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And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it !"
But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course;
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see
This dear little box-and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it-yes, every single word!
I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."
LITTLE NAN'S OFFERING.
THE great wide gates swung open,
And loving hands were heaping the soldier's graves with flowers;
With pansies, pinks, and roses,
And pure, gold-hearted lilies,
The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the springtime bowers.
When down the walk came tripping
Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet;
Her small brown hands were crowded
With dandelions yellow,
The gallant, merry blossom that children love to
Oh, many smiled to see her,
That dimple-cheeked, wee baby,
Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound;
And, pausing oft an instant,
Let fall from out her treasures
A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.
The music died in silence,
And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper
So sweet, so clear, and solemn,
That smiles gave place to tear-drops:
"Nan loves 'oo darlin' soldier; an' here's a f'ower for 'oo."
LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS.
TRINITY bells with their hollow lungs,
And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, Over the roofs of the city pour
Their Easter music with joyous roar,
Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled,
"You have heard, my boy, of Him who died,
"Now, close by the tomb a fair tree grew,
"Now, when the bird from her dim recess
"All night long till the moon was up,
As the homeless wind when it roams the hill;
"But soon there came through the weeping night
"Now, the bird that sang in the heart of the tree Beheld this celestial mystery;
And its heart was filled with sweet delight,
"When the glittering, white-robed angel heard
"And ever, my child, since that blessed night,
WORK AND PRAYER.
A SCULPTOR knelt on the hard oak floor,
Hour after hour at his work he toiled,
Scarce heeding the presence of those who came