« AnteriorContinuar »
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying; When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;
And wind blown curls to cover.
Her round blue eyes ran over;
A bunch of faded clover.
And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other : Half scared, half confidential, said,
“Oh! please, I want my mother!" “Tell me your street and number, pet:
Do n't cry, I 'll take you to it.” Sobbing she answered, “I forget:
The organ made me do it.
“He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money ;
The monkey was so funny.
From one street to another:
Oh! please, I want my mother."
“But what 's your mother's name? and what
The street ? Now think a minute." “My mother's name is mamma dear
The street-I can't begin it.” “But what is strange about the house,
Or new-not like the others ?"
“I guess you mean my trundle-bed,
Mine and my little brother's.
"Oh dear! I ought to be at home To help him say
prayers, – He's such a baby he forgets;
And we are both such players;And there 's a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he 's asleep:
Oh dear! I want my mother."
The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
I said at last, despairing.
“What ribbon 's this, my blossom ? "
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it; “For," said the little one, “you see
I might sometimes forget it:
That tells you all about it;
ELIZA SPROAT TURNER
A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.
But it is blessedness! A year ago
I did not see it as I do to-day-
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only good.
And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee, This restless curling head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then.
I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
And hear it patter in my house once more,
If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I. But ahl the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,-
MAY RILEY SMITH
And the school for the day is dismissed,
To bid me good-night and be kissed:
My neck in their tender embrace!
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
Of my childhood too lovely to last; Of joy that my heart will remember,
While it wakes to the pulse of the past,
A partner of sorrow and sin,
And the glory of gladness within.
All my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths, steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go; Of the mountains of Sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh! there 's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!
They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His glory still gleams in their eyes,
They have made me more manly and mild !
And I know, now, how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done,
To temper the glare of the sun;
But my prayer would bound back to myself ;
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod;
They have taught me the goodness of God;
Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school
I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
That meet me each morn at the door;
And the gush of their innocent glee,
That are brought every morning for me. I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet.
And death says “the school is dismissed,"
CHARLES M. DICKINSON.