What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight,

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face

Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell,
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words

Of all the birds,—

Words she has learned to murmur well?

Now he thinks he 'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! down he goes!
See! he's hushed in sweet repose.

CH

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND (Bitter-Sweet).

CHOOSING A NAME
OOSIN

I HAVE got a new-born sister;

I was nigh the first that kissed her.

When the nursing-woman brought her

To papa, his infant daughter,

How papa's dear eyes did glisten!
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,
I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her, -
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ?

Ann and Mary, they 're too common;
Joan's too formal for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 't was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith 's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen 's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret;

Emily is neat and fine;

What do you think of Caroline ?

--

How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever

Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her;
I will leave papa to name her.

MARY LAMB.

MY BABES IN THE WOOD

I KNOW a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,
Than any story printed in your books.
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks.
"Is it a fairy story?" Well, half fairy
At least it dates far back as fairies do,
And seems to me as beautiful and airy ;
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.
You had a baby sister and a brother,
Two very dainty people, rosy white,

Sweeter than all things else except each other
Older, yet younger gone from human sight!

And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever,

And think with yearning tears how each light hand
Crept toward bright bloom and berries — I shall never
Know how I lost them. Do you understand?

Poor slightly golden heads! I think I missed them
First in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way;
But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them
My gradual parting, I can never say.

Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished
In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss,
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished,
For their small sakes, since my most bitter loss.

I fancy, too, that they were softly covered
By robins out of apple trees they knew,

Whose nursling wings in far home sunshine hovered,
Before the timid world had dropped the dew.
Their names were what yours are. At this you
Their pictures are your own, as you have seen;
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under

Lost leaves-why, it is your dead selves I mean!

wonder;

SALLIE M. B. PIATT.

"BAIRNIES, CUDDLE DOON"

THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' muckle faucht an' din;
"Oh try and sleep, ye waukrif rogues,
Your feyther's comin' in!"
They dinna hear a word I speak ;
I try an' gie a frown,

But aye I hap them up and cry:
“O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Wee Jamie, wi' the curly heid,
He aye sleeps next the wa',

Bangs up and cries: "I want a piece!"
The rascal starts them a'!

I rin an' fetch them pieces drinks

They stop a wee the soun', Then draw the blankets up and cry: "O weanies, cuddle doon!"

But scarce five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out frae neath the claes:
“Mither, mak Tam gie ower at ance!
He's kittlin' wi' his taes !

The mischief 's in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toun;
But still I hap them up and cry:
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

At length they hear their feyther's step,
And as he nears the door

They draw their blankets o'er their heids, And Tam pretends to snore.

"Hae a' the weans been guid ?" he asks, As he pits off his shoon;

"The bairnies, John, are in their beds, And lang since cuddled doon!"

And just afore we bed oursels

We look at our wee lambs;

Tam has his airm round wee Rab's neck,

And Rab his airm round Tam's.

I lift wee Jamie up the bed,

And as I straik each croun,

I whisper, till my hairt fills up:
"O bairnies, cuddle doon !"

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi' mirth that 's dear to me,
For sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.

But come what will to ilka ane,
May He who sits abune

Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald :
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence,
Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret,

O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me :
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine.
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

WILLIE WINKIE

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed? —for it 's now ten o'clock.”

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrif laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue: - glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk!
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there he comes !

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
WILLIAM MILLER.

THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR

THE farmer sat in his easy chair,

Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife, with busy care,
Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,

On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.

The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;

He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place.

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,

"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry!"