The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor,
Where the shade after noon used to steal;
The busy old wife, by the open door,
Was turning the spinning-wheel;

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree
Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,
While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay :
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!
CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

NOT ONE TO SPARE

"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 I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak.
"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 return, 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,
Her shining curls, like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in a gentle way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her!"
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,

And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart 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
Bids us to 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 our bedside

Then stole we softly up above

prayer. "

And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 't would better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head; "Nay, love; not 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 cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give 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.

ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

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, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch, 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 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 wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

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 in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, 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 house 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 had flown,
The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

WINIFREDA

AWAY! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood,
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And, to be noble, we 'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 't is spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We 'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We 'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
And when with envy time transported

Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

ANONYMOUS.

DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING

O DON'T be sorrowful, darling!
And don't be sorrowful, pray;
Taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more night than day.
"T is rainy weather, my darling;
Time's waves they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,
There is n't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,
Our heads are growing gray;

But taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,
And our roses long ago;

And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the silent night and the snow.

But God is God, my darling,

Of the night as well as the day; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way.

A God of the night, my darling,

Of the night of death so grim;

The gate that leads out of life, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.

REMBRANDT PEALE.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO
JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go ;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE

ROBERT BURNS.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he 's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark ?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there 's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a',

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.