B

Spelling, reading, writing,

Putting up the young ones; Fuming, scolding, fighting,

Spurring on the dumb ones; Gymnasts, vocal music—

How the heart rejoices When the singer comes to Cultivate the voices !

Institute attending,

Making out reports, Giving object lessons, Class drill of all sorts; Reading dissertations, Feeling like a foolOh, the untold blessing Of the public school!

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

ETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me,
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened

And voices soft and sweet.

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 I will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon In the round tower of my heart. (26)

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble in ruin And moulder in dust away.

HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow.

THE LITTLE CHILDREN.

LITTLE feet; that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears;
Must ache and bleed beneath your load:
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary thinking of your road.

O, little hands, that weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask ;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O, little hearts; that throb and beat
With much impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

BABY LOUISE.

M in love with you, Baby Louise!

With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes,

And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies,

And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies

God's sunshine, Baby Louise.

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise,

Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair,
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air,

Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer,
You learned above, Baby Louise?

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise!
Why! you never raise your beautiful head!
Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red
With a flush of delight, to hear the word said,
"I love you," Baby Louise.

Do you hear me, Baby Louise?

I have sung your prai-es for nearly an hour,
And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower,
And-you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,
Ungrateful Baby Louise!

MARGARET EYTINGE

DREAMS AND REALITIES.

ROSAMOND, thou fair and good,
And perfect flower of womanhood,
Thou royal rose of June!

Why did'st thou droop before thy time?
Why wither in the first sweet prime?
Why did'st thou die so soon!

For, looking backward through my tears
On thee, and on my wasted years,
I cannot choose but say,
If thou had'st lived to be my guide,
If thou had'st lived and I had died,
'Twere better far to-day.

O child of light, O golden head !—
Bright unbeam for one moment shed
Upon life's lonely way-

Why did'st thou vanish from our sight?
Could they not spare my little light
From heaven's unclouded day?

O friend so true, O friend so good !—
Thou one dream of my maid, nhood,
That gave youth all its charms-
What had I done or what had'st thou,
That, through this lonesome world till now,
We walk with empty arms?

And yet had this poor soul been fed
With all it loved and coveted—

Had life been always fair—

Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, That thrill with bliss my inmost heart,

Forever tremble there?

If still they kept their earthly place,
The friends I held in my embrace,

And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bonds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes, I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build;
That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,

In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,

Though here unclothed and dumb;
But on some brighter, better shore
They live, embodied evermore,

And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,
Then shall we hear our Lord
Say, "Thou hast done with doubt and death,
Henceforth, according to thy faith,

Shall be thy faith's reward."

PHOEBY CARY.

LITTLE GOLDENHAIR.

.OLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's

knee;

Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she,
All the day busy as busy could be.

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light,
Out with the birds and butterflies bright,
Skipping about till the coming of night.

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head.
'What has my baby been doing," he said,
"Since she arose, with the sun, from her bed?"

'Pitty much," answered the sweet little one; "I cannot tell so much things I have donePlayed with my dolly and feeded my Bun.

"And I have jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap Bufitle worlds! mamma's castles of hope.

"And I have readed in my picture-book, And little Bella and I went to look For some smooth stones by the side of the brook. "Then I comed home and I eated my tea, And I climbed up to my grandpapa's knee.

I jes as tired as tired can be.”

Lower and lower the little head pressed,
Until it drooped upon grandpapa's breast;
Dear little Goldenhair! sweet be thy rest!

We are but children; the things that we do
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view
That sees all our weakness, and pities it too.

God grant that when night overshadows our way,
And we shall be called to account for our day,
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's play!
And O, when aweary, may we be so blest
As to sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And teel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!
F. BURGE SMITH.

I am old-so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done.

The lambs play always-they know no better;
They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low.

You were bright—ah, bright—but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee! you're a dusty fellow

You've powdered your legs with gold.

O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold !

O columbine ! open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle doves dwell!

IPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:-

"Pipe a song about a lamb: "

So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again :'

So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:"
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read-"
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

BABY'S SHOES.

THOSE little, those little blue shoes!
'Those shoes that no little feet use.
O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,

So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,

And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees
With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,

Their babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT.

THE ENCHANTRESS-A SPRING-TIME LYRIC

FOR MABEL.

T is only in legend and fable

The fairies are with us, you know; For the fairies are fled, little Mabel, Ay, ages and ages ago.

And yet I have met with a fairy

You needn't go shaking your curls-
A genuine spirit and airy,

Like her who talked nothing but pearls!
You may laugh if you like, little Mabel;
I know you're exceedingly wise;
But I have seen her as plain as I'm able
To see unbelief in your eyes.

A marvelous creature! I really

Can't say she is gifted with wings, Or resides in a tulip; but, clearly, She's queen of all beautiful things. Whenever she comes fron: her castle, The snow fades away like a dream, And the pine-cone's icicle tassel

Melts, and drops into the stream! The dingy gray moss on the bowlder Takes color like burnished steel; The brook puts its silvery shoulder Again to the old mill-wheel !

The robin and wren fly to meet her;

The honey-bee hums with delight ;
The morning breaks brighter and sweeter:
More tenderly falls the night!

By roadsides, in pastures and meadows,
The buttercups growing bold,

For her sake light up the shadows
With disks of tremulous gold.
Even the withered bough blossoms
Grateful for sunlight and rain-
Even the hearts in our bosoms
Are leaping to greet her again!
What fairy in all your romances

Is such an enchantress as she,
Who blushes in roses and pansies,
And sings in the birds on the tree?
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

B

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

LESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy-

I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art-the grown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye-
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules. Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shi; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans !— For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joyBlessings on the barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees: For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone;

a

Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

O for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread-
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerly, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil :
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

JOHN GREENleaf Whittier.

THE GOAT AND THE SWING.

VICIOUS goat, one day, had found His way into forbidden ground, When, coming to the garden swing, He spied a most prodigious thing— A ram, a monster to his mind, With head before and head behind!

Its shape was odd, no noos were seen,
But without legs it stood between
Two upright, lofty posts of oak,
With forehead ready for a stroke.
Though but a harmless ornament
Carved on the seat, it seemed intent
On barring the intruder's way;
While he, advancing, seemed to say,
"Who is this surly fellow here?

Two heads, no tail-it's mighty queer!

A most insulting countenance !"
With stamp of foot and angry glance
He curbed his threatening neck, and stood
Before the passive thing of wood.

"You winked as I was going by!
You did n't? What! tell me I lie?
Take that!" And at the swing he sprung:
A sounding thump! It backward swung,
And, set in motion by the blow,
Swayed menacingly to and fro.

"Ha! you'll fight? A quarrelsome chap
I knew you were! You'll get a rap!
I'll crack your skull!" A headlong jump :
Another and a louder bump!

The swing, as if with kindling wrath,
Came pushing back along the path.

The goat, astonished, shook his head,

Winked hard, turned round, grew mad, and said, 'Villain! I'll teach you who I am!"

(Or seemed to say,) "you rascal ram,

To pick a fight with me, when I

So quietly am passing by!

Your head or mine!" A thundering stroke:

The cracking horns met crashing oak!
Then came a dull and muffled sound,
And something rolled along the ground,
Got up, looked sad, appeared to say:
"Your head's too hard!" and limped away
Quite humbly, in a rumpled coat-
A dirtier and a wiser goat!

JOHN TOWNSEnd Trowbridge.

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

HEY drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long, shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-
fields

That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick, waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
They gather the earliest snow-drops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.
They toss the new hay in the meadow;

They gather the elder-blooms white; They find where the dusky grapes purple, In the soft-tinted October light.