OLD PICTURES.

I see the cottage, brown and low,

The rustic porch, the roof-tree's shade, And all the place where long ago

A group of happy children played.

I see the brother, bravest, best,

The prompt to act, the bold to speak ; The baby, dear and honored guest!

The timid sister, shy and meek.

I see her loving face who oft

Watched, that their slumbers might be sweet;
And his whose dear hand made so soft
The path for all their tender feet.

I see, far off, the woods whose screen
Bounded the little world we knew ;
And near, in fairy rings of green,

The grass that round the door-stones grew.

I watch at morn the oxen come,

And bow their meek necks to the yoke ;
Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb,
In the great shadow of the oak.

The barn with crowded mows of hay,
And roof upheld by golden sheaves;
Its rows of doves, at close of day,
Cooing together on the eaves.

I see, above the garden-beds,

The bee at work with laden wings; . The dandelions' yellow heads

Crowding about the orchard spring;

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The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush; The field-lark, with her speckled breast, The finches in the currant-bush ;

And where the blue-birds hid their nest.

I see the comely apple-trees,

In spring, a-blush with blossoms sweet; Or, bending with the autumn breeze, Shake down their ripe fruits at our feet.

I see, when hurtling through the air
The arrows of the winter fly,
And all the frozen earth lies bare,
A group about the hearth draw nigh,

Of little ones that never tire

Of stories told and told again ;

I see the pictures in the fire,
The firelight pictures in the pane.

I almost feel the, stir and buzz
Of day; the evening's holy calm;
Yea, all that made me what I was,
And helped to make me what I am.

Then lo! it dies, as died our youth;
And things so strange about me seem,
I know not what should be the truth,
Nor whether I would wake or dream.

I have not found to-day so vain,

Nor yesterday so fair and good, That I would have my life again, And live it over if I could.

THE PLAYMATES.

Not every hope for me has proved
A house on weak foundation built;
I have not seen the feet I loved

Caught in the awful snares of guilt.

But when I see the paths so hard

Kept soft and smooth in days gone by; The lives that years have made or marred, Out of my loneliness I cry :

O, for the friends that made so bright
The days, alas! too soon to wane!

O, but to be one hour to-night

Set in their midst, a child again!

THE PLAYMATES.

Two careless, happy children,
Up when the east was red,
And never tired and never still

Till the sun had gone to bed;

Helping the winds in winter

To toss the snows about;

Gathering the early flowers,

When spring-time called them out;.
Playing among the windrows

Where the mowers mowed the hay;
Finding the place where the skylark
Had hidden her nest away;
Treading the cool, damp furrows
Behind the shining plough;

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Up in the barn with the swallows,
And sliding over the mow ;
Pleased with the same old stories,
Heard a thousand times;
Believing all the wonders

Written in tales or rhymes;
Counting the hours in summer
When even a day seemed long;
Counting the hours in winter.

Till the time of leaves and song. Thinking it took forever

For little children to grow,

And that seventy years of a life-time
Never could come and go.

O, I know they were happier children
Than the world again may see,
For one was my little playmate
And one, ah! one was me !

A sad-faced man and woman,
Leagues and leagues apart,
Doing their work as best they may
With weary hand and heart ;
Shrinking from winter's tempests,
And summer's burning heat;
Thinking that skies were brighter
And flowers were once more sweet;

Wondering why the skylark

So early tries his wings;

And if green fields are hidden

Beyond the gate where he sings!

Feeling that time is slipping

Faster and faster away;

"THE BAREFOOT BOY."

That a day is but as a moment,
And the years of life as a day; .
Seeing the heights and places

Others have reached and won;
Sighing o'er things accomplished,
And things that are left undone ;
And yet still trusting, somehow,

In his own good time to become
Again as little children,

In their Heavenly Father's home;
One crowding memories backward,
In the busy, restless mart,
One pondering on them ever,

And keeping them in her heart;

Going on by their separate pathways

To the same eternity

And one of these is my playmate,
And one, alas! is me!

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"THE BAREFOOT BOY."

Ан! Barefoot Boy!" you have led me back

O'er the waste of years profound,

To the still, sweet spots, which memory

Hath kept as haunted ground.

You have led me back to the western hills,

Where I played through the summer hours;

And called my little playmate up,

To stand among the flowers.