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He's such a baby ho forgets,
And there's a bar to keep us both
For Harry rolls when he's asleep:
The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
I said at Jast despairing.
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it; "For," said the little one, " you see
I might sometimes forget it: And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure
I should get lost without it."
WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT.
Through the weary day on his couch he lay,
When the tide goes out from the sea-girt lands,
But of nil that drift from the shore to the sea,
For our parting spirit pray, oh! pray,
CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.
The Connecticut editor who wrote the following, evidently knew what he was talking about:—
Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of" pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair-door and insinuatingly observes, " Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, " John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic " John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has bee.) made; and the mother is encouraged to add, " You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again.
Saddest, most solemn of all;—a soul,
When the tide goes out.
When the tide goes out.
And the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-bottle ejects its cork, and the " John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. And he pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.
HER Letter.—bret Harte.
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
My hair is done up in a cue:
Is wasting an hour 011 you.
A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
That waits—on the stairs—for me yet.
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
"And how do T like mv position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"
Well, yes,—if you saw us out driving
If you saw poor dear mamma contrivmg
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,— In the bustle and glitter befitting
The " tinest soiree of the year,"— In the mists of a gauze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk,— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the dress of my queer ms-a-iis; And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that.ride,—that to me was the rarest;
Of—the something you said at the gate,— Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To " the best-paying lead in the State."
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that, Jnst to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,) Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I'm spooning on Joseph,—heigh-ho! And I'm to be " finished " by travel,—
Whatevers the meaning of that,— Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good night,—here's the end of my paper;
Good night,—if the longitude please,—
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
And are poo.-, dearest Joe, and all that,
And you've struck it—on Poverty Flat.
THE TIME FOR PRAYER.
When is the time for prayer?
With the first beams that light the morning sky Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,
Lift up thy thoughts on high;
And in the noontide hour.
If worn by toil, or by sad cares oppressed, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour,
And He will give thee rest; Thy voice shall reach Him through the fields of air: Noon is the time for prayer.
When the bright sun hath set,
While eve's bright colors deck the skies;
When with the loved at home again thou'st met,
For those who in thy joys and sorrows share:
Eve is the time for prayer.
And when the stars come forth—
When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given, And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth
To pure bright dreams of heaven,
When is the time for prayer?
In every hour, while life is spared to thee;
Thy thoughts should heavenward flee!