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I

Harry Ashland, One of My Lovers.

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 church,

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,

And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he doesn't know where to put them.

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,
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And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I shall ever in-
The 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 wonder 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" before 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 dust" and by bores.

64

saw

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,

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He has sixty cents in his little tin ''bank," and a keepsake 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.

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."

Papa's Letter.

"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."

So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted

'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter,

Go away and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee,
"Mamma's witing lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary-see!"

No one heard the little prattler,

As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened
Till he reached the office door.

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But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man." "Den I'll find anozzer office,

'Cause I must do if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening-
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure-
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late-a moment only

Stood the beauteous vision there,
Then the little face lay lifeless,

Covered o'er with golden hair.
Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended-
"Papa's letter" was with God.

A

Good-Night and Good-Morning.

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 good-night!"

Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying "Caw, caw!" on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
"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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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.

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.

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.

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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 lifted 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 fluttering '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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