He's such a baby he forgets; And we are both such players;And there's a bar to keep us both From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep: Oh dear! I want my mother." The sky grew stormy; people passed "You'll have to spend the night with me," I tied a kerchief round her neck What ribbon's this, my blossom?" "Why, don't you know?" she smiling, said, And drew it from her bosom. A card with number, street, and name; I might sometimes forget it: WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT. Through the weary day on his couch he lay, That the weary spirit may rest in peace, When the tide goes out from the sea-girt lands, The white-winged ships that silent wait For the foaming wave, and a wind that's late; The treasures cast on a rocky shore, From the stranded ships that shall sail no more; And hopes that follow the shining seas, Oh! the ocean shall win all these When the tide goes out. But of all that drift from the shore to the sea, Floating away from a silent shore, For our parting spirit pray, oh! pray, Shall be furled on a strand of golden sands: With calm, sweet skies and a favoring air, 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 been 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. 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, In short, sir, "the belle of the season A dozen engagements I've broken; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits on the stairs-for me yet. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, "And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" Well, yes,-if you saw us out driving If you saw papa's picture, as taken And yet, just this moment, when sitting The "finest 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; 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 Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho! Good night, here's the end of my paper; And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, 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 Lift up thy thoughts on high; prepare, Commend thy loved ones to His watchful care: 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, Then let thy prayers arise 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, Kneel to thy God-ask strength, life's ills to bear: Night is the time for prayer. When is the time for prayer? In every hour, while life is spared to thee; In crowds or solitude, in joy or care, Thy thoughts should heavenward flee! At home, at morn and eve, with loved ones there, PPP |