TOBY'S SUPPER.

BY CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

A WEARY day had Toby had of it,

Driving the cows to pasture, putting up
The bars behind them-bars that would not fit
At either end, but down again would drop
From out their rests, now one and then another,
Till he grew hot and sweaty with the pother!

Then there was weeding in the garden rows;

And what young back was there so stout as his To stoop and pull the sly weeds, which the hoes Could not dislodge, or older eyes might miss, Beneath the tall corn hidden- - though in truth Such groping labor did not please our youth.

Yet on he worked like any little man;

Stopping at times to fan his sweaty brow
With his coarse poplar hat, or lift the can
Of milk-and-water to his lips, or throw
Himself beneath the shady apple-trees,
To rest a moment in the cooling breeze.

So went the day — but evening came at last;

The cows were milked; the chickens had been fed

With curds and crumbs

For feathered infants

-

a very choice repast
and had gone to bed

Beneath their good, old mother's brooding wings,
And closed their eyes on sublunary things!

Except a few poor foundling chicks, disowned
By their unnatural parent, or mayhap

Lost in some rash excursion - which run round

Peeping for cold; these Toby in his hat Brought to the kitchen hearth and gently lay In an old basket on some soft, fresh hay.

All his tasks finished, tired as he could be,
He just dropt down like lead into his chair;
His mother sat a basin on his knee

Brim full of foamy milk- tossing his hair

Back from his brow, and placed some meat and

bread

Beside, that he might eat and go to bed.

And eat he did for after so much work

Such driving cows and feeding chickens — he

Was just as ravenous as any Turk;

And the fresh milk, as sweet as it could be, Tasted so good, saying nothing of the matter Of meat and biscuit in the yellow platter!

And so he ate, till from his listless hold,

The spoon fell down upon the basin's side; The drowsy eyelids, like a curtain's fold, Closed o'er his weary eyes; his head aside