(Though who told her the way,
I am sure I can't say)
A young lady so wee
That you scarcely could see
Her small speck of a nose;
And, to speak of her toes,—
Though it seems hardly fair,
Since they surely were there,
Keep them covered we must
;
You must take them on trust.

Now this little brown house,
With scarce room for a mouse,
Was quite full of small boys,
With their books and their toys,
Their wild bustle and noise.

"My dear lads," quoth papa,
"We've too many by far;
Tell us, what can we do
With this damsel so new?
We've no room for her here,
So to me 'tis quite clear,
Though it gives me great pain,
I must hang her again

On the tree whence she came,
(Do not cry, there's no blame)

With her white blanket round her,

Just as Nurse Russell found her."

Said stout little Ned,

"I'll stay all day in bed,

Squeezed up nice and small,

Very close to the wall."

Then spoke Tommy, "I'll go
To the cellar below;
I'll just travel about,
But not try to get out;
Till you're all fast asleep;

And so quiet I'll be

You'll not dream it is me."
Then flaxen-haired Will,
"I'll be dreadfully still;
On the back stairs I'll stay,
Way off, out of the way.'

Master Johnny, the fair,
Shook his bright, curly hair,
"Here's a nice place for me,
Dear papa, do you see?

I just fit in so tight

I could stand here all night."
And a niche in the wall
Held his figure so small.

Quoth the father, "Well done,
My brave darlings, come on!
Here's a shoulder for Will,
Pray sit still, sir, sit still!
Valiant Thomas, for thee,
A good seat on my knee,
And Edward, thy brother,
Can perch on the other;
Baby John, take my back;
Now, who says we can't pack?

"So love gives us room,

And our birdie shall stay.

We'll keep her, my boys,

Till God takes her away."

LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY.-ALICE ROBBINS.

What did you say, dear-breakfast?
Somehow I've slept too late;

You are very kind, dear Effie;

Go tell them not to wait.

I'll dress as quick as ever I can,

My old hands tremble sore,

And Polly, who used to help, dear heart,

Lies t'other side of the door.

Put up the old pipe, deary,
I couldn't smoke to-day;

I'm sort o' dazed and frightened,
And don't know what to say.
It's lonesome in the house here,
And lonesome out o' door—

I never knew what lonesome meant
In all my life before.

The bees go humming the whole day long,

And the first June rose has blown;

And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day,
Too old to be left alone!

TT*

Oh, heart of love! so still and cold,
Oh, precious lips so white!
For the first sad hours in sixty years,
You were out of my reach last night.

You've cut the flower.

She rooted it last May.

You're very kind;

It was only a slip; I pulled the rose,
And threw the stem away.

But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down,

And planted it where she stood;

"Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said, "Asleep in this bit of wood."

I can't rest, dear-I cannot rest;
Let the old man have his will,

And wander from porch to garden-post-
The house is so deathly still;—

Wander, and long for a sight of the gate
She has left ajar for me;

We had got so used to each other, dear,
So used to each other, you see.

Sixty years, and so wise and good,

She made me a better man;

From the moment I kissed her fair, young face,

Our lover's life began.

And seven fine boys she has given me,

And out of the seven not one

But the noblest father in all the land
Would be proud to call his son.

Oh, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient!
But I feel sore broken up;

At eighty years it's an awesome thing
To drain such a bitter cup.

I know there's Joseph, and John, and Hal,
And four good men beside;

But a hundred sons couuldn't be to me,
Like the woman I made my bride.

My little Polly-so bright and fair!
So winsome and good and sweet!
She had roses twined in her sunny hair,
White shoes on her dainty feet;
And I held her hand-was it yesterday
That we stood up to be wed?

And no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day,
And my dear wife Polly is dead.

THE GRAY SWAN.-ALICE CARY.

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu,

A-sailing with your ship?"

The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,-
"Your little lad, your Elihu?"

He said with trembling lip,-
"What little lad? what ship?"

"What little lad! as if there could be
Another such a one as he!

What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day

The Gray Swan sailed away."

"The other day?" the sailor's eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,—
"The other day? the Swan?"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on.'

"And so your lad is gone?"

"Gone with the Swan."

"And did she stand

With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?"

"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,

The wild sea kissing her,—

A sight to remember, sir."

"But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago?

I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw,
Taking it off, as it might be, so,

The kerchief from your neck."
"Ay, and he'll bring it back!"

"And did the little lawless lad

That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?"

"Lawless! the man is going mad! The best boy ever mother had,—

Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?"

"And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive?"

"Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine,

And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man, what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,
"Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,

And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?"-" Miserable man,

You're mad as the sea,-you rave,―
What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
"My God! my Father! is it true
My little lad, my Elihu?

My blessed boy, my child!
My dead, my living child!"

JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL.

'Twas in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new pratie just dug from the “ould sod,” and wid a light heart and a heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky