The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead-
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids, with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech.

"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head-
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more-
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things:

Of shoes-and ships-and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages-and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter:
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed-

Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!"

"The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice;

I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said,
"I deeply sympathize."

With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again ?"
But answer came there none-
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

THE ISLAND OF HOME.-REV. IRA J. BAILEY,

I dwell on a beautiful island,

Afloat on the storm-shaken sea,
And the wild waves dashing around it
Can never bring terror to me.

And the island is free from invaders
As it lists to the sea's restless moan,
For it has only room enough in it

For one other heart and my own.

I found it one day when the twilight

Was shrouding the sea with its gloom, And I gave it the name that I loved best,"The beautiful Island of Home."

Through its flowers I stroll at the noonday,
And a hand I hold close to my heart;
Through its shadows I steal in the love-light,
And bid all my sorrows depart.

And oft on its dim western shore
We wander and gaze o'er the sea,
To the beautiful home that's eternal,
Prepared for my darling and me.

And when the pale boatman shall beckon,

And with him we ride through the foam,
We'll reach at the end of our journey
A lovelier Island of Home.

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.

When fades the last faint ray

Of the rosy-tinted day,

There gently steals a solemn thrill
Through the evening air so still,

As from each hearthstone, far or near,
Rise the voices of the children clear,
As in their perfect trust they say,
While from their noisy sports they stray,
And twinkling stars in wonder peep,
"Now I lay me down to sleep."

Not alone for childhood fair
Is meant this simple prayer,

But, even to manly strength and prime
Shall come at last a needful time,
When mid life's battle's sudden gloom,
He hears the nearest step of doom.
And, though strong with Samson's power
He knows the coming of that hour,
And repeats in tones more deep,
"1 pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

When the form that is now so proud
Shall with age be lowly bowed;
When the hair, now black as night,
Shall with the winter snow be white;
When the head slow time is keeping
To the eyes with sorrow weeping,
And vainly tries to call the past,
Slipping from its grasp at last,
Then faintly from the lips shall break
"If I should die before I wake-"

Not for a little childish dream
Should be told this simple theme.
Not alone for quiet and calm,
But the bivouac and fierce alarm;
When dangers round about us swell,
As when peace and plenty dwell,

From age and youth, and manhood's prime,
At life's closing evening time,

In accents soft and low should break

"I pray the Lord my soul to take."

GABE'S CHRISTMAS EVE.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.

Written expressly for this collection.

Ise on'y a pore ole nigger, an' long 'go parst my prime,
But I wants to tell you, honies, 'bout one good Chris'mas time,
While we's gathered round de fire whar de pine-cones briles

out scent,

An' de frost outside am white like bread o' de blessed Sacrament.

I wasn't much to brag on; I stripped de chicken-roost,
I drunk like marster debbil, an swore like him, an' loosed
De wials o' my wrath on Chlo an' six-year-ole Carmine,-
Dat was de spryest pickaninny dis side o' de Line;
Her name we'd tuk from de bottle o' doctor's stuff dat read
"Carminative Balsam" on de label, an' I ups an' said,
"Dat's de name for de baby," an' so her mammy thort;
An' dat's de way she got her name; “Carmine,” dat's for short.
Well, she'd been chipper an' sassy dat day,-'twas Chris'mas

eve,

66

Kase I'd tetched de bottle dat Missy's French maid leave For Chlo to make a mince-pie. Yer bad as bad ken be; Yer steals, an' lies, an' drinks," dat pickaninny says to me. I didn't t'ink so much o' it while de day was hyar,

But when de night was sittlin' it stood out purty cl'ar. "I steals, an' lies, an' drinks, does I?" I says, an' got a switch; "Now Ise gwine home; Carminative, yer gwine for to itch." When I sighted de cabin de winders was all dark.

I crep' up. "Chlo!" I hollers, "open de doh!" A spark Swung in my eyes; de doh was shet, but Chlo she stood

outside,

A candle in her hand. "O Gabe!" she says, an busts an'

cries.

"What ails yer?" growls I; "jes' shet up! An' whar am dat Carmine?

I'll lick her into please," says I; "yer fotch her up too fine." Yer gwine to lick her wid dat club?" says Chlo. Says I, "I'll show

Her who it am dat steals, an' lies, an' drinks." Den skeery Chlo

She grabs my arm. "Come on!" she says, an' opens wide de doh.

"Gabe, set down!" she says. I says, "I never sets befo' My work am done. Whar's Carmine?"

"Listen, man!" "Whar's she?" I says.

agin, a pin

"Gabe," says Chlo

Yer could a-heerd