily from stair to stair mary e. winslovv. 27 
 
 Wearily with homely duties done Margaret j. preston. 224 
 
 We bought him a bc.c for his books and things 65 
 
 We ha'e a wee bit bairn at hame 19 
 
 We have a youngster in the house R. H. stoddard. 213 
 
 We have been all together on the earth '. JOHN james ^j^tsv. 273 
 
 We live in a bit of a cottage francis e. pope, hi 
 
 Well, Tom, my boy, I must say good-bye '..... 147 
 
 We meet to-day— we part to-morrow N. c. M. 90 
 
 We stand at life's west windows . 254 
 
 We were upon the green old hill-side 95 
 
 What do the birds say, I wonder — I wonder ? 63 
 
 What has my darling been doing to-day ? KATE woodland. 45 
 
 vVhat has this woman been doing ? 204 
 
 What is a home ? A guarded space susan coolidge. 183 
 
 What is the kitty good for ? 39 
 
 What ! poor you say ? Why save you, friend 106 
 
 What shall it be, my little maid ? M. Johnson. 82 
 
 ' What shall we do ? " the children said Josephine pollard. 66 
 
 When daily tasks are done, and tired hands : 188 
 
 " When I'm a man ! " the stripling cries 270 
 
 When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing susan coolidge. 15 
 
 When the lamps were lit in the evening Josephine pollard. 242 
 
 When the song's gone out of your life 187 
 
 When thistle-blows do lightly float 115 
 
 When thou art very weak and weary, dear 186 
 
 When we are young our boys are sweet 275 
 
 When we lived down in Mapledale MRS. s. j. perry. 260 
 
 When you are sore bewildered . . 225 
 
 Where have you been, little birdie ? ig 
 
 Where's my baby ? Where's my baby ? 48 
 
 Whether she loves me, I can not tell mary. B. ferry. 179 
 
 Which shall it be ? Which shall it be ? t/t. s'/^v '^'-'^ • ^'i-<'<''fi/i44 
 
 White with the whiteness of the snow ' 103 
 
 Why don't you launch your boat, my boy ? 61 
 
 With frolicsome freaks Elizabeth olmis. 14 
 
 With timid hand, a little lad from " the s. s. times". 226 
 
 Wonder of wonders, in my stroll 143 
 
 Write it, O Angel, in the Book 205 
 
 Yes, brief our parting words shall be. . . ellice laele. 18 t 
 
 Yes, I am a ruined man, Kate ! 19S 
 
 Yes, still the same, the same old spot from " the golden rule ". 298 
 
 Yes, 'tis true the blinds are closed MARGARET E. sangstkr. 134 
 
 You can't help the baby, parson leander s. coan. 158 
 
 You placed this flower in her hands, you said 152 
 
 Your face, my boy, when six months old paul h. hayne. 104 
 
 You rleep upon your mother's breast Frederick locker. 217 
 
 You wonderful little Sunday-child Alice Williams. 28 
 
<v 
 
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