They sprang upon me in the gloam,
And talked of moon and stars;
They are married now and live at home
Along with ma and pa.

My lot was happy for a year,
No courting night or day-
I had no thought, I had no fear
Bad luck would come my way.
But oh! this morning, save the mark!
There came a wild surprise,
A shadow flitted grim and dark
Across my sunny skies.

A doctor with a knowing smile,
A nurse with face serene,
A bustle in the home the while,

Great Scott! what can it mean?
My hinges ache; my lock is weak,
My pickets in a whirl;

I hear that awful doctor speak;
It is another girl!

BACKW

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your
flight,

Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years▾
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,-
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between :
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light

For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;―
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;―
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
ELIZABETH AKERS.

MICE AT PLAY.

OUR children sat around a wood-fire, in an old fash

merrily, and showed four flushed little faces, four very tangled heads of hair, eight bright, merry eyes, and-I regret extremely to add-eight very dirty little hands, belonging, respectively, to Bess, Bob, Archie, and Tom. Mamma was away, you may be sure. If she were at home, the children would have made a very different appearance. O yes, indeed, quite and entirely different!

The round table was wheeled in front of the fire, and the student lamp in the centre shed its light on Tom's letter, which he was writing to his mother.

Archie was leaning back in the large chair; his arm, which he had broken in riding the trick-mule of the circus the day before, was in a splint; but judging from the rapid disappearance of the gingerbread on the plate

near him, it is to be doubted if new cider, trick-mules, or broken arms seriously impair the appetite.

"Bess, stop jogging the table! How on earth can a fellow write with you around?"

"Read what you've written," said Bess.

"Yes, do," chimed in Archie. They were both anxious to know what account their mother would receive of their performance.

"Wait till it's done," answered Tom. Writing a letter was no joke for Thomas Bradley, junior.

"How on earth do you spell circus?" he asked.

66

S-u-r-k-e-ss," answered Bess, promptly.

"No you don't!" cried Tom. "I know better." "If you know so much, why do you ask?" retorted Bess.

"Oh, come, Bess! do think, can't you?"

"There is a c in it," put in Archie; " for I saw the big red-and-blue posters in the village, and I know there was a c in èircus.”

"Then it's c-i-r-k-i-s," said Bess.

"Yes; I guess that's right," said Tom, thoughtfully, writing the word, and then holding his head back from the paper, first on one side and then on the other, to see if it looked natural.

"I'm not exactly sure," he said, at last. "It looks kinder queer. And mamma does make such a row if I don't spell right! What's the use in spelling, any way? If the folks know what you mean, that's enough-one way is as good as another. Pshaw!" he continued, "J don't believe it is right. See here, Bob! you're a firstrate little boy-a real, regular first-rate good boy, you are."

"If it's up-stairs, I won't," declared Bob, who knew

that flattery always preceded errands. Bob was one of the kind who learned by experience.

"Oh, yes, Bobby! That's a lovely harness you've made for pussy. I couldn't have done better myself. You know where my dictionary is, up in my room, on that's a good boy.”

the table. Run along and get it,

Bob kept on with his work.

66

'Come, Bobby," said Tom, encouragingly.

"Go yourself!" was Bob's polite suggestion.

"Oh, I'm so tired. I've done nothing but run for doctors all day long. Come, Bob, I'll tell mamma what a good boy you are, if you will."

"Won't you tell her I dropped the teapot down the wel?" asked Bob.

66

Oh, did you?" cried Tom, Bess, and Archie, all in a breath.

Bb nodded his head and looked at them all with a alm stare.

"Which one?" asked the three children, anxiously. "The big silver one," said Bob.

"How? Why? What were you doing with it?" "The gardener wouldn't lend me the watering-pot, and I wanted to water my garden, so I just thought that would do instead; and I went to fill it at the well, and the bucket hit it right over into the well. It was the buchet's fault. I aint to blame."

“Whe-e-ew!” at last whistled Tom.

"If you won't tell mamma, I'll go for your book," said Bob.

"Well, I won't tell her in this letter, any way." "Don't tell her at all," insisted Bob.

"If you don't go right off and get it, I'll write it this moment."