VII.

At last he came, the messenger,
The messenger from unseen lands:
And what did dainty Babie Bell?

She only crossed her little hands,
She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair:
We wove the roses round her brow,
White buds, the summer's drifted snow-
Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers,
And thus went dainty Babie Bell

Out of this world of ours!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE LITTLE STEP-SON.

I HAVE a little step-son, the loveliest thing alive;
A noble, sturdy boy is he, and yet he's only five;
His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow, his eyes are
black as jet,

And his lips are like two rose-buds, all tremulous and

wet;

His days pass off in sunshine, in laughter, and in song
As careless as a summer rill, that sings itself along;
For like a pretty fairy tale, that's all too quickly told,
is the young life of a little one, that's only five years old.

He's dreaming on his happy couch before the day grows dark,

He's up with morning's rosy ray, a-singing with the lark;

Where'er the flowers are freshest, where'er the grass is

green,

With light locks waving on the wind, his fairy form is

seen,

Amid the whistling March winds, amid the April show

ers,

He warbles with the singing-birds, and blossoms with the flowers.

He cares not for the summer heat, he cares not for the

cold,

My sturdy little step-son, that's only five years old.

How touching 'tis to see him clasp his dimpled hands in prayer,

And raise his little rosy face with reverential air!

How simple in his eloquence! how soft his accents fall, When pleading with the King of kings, to love and bless us all!

And when from prayer he bounds away in innocence and

joy,

The blessing of a smiling God goes with the sinless boy; A little lambkin of the flock, within the Saviour's fold, Is he, my lovely step-son, that's only five years old.

I have not told you of our home, that in the summer hours,

Stands in its simple modesty, half hid among the flowers; I have not said a single word about our mines of wealthOur treasures are this little boy, contentment, peace, and health.

For even a lordly hall to us would be a voiceless place, Without the gush of his glad voice, the gleams of his bright face.

And many a courtly pair, I ween, would give their gems and gold

For a noble, happy boy like ours, some four or five

old.

years

Amelia B. Welby.

THE COLONEL'S SHIELD.

YOUR picture, slung about my neck,
The day we went a-field,

Swung out before the trench;
It caught the eye of rank and file,
Who said, "The Colonel's Shield."

I thrust it back, and with my men
(Our General rode ahead)
We stormed the great redoubt,
As if it were an easy thing,

But rows of us fell dead!

Your picture hanging on my neck,
Up with my men I rushed;
We made an awful charge:

And then my horse, "The Lady Bess,"
Dropped, and-my leg was crushed!

The blood of battle in my vains
(A blue-coat dragged me out)-
But I remembered you;

I kissed your picture-did you know?
And yelled, "For the redoubt!"

The Twenty-Fourth, my scarred old dogs,
Growled back, "He'll put us through;
We'll take him in our arms:

Our picture there—the girl he loves,
Shall see what we can do."

The foe was silenced-so were we.
I lay upon the field,
Among the Twenty-Fourth;

Your picture, shattered on my breast,
Had proved "The Colonel's Shield."

Mrs. R. H. Stoddard.

A SONG FOR THE FARMER.

A SONG I sing, an humble song
For the farmer's honest calling;
Whose sinews strong toil all day long

In ploughing, threshing, mauling-
Whose manly step and upright form
We recognize on meeting—

Whose hardened hand we haste to grasp
In friendship's cordial greeting.

No tinsel trapping decks the hand
So honestly extended;
Nor yet by kid or silken glove
Is it from winds defended.
Bronzed, and hard, and rough with toil,

The breezes pass unheeded,

Or warded off by housewife's thrift

With mittens warm when needed.

No broadcloth fine from foreign land
Was for his coat imported;

No silk or satin for his vest

By skilful hands assorted.

That coat and vest in cruder form

His own sheep wore while grazing, And even his shirt so white was wrought From flax of his own raising.

Dependent upon God alone,

His bread, or corn or wheaten,
Is garnered from his fertile field,
And thankfully is eaten;

The family gathered 'round his board
With reverence look to Heaven,
And bless the God by whom alone
Their competence is given.

Ho! 'tis the spring-the sunny spring!
The grass is faintly peeping
Above the earth where it so long
In icy bonds was sleeping:
The birds are singing in the brake,
The cattle loud are lowing,
The peacock struts with prouder step,
And chanticleer is crowing.

Off to his field the farmer hies

To plough the lengthened furrowTo rouse the ground-mole from his sleep, The rabbit from his burrow—

To turn once more the mellow mould,

Or rend the sod long growing,