But down the lane, as he opened the gate, Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,— But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; Together they followed the cattle home. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. Popping Corn. AND there they sat, a-popping corn, John Styles and Susan Cutter John Styles as fat as any ox, And Susan fat as butter. And there they sat and shelled the corn, Then Susan she the popper shook, Then John he shook the popper, Till both their faces grew as red As saucepans made of copper. And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, While he haw-hawed at her remarks, And she laughed at his joking. And still they popped, and still they ate- The clock struck nine-the clock struck ten, It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, And John he ate, and Sue she thought- Till John cried out, "The corn 's a-fire! Said she, "John Styles, it 's one o'clock; I'm sick of all this popping corn— Why don't you pop the question?" The Twins. ANONYMOUS. IN form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reached a fearful pitch; For one of us was born a twin, One day to make the matter worse, And thus, you see, by fate's decree, My brother John got christened me, This fatal likeness ever dogged "What would you do, if you were me, Our close resemblance turned the tide For somehow, my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In fact, year after year the same Absurd mistakes went on, And when I died, the neighbors came And buried brother John. HENRY S. LEIGH. A Little Goose. THE chill November day was done, 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 No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, And one hand round her treasure while "He came and played at Milly's steps, I've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another: The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers, 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 his prayers,He's such a baby he forgets; And we are both such players;- The sky grew stormy; people passed I said at last, despairing. I tied a kerchief round her neck"What ribbon 's this, my blossom?" "Why don't you know?" she smiling, said, And drew it from her bosom. 66 A card with number, street, and name; "said the little one, "you see For," I might sometimes forget it: And so I wear a little thing That tells you all about it; For mother says she 's very sure ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. Tired Mothers. A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, |