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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!

-Anonymous.

Papa's Letter.

I

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."
I would paint my darling's portrait

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.”

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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!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world, and never could sleep.
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets courtesied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And, while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good-morning good-morning! our work is begun."
-Richard Monckton Milnes. (Lord Houghton.)

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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
They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall,
By three doors left unguarded,

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.
And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And molder in dust away.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Baby's Day.

THE 1 s funny enough to tell

HE reason I call it “Baby's Day”

Is ;
The first thing she did was give " syrup of squills"

To dolly to make her well;
And then when I told her how wrong it was,

She said, with a quivering sigh,
“I'm sorry I made her so sticky, mamma,

But I couldn't let dolly die."
Then comforted wholly she went away,

And was just as still as a mouse,
And I thought to be sure I should find her at once

In the nursery playing “house;"
But lo! on the way as I started to look,

A queer little piece I found,
Just like a center of snowy lawn

That the scissors had scolloped round.
I cried, “O, baby! what have you done?

You have been to somebody's drawer,
And taken from out of the handkerchief pile

The most beautiful one that you saw!”
And then the dear little head went down

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,
And I jumped and found she was rubbing away

On her sister's holiday sash;
But, catching a look of utter dismay

As she listed her innocent eyes,
She whispered: “ Don't worry, I'll wash it all

clean,
And hang it up till it dries.”
But the funny mishaps of that wonderful day

I could not begin to relate;
The boxes of buttons and pins she spilled,

Like a cherub pursued by fate!
And still, all the while the dear little dove

Was futtering 'round her nest,
And the only thing I really could do

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.
And the dear soft lids o'er the dear soft eyes

Dropped tenderly their good-night
And I thought, as I looked on her lying asleep,

I was glad (for once in a way),
That my beautiful child was human enough
For a mischievous “ Baby Day."

- Mrs. L. C. Whiton.

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