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And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he
doesn't know where to put them.
HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the grass
and plays in the clover; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and makes
sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has a clean
collar and goes to ch'irch, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, and
live in a house “like that." He wears a great apron like a sack, -it's hard they
don't put him in trousers and jackets; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hope for the
future o'ershoots them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without any
visible means of support,
All day he's tumbling, and leaping and jumping,-run
ning and calling, hammering and thumping, Playing " bo-peep" with the blue eyed babe, or chasing
the cows in the lane; But at twilight around my chair he lingers, clasping my
hand in his dimpled fingers, (spire again. And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I shall ever inThe men that kneel and declaim their passion,-the
men that “annex you in stately fashion,There is not so much of truth and warmth in all the
hearts of a score,
And I look in the honest eyes of this baby, and won
der what would have happened, maybe, if Heaven had not made me be twenty now, while Harry
is only four. I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a promise
that Harry made her, “To build her a house all full of doors, and live with
her there some day;" But Ada is growing lank and thin,--they say she will
have a peaked chin, And I think had nearly outgrown her "first love" be
fore I came in the way. She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed Shaker, the
nicest aprons her mother can make her, And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it doesn't matter
how she is dressed, For Harry-sweetest of earthly lispers—has said in my
ear, in loudest whispers, With his dear short arms around my neck, that he
“likes the grown-up bonnets best.” He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his private
preference is a sawyer, And counselors, not less than carpenters, live by “saw
dust" and by bores. It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial
blockhead through. And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can always panel
doors. It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if his
hammer and will be good, If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy
then, Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's needing,
whether his business is planing or pleading,
Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and stand at
the head of you men! I say to him sometimes, “My dearest Harry, we
haven't money enough to marry;" He has sixty cents in his little tin “ bank," and a keep
sake in his drawer; But he always promises, “I'll get plenty~I'll find
where they make it, when I'm twenty; I'll go down town where the other men do, and bring
it out of the store." And then he describes such wonderful dresses, and
gives me such gallant hugs and caresses, With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk
cushions and rings of gold, And I think what a fond, true breast to dream on,
what a dear, brave heart for a woman to lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for some
baby a twelvemonth old!
Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry a
young man, gay and naughty. Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driving fast
horses and cracking whips, The handsomest fellow!-Heaven bless him!--setting
the girls all wild to possess him, — With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and cigars in
those pretty lips! O, do you think he will quite forget me, -
--do you believe he will ever regret me ?
(an idle myth, Will he wish the twenty years back again, or deem this While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, and sigh
as my baby lover passes And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as I look at Mr. Smith!
WAS sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard, “Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. “But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?
Tan't I wite a letter too ?” “Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now.”
“No, no, mamma; me wite letter,
Tan if 'ou will show me how."
As his sweet eyes searched my face Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, “I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead.”
FAIR little girl sat under a tree
Sewingas long as her eyes could see, Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, “Dear work, good-night goodnight!" Such a number of rooks came over her head, Crying “Caw, caw!" on their way to bed, She said, as she watched their curious Aight, “Little black things, good-night, good-night!" The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's “ Bleat! bleat!" came over the road; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"
She did not say to the sun, “Good-night!"
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence,
Yet I know by their merry eyes
To take me by surprise.
A sudden raid from the hall,
They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me:
They seem to be everywhere.
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart, But put you into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
Yes, forever and a day,
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE 1 s funny enough to tell
HE reason I call it “Baby's Day”
To dolly to make her well;
She said, with a quivering sigh,
But I couldn't let dolly die."
And was just as still as a mouse,
In the nursery playing “house;"
A queer little piece I found,
That the scissors had scolloped round.
You have been to somebody's drawer,
The most beautiful one that you saw!”
Pathetic as it could be, While she sobbed, There was nothing for me to
cut, And I thought I'd take two or three!"
It was only a little later on,
That the water began to splash,
On her sister's holiday sash;
As she listed her innocent eyes,
I could not begin to relate;
Like a cherub pursued by fate!
Was futtering 'round her nest,
Was to smooth out her wings on my breast.
But the day drifted on till it came to an end,
And the great moon rose in sight.
Dropped tenderly their good-night
I was glad (for once in a way),
- Mrs. L. C. Whiton.