GEORGE NIDIVER.

BRET HARTE.

MMenhave done brave deeds,And bards have sung them well:I, of good George Nidiver,Now the tale will tell.In California mountains,A hunter bold was he.Keen his eye and sure his aimAs any you should see.A little Indian boyFollowed him everywhere,Eager to share the hunter's joy,The hunter's meal to share.And when the bird or deer,Fell by the hunter's skill,The boy was always nearTo help with right good will,One day, as through the cleft,Between two mountains steep,Shut in both right and left,Their weary way they keep;They see two grizzly bears,With hunger fierce and fell,Rush at them unawares,Right down the narrow dell.The boy turned round, with screams,And ran with terror wild;One of the pair of savage beastsPursued the shrieking child.The hunter raised his gun;He knew one charge was all;And through the boy's pursuing foeHe sent his only ball.The other on George Nidiver,Came on with dreadful pace;The hunter stood unarmedAnd met him face to face.I say unarmed he stood:Against those frightful pawsThe rifle-butt or club of woodCould stand no more than straws.George Nidiver stood still,And looked him in the face;The wild beast stopped amazed,Then came on with slackening pace.Still firm the hunter stoodAlthough his heart beat high;Again the creature stopped,And gazed with wondering eye.The hunter met his gaze,Nor yet an inch gave way:The bear turned slowly round,And slowly moved away.What thoughts were in his mind,It would be hard to spell;What thoughts were in George Nidiver's,I rather guess than tell.But sure that rifle's aim,Swift choice of generous part,Showed in its passing gleamThe depth of a brave heart.

Menhave done brave deeds,And bards have sung them well:I, of good George Nidiver,Now the tale will tell.In California mountains,A hunter bold was he.Keen his eye and sure his aimAs any you should see.A little Indian boyFollowed him everywhere,Eager to share the hunter's joy,The hunter's meal to share.And when the bird or deer,Fell by the hunter's skill,The boy was always nearTo help with right good will,One day, as through the cleft,Between two mountains steep,Shut in both right and left,Their weary way they keep;They see two grizzly bears,With hunger fierce and fell,Rush at them unawares,Right down the narrow dell.The boy turned round, with screams,And ran with terror wild;One of the pair of savage beastsPursued the shrieking child.The hunter raised his gun;He knew one charge was all;And through the boy's pursuing foeHe sent his only ball.The other on George Nidiver,Came on with dreadful pace;The hunter stood unarmedAnd met him face to face.I say unarmed he stood:Against those frightful pawsThe rifle-butt or club of woodCould stand no more than straws.George Nidiver stood still,And looked him in the face;The wild beast stopped amazed,Then came on with slackening pace.Still firm the hunter stoodAlthough his heart beat high;Again the creature stopped,And gazed with wondering eye.The hunter met his gaze,Nor yet an inch gave way:The bear turned slowly round,And slowly moved away.What thoughts were in his mind,It would be hard to spell;What thoughts were in George Nidiver's,I rather guess than tell.But sure that rifle's aim,Swift choice of generous part,Showed in its passing gleamThe depth of a brave heart.

MARCH AND THE BOYS.

MARY D. BRINE.

MMarch, you're a jolly old fellow, I know;They may call you ablusteringold chap, but you blowFor us boys and our kites and we don't care a fig,For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high,At ourkitesyou may bluster, and "blowthem sky-high!"Nobody will find any fault, but the girls—Andtheymake a fuss 'cause you "blowout their curls!"You're justourown season—we've waited for you;And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new,You jolly old fellow, ifyouwere a boy,You'd knowwhy the March-month gives us such joy.It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill,And pay out your string—let it run with a will;It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away,And the wind blows a gale! ah! kite-flying is gay.The ladies complain that you "blow off their veils,"But never you mind, give no heed to their tales,Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites,And trust to theboysto fight hard for your rights.For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know,And we like you the better, the harder you blow!When you marched in upon us, we gave you a shout,And we'll miss you at last, when 'tis time tomarch out.

March, you're a jolly old fellow, I know;They may call you ablusteringold chap, but you blowFor us boys and our kites and we don't care a fig,For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high,At ourkitesyou may bluster, and "blowthem sky-high!"Nobody will find any fault, but the girls—Andtheymake a fuss 'cause you "blowout their curls!"You're justourown season—we've waited for you;And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new,You jolly old fellow, ifyouwere a boy,You'd knowwhy the March-month gives us such joy.It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill,And pay out your string—let it run with a will;It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away,And the wind blows a gale! ah! kite-flying is gay.The ladies complain that you "blow off their veils,"But never you mind, give no heed to their tales,Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites,And trust to theboysto fight hard for your rights.For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know,And we like you the better, the harder you blow!When you marched in upon us, we gave you a shout,And we'll miss you at last, when 'tis time tomarch out.

BIVOUAC OF CRUSADERS

"BIVOUAC OF CRUSADERS."

OR THE WARS OF THE CROSS.

Adapted from Joseph F. Michaud's History of the Crusades.

Itwas for a long time the custom among the devout Christians of France, Germany, Italy and England, to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem and pray at the many spots made sacred by the events in the life of Jesus, especially at the Holy Sepulchre.

The people who lived there did not object to these pilgrimages, especially as those who came, spent money and increased their trade.

But about the year A. D. 1020 the Saracen king Hakem, over-ran all of Palestine, destroyed the Christian churches and persecuted the Christians. Pilgrims returning to Europe, spread the news abroad andthe whole Christian world became alarmed. But matters grew better for awhile and Christians were not molested, until in 1076 the Turks came into possession of Jerusalem, when they were again subject to all kinds of dangers, and made to pay for the privilege of visiting the Holy Land.

In 1094, Peter the Hermit, a monk, returned from a pilgrimage and began to preach a Holy War—a Crusade, throughout Europe. He went from town to town, calling upon everyone, with fiery eloquence, to join the army.

The effect was magical. People of all classes took the vow to protect the Holy Sepulchre of Jesus;—Kings, knights, nobles, lords, laborers, and even women and children.

Each one bound to his shoulders ared cross, as a pledge. By-and-bye they were all ready to march. Over 900,000 were in the vast army. But in their religious zeal, they forgot that they must eat on the way. No food was provided; still they marched on, seeming to expect to be fed in some miraculous manner.

Their route lay through a region very well supplied with provisions, and as they went along, they managed to beg and take by force, enoughto supply their necessities.

At last, after many battles and defeats, they reached Jerusalem. Of the 900,000 who started from Europe only 40,000 remained;—the rest had fallen in battle, or died of disease and starvation.

The city was finally taken, "and," says one historian, "Seventy thousand Turks were put to the sword. The Christian knights rode in blood to their horses' knees."

Having recovered the Holy Sepulchre, and established a Christian kingdom at Jerusalem, the greater number went back to Europe and the First Crusade was ended.

The Christian kingdom set up did not last long. There were one thousand Turks to every Christian in Palestine.

A SECOND CRUSADE was organized in 1146, but it resulted in defeat, and so might it be said of six other Crusades, the last of which ended in the complete overthrow of Christians in 1291.

Hundreds of thousands of noble lives had been sacrificed, in a blind fury, to accomplish what might have been done by one army well supplied and equipped.

Without believing that these holy wars did either all the good or all the harm that is attributed to them, it must be admitted that they were a source of bitter sorrow to the generations that saw them or took part in them; but like the ills and tempests of human life, which render man better, and often assist the progress of his reason, they have forwarded the progress of nations.

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BBreathesthere the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,"This is my own, my native land!"If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch concenter'd all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.WALTER SCOTT:"LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."

Breathesthere the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,"This is my own, my native land!"If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch concenter'd all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

WALTER SCOTT:"LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."

THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE.

A STRANGE PIECE OF HISTORY.

Sogreat was the religious zeal during this period that even the children were also enlisted in the cause.

At the close of the Fifth Crusade, these little ones were taught that the warriors had failed because of their sins and that it now remained for the weak and innocent to make an effort.

In 1212 not less than 50000 children in France and Germany, braving the anger of parents, gathered together in cities and countries, singing these words; "Lord Jesus, restore to us your holy cross."

They were led by two boys, Stephen of Colyes, and Nicholas of Hungary, though it is probable that older leaders were also present.

When they were asked where they were going, or what they intended to do, they replied, "We are going to Jerusalem to deliver the Sepulchre of our Saviour."

A great portion of them tried to cross the Alps near Mt. Cenis and nearly all perished. Others took another route, and crossing, at an easier pass, arrived in Italy, while most who came from France went to Marseilles.

They had been made to believe that the year 1213 would be very dry and that the heat of the sun would be so great as to dry up the waters of the sea; thus an easy road for pilgrims would be opened across the bed of the Mediterranean sea to Jerusalem.

Finding no dry sea, seven vessels were provided and those who embarked were either ship-wrecked or taken prisoners by the Saracens. Many were lost in the forests then so abundant and large, others perished with heat, hunger, thirst, and fatigue,—and of the fifty thousand who started, few, if any, ever reached home or trod the sands of Palestine.

The narrative of the children's crusade seems too strange to be true, but the facts are stated by the most truthful authors and are worthy of being believed.

THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.—— ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.—— 'My Fred! I can't understand it,' And his voice, it quivered with pain, While the tears kept slowly dropping On his trembling hands like rain: 'For my Fred was so brave and loyal, So true; but my eyes are dim, And I cannot read the letter— The last that I shall get from him. Please read it, sir, while I listen— In fancy I see him—dead: My boy, shot down like a traitor, My noble, my brave boy, Fred!'

"Dear Father," so ran the letter,"To-morrow when twilight creepsAlong the hill to the old church-yard,O'er the grave where mother sleeps,When the dusky shadows gather,They'll lay your boy in his grave,For nearly betraying the countryHe would give his life to save.And, dear Father, I tell you truly,With almost my latest breath,That your boy is not a traitor,Though he dies a traitor's death."You remember Bennie Wilson?He's suffered a deal of pain,He was only that day orderedBack into the ranks again;I carried all of his luggageWith mine, on the march that day;And I gave my arm to lean on,Else he had dropped by the way.'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry;But I took his place, and I—Father, I dropped asleep, and nowI must die as traitors die!The Colonel is kind and thoughtful,He has done the best that he can,And they will not bind or blind me—I shall meet death like a man.Kiss little Blossom; but dear Father,Need you tell her how I fall?"A sob from the shadowed corner—Yes, Blossom had heard it all,And as she kissed the precious letter,She said with faltering breath:"Our Fred was never a traitor,Though he dies a traitors death!"And a little sun-browned maiden,In a shabby, time-worn dress,Took her seat a half-hour laterIn the crowded night express.The conductor heard her storyAs he held her dimpled hand,And sighed for the sad hearts breakingAll over the troubled land.He tenderly wiped the tear-dropsFrom the blue eyes brimming o'er,And guarded her footsteps safelyTill she reached the White House door.The President sat at his writing;But the eyes were kind and mild,That turned with a look of wonderOn the sky-faced child,And he read Fred's farewell letterWith a look of sad regret."'Tis a brave young life," he murmured,"And his country needs him yet,From an honored place in battleHe shall bid the world good-bye,If that brave young life is needed,He shall die as heroes die!"

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.—— A sketch of the life of Joan of Arc.——Adapted from Guizot's History of France.—— There are few nations whose history presents so many examples of bravery and love of country, as France. The romantic story of Joan of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans, has not a parallel in either ancient or modern times. This heroic maid was a farmers daughter, of good life and character. She was occupied in sewing or spinning

with her mother, or driving herfather's sheep afield, and tending them, a little shepherdess in fact.

In 1428, the English army had laid siege to Orleans, a city of France, and in spite of all their efforts, the French troops found themselves unable to hold the city.

Hearing of the great danger of the army of her country, Joan, though but 16 years of age, demanded to be taken before the French king, saying that the King of Heaven had sent her to help him.

The king was not sure that Joan was truthful, but after talking with her and finding her sincere, he at last decided to send her to join his army. The king gave her a fine black charger, a sword, a complete suit of armor, and a large white banner covered with lilies. In order that she might better fight, she was allowed to supply herself with men's clothing.

When she and her attendants reached the army, great was the surprise of the soldiers; some were ready to mock at the idea of a young maid coming to be the leader of an army, but like good soldiers, they were loyal to their king.

Placing herself at the head of the army, she marched out to meet the English, and after a bloody struggle compelled them to raise the siege and beat a hasty retreat.

Joan, in leading a charge against the enemy, the first day, was struck by an arrow, which passed completely through her shoulder, but she seized the arrow and drew it from the wound with her own hand and had the surgeon dress the wound. Early the next day she was well enough to lead forth the troops and complete the victory begun the day before.

During this year she was able to defeat the English in several other battles. After these victories, the French generals and leaders became jealous of her success, and persuaded the king to give up efforts till the next spring.

This delay was fatal. Profiting by it, the English increased their army and early in May, when Joan led forth her troops, it was to be defeated and made a prisoner.

The English tried her as a witch, or heretic, and she was finally sentenced and burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, three years after she first appeared among the troops.

Years after, as if to undo the terrible crime of burning a sweet, virtuous and heroic girl, another trial was had, the evidence against Joan was all reviewed, and be it said to the everlasting honor of her judges, they decided that she had not been guilty and that herexecution was a grave and terrible mistake.

Whether she really was assisted by God or not, no one knows, but history does not record the name of a woman whose efforts seemed more inspired, and whose life was so entirely pure and patriotic.

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Howe'erit be, it seems to me,'Tis only noble to be good.Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood.TENNYSON: "LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE."

TENNYSON: "LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE."

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Fighting Birds.

M. E. B.

IIt's strange how little boys' mothers,Can find it all out as they do,If a fellow does anything naughty,Or says anything that's not true!They'll look at you just a moment,Till your heart in your bosom swells,And then they know all about it—For a little bird tells!Now, where the little bird comes from,Or where the little bird goes,If he's covered with beautiful plumage,Or black as the king of the crows.If his voice is as hoarse as a raven,Or clear as the ringing of bells,I know not—but this I am sure of—A little bird tells!The moment you think a thing wicked,The moment you do a thing bad,Are angry, or sullen, or hateful,Get ugly, or stupid, or mad,Or tease a dear brother or sister—That instant your sentence he knells,And the whole to mamma in a minuteThat little bird tells!You may be in the depths of a closet,Where nobody sees but a mouse,You may be all alone in the cellar,You may be on the top of the house,You may be in the dark and the silence,Or out in the woods and the dells—No matter! wherever it happensThe little bird tells!And the only contrivance to stop him,Is just to be sure what you say—Sure of your facts and your fancies,Sure of your work and your play;Be honest, be brave and be kindly,Be gentle and loving as well,And then—you can laugh at the storiesThe little bird tells!

It's strange how little boys' mothers,Can find it all out as they do,If a fellow does anything naughty,Or says anything that's not true!They'll look at you just a moment,Till your heart in your bosom swells,And then they know all about it—For a little bird tells!Now, where the little bird comes from,Or where the little bird goes,If he's covered with beautiful plumage,Or black as the king of the crows.If his voice is as hoarse as a raven,Or clear as the ringing of bells,I know not—but this I am sure of—A little bird tells!The moment you think a thing wicked,The moment you do a thing bad,Are angry, or sullen, or hateful,Get ugly, or stupid, or mad,Or tease a dear brother or sister—That instant your sentence he knells,And the whole to mamma in a minuteThat little bird tells!You may be in the depths of a closet,Where nobody sees but a mouse,You may be all alone in the cellar,You may be on the top of the house,You may be in the dark and the silence,Or out in the woods and the dells—No matter! wherever it happensThe little bird tells!And the only contrivance to stop him,Is just to be sure what you say—Sure of your facts and your fancies,Sure of your work and your play;Be honest, be brave and be kindly,Be gentle and loving as well,And then—you can laugh at the storiesThe little bird tells!

Therewas once an old goat, who had seven kids, whom she loved as dearly as any mother could. One day she wished to go into the wood, to fetch some provision; so she called them all together, and said, "My dear children, I am going into the wood; but while I am gone, pray take care of the wolf; if he comes in here he will devour you, skin and all. He often disguises himself; but you will always be able to know him by his gruff voice and black feet." The little kids replied, "Mother, dear, you may go without any fear, for we will take all possible care of ourselves." So the old goat bleated, to express her satisfaction, and went away without mistrust.

Before long, a knock was heard at the door, and a voice said, "Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But the little kids discovered very easily by the gruffvoice who it was, and cried out, "No, no; we shall not open the door, you are not our mother; she has a gentle, loving voice, but yours is harsh; for you are the wolf."

When he heard this, he went away and got a great lump of chalk, which he swallowed to make his voice more delicate; then returning to the cottage, he knocked at the door, saying, "Open the door, dear children; your affectionate mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But, as he spoke the wolf laid his black foot on the window-sill; so the children saw it and cried, "No, no, we shall not open the door; our mother has not black feet like you; you are the wolf!"

Then the wolf ran to the baker, and said, "I have hurt my foot, spread some dough over it." The baker did as he requested; and the wolf hastened to the miller, whom he asked to strew some of his white flour over his foot. The miller thought to himself that the wolf wished to deceive somebody, so he refused to do it. But the wolf said, fiercely, "Do it instantly, or I will eat you up." The man, therefore, being dreadfully afraid, made his paw white as he desired. The rogue now went for the third time to the cottage, knocked at the door, and cried, "Children, your affectionate mother has returned home, and broughteach of you something out of the wood." The kids exclaimed, "Show us first your foot, that we may know truly if you are our dear mother." The wolf had his paw on the window; and when they saw that it was white, they believed all that he said, and opened the door. But it was their enemy, the wolf, who, to their great terror, came in. They tried in vain to hide themselves: one went under the table, another into bed, the third into the oven, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the closet, the sixth under the washing-tub, and the seventh into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all but one, and made no bones of them, for he swallowed them all except the youngest, who was hidden in the clock-case, and whom he did not find. When he had satisfied his appetite, he rolled out of the cottage, and feeling rather drowsy, laid himself down under a tree in a green meadow, and fell fast asleep.

Not long afterwards, the goat came home out of the wood. Ah! a sight met her view! The house-door stood wide open, tables, stools, and chairs were overturned, the washing-tub in pieces, counterpanes and pillows strewed about in terrible confusion. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found; she called them by name, but no reply came.

At length, as she was passing near the place where the youngest was concealed, she heard a weak voice say, "Dear mother, I'm in the clock-case." She instantly opened it, and there was the kid, who related the misfortune that had befallen them through the wolf, and the dreadful fate of her brothers and sisters. The anger and sorrow of the old goat can scarcely be described; but at length she became calmer, and taking her kid with her, resolved to seek her enemy. When she arrived at the meadow, she discovered him under the tree, snoring so loudly that the twigs trembled. She examined him on all sides, and saw that something was moving and jumping inside him. "Can it be possible," said she, "that my poor children whom the monster has swallowed for his supper, are still alive?" Full of hope, she sent her kid quickly home for scissors, needle and thread, and upon her return ripped the wolf up; scarcely had she commenced, than a kid's head appeared, and when she had finished, all six sprang joyfully out, without having suffered the least harm, for the wolf had swallowed them whole. The mother caressed them and jumped for joy, then said, "Now go and fetch me some large paving stones, that I may fill up the wicked creature while he is yet asleep." The kids obeyed and dragged plenty of large stones tothe place, which the mother put inside the wolf; she then sewed him up, so quickly, that he neither stirred nor found out what she had done.

At length the wolf awoke, raised himself on his legs, and as the stones made him feel thirsty, he went towards the spring to quench it. But when he began to move, the stones moved likewise, and rattled loudly. Then he said, "What can it be that rattles about inside me, and feels so heavy? I thought I had eaten kids, but I feel as if they were paving-stones." He then came to the spring, and stooped down to drink, but the weight of the stones carried him in, for the bank was sloping, and he sank to the bottom and perished miserably. When the kids saw this, they danced and sprang about in great joy, crying out, "The wolf is drowned! The wolf is dead! We have nothing more to fear—the wolf is dead!"

There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.—Bryant.

Bryant.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

WWhatdoes little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie,Mother let me fly away.Birdie rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger.So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,Let me rise and fly away.Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby, too, shall fly away.

Whatdoes little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie,Mother let me fly away.Birdie rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger.So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,Let me rise and fly away.Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby, too, shall fly away.

Fromthe hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule in the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and the battle-axe. Books! light-houses built on the sea of time! Books! by whose sorcery the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time.

EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.

ELIZABETH AKERS.

BBackward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,Make me a child again just for to-night!Mother, come back from the echo-less shore,Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears,—Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—Take them and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay,—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between;Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,Long I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence so long and so deep,Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Over my heart in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shown;No other worship abides and endures,—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders again as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened to your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood's years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep,—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,Make me a child again just for to-night!Mother, come back from the echo-less shore,Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears,—Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—Take them and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay,—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between;Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,Long I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence so long and so deep,Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Over my heart in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shown;No other worship abides and endures,—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders again as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened to your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood's years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep,—Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep.

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Sonigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When duty whispers low, "Thou must,"The youth replies, "I can."RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

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Politenessisto doand sayThe kindest thing in the kindest way.

EMMA ALICE BROWN.

WWemeasured the riotous babyAgainst the cottage wall—A lily grew on the threshold,And the boy was just as tall;A royal tiger-lily,With spots of purple and gold,And a heart like a jeweled chalice,The fragrant dew to hold.Without, the bluebirds whistledHigh up in the old roof-trees,And to and fro at the windowThe red rose rocked her bees;And the wee pink fists of the babyWere never a moment still,Snatching at shine and shadowThat danced on the lattice-sill.His eyes were wide as bluebells—His mouth like a flower unblown—Two little bare feet like funny white mice,Peeped out from his snowy gown;And we thought, with a thrill of raptureThat yet had a touch of pain,When June rolls around with her roses,We'll measure the boy again.Ah me! in a darkened chamber,With the sunshine shut away,Through tears that fell like a bitter rain,We measured the boy to-day;And the little bare feet, that were dimpledAnd sweet as a budding rose,Lay side by side together,In a hush of a long repose!Up from the dainty pillow,White as the risen dawn,The fair little face lay smiling,With the light of Heaven thereon;And the dear little hands, like rose-leavesDropped from a rose, lay still,Never to snatch at the sunshineThat crept to the shrouded sill.We measured the sleeping babyWith ribbons white as snow,For the shining rosewood casketThat waited him below;And out of the darkened chamberWe went with a childless moan—To the height of the sinless angelsOur little one had grown.

Wemeasured the riotous babyAgainst the cottage wall—A lily grew on the threshold,And the boy was just as tall;A royal tiger-lily,With spots of purple and gold,And a heart like a jeweled chalice,The fragrant dew to hold.Without, the bluebirds whistledHigh up in the old roof-trees,And to and fro at the windowThe red rose rocked her bees;And the wee pink fists of the babyWere never a moment still,Snatching at shine and shadowThat danced on the lattice-sill.His eyes were wide as bluebells—His mouth like a flower unblown—Two little bare feet like funny white mice,Peeped out from his snowy gown;And we thought, with a thrill of raptureThat yet had a touch of pain,When June rolls around with her roses,We'll measure the boy again.Ah me! in a darkened chamber,With the sunshine shut away,Through tears that fell like a bitter rain,We measured the boy to-day;And the little bare feet, that were dimpledAnd sweet as a budding rose,Lay side by side together,In a hush of a long repose!Up from the dainty pillow,White as the risen dawn,The fair little face lay smiling,With the light of Heaven thereon;And the dear little hands, like rose-leavesDropped from a rose, lay still,Never to snatch at the sunshineThat crept to the shrouded sill.We measured the sleeping babyWith ribbons white as snow,For the shining rosewood casketThat waited him below;And out of the darkened chamberWe went with a childless moan—To the height of the sinless angelsOur little one had grown.

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