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Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun:

Kitchen and parlor and bedroom-we had 'em all in one;

And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West,
Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheerin' words;

Loud was the squirrel's chatter and sweet the song of birds;

And home grew sweeter and brighter-our courage began to mountAnd things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

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Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear;

Christenin's, funerals, weddin's-what haven't we had here?

Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got,

And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.

Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new;

All the hurry and worry is just as good as through;

But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say,

There's precious things in this old house that we never can take away.

Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before:
Winds will whistle through it and rains will flood the floor;
And over the hearth, once blazing, the snowdrifts oft will pile,
And the old things will seem to be a mournin' all the while.

Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see,
But you seem like a human being-a dear old friend to me;
And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands,
Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

Eliza Cook.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell?-a mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
The gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat, and watched her many a day,

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
"Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,

And memory flows with lava tide.
Say 'tis folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

4

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Florence Percy.

Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
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 tonight 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 shown;
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 tonight,
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 to 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 wait or to weep; -

Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

HIAWATHA'S SAILING.

Henry W. Longfellow.

"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!

I a light canoe will build me,

Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float upon the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,

Like a yellow water-lily!

"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,

And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,

By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, "Behold me!
Geesiz, the great sun, behold me!

And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"

With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
Through the summit of the Cedar

Went a sound, a cry of horror,

Went a murmur of resistance;

But it whispered, bending downward,

"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, Shaped them straightway to a frame-work, Like two bows he formed and shaped them,

Like two bended bows together.

"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!

My canoe to bind together,

So to bind the ends together

That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Larch with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"

From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the bark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and you resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"

And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,

Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"

And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,

Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.

"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,

And two stars to deck her bosom!"

From a hollow tree the Hedgehog With his sleepy eyes looked at him, Shot his shining quills, like arrows, Saying with a drowsy murmur,

Through the tangle of his whiskers, "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!”

From the ground the quills he gathered,

All the little shining arrows,

Stained them red and blue and yellow,

With the juice of roots and berries;

Into his canoe he wrought them,

Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded

In the valley, by the river,

In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and magic,

All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,

All the larch's supple sinews;

And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.

Paddles none had Hiawatha,

Paddles none he had or needed,

For his thoughts as paddles served him,

And his wishes served to guide him;

Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.

Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, "Help me clear this river,
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and shouted in the river,

Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.

And thus sailed my Hiawatha

Down the rushing Taquamenaw,

Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.

Up and down the river went they.
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,

Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,

Made a pathway for the people,

From its springs among the mountains,

To the waters of Pauwating,

To the bay of Taquamenaw.

HOW THE ARBUTUS CAME TO MICHIGAN.

Hulda T. Hollands.

Long, long ago, before the world was all finished, a very old man lived alone in his lodge, which stood on the bank of a stream near the edge of a dark forest. Outside snow and ice were everywhere, for it was winter. The spirit of the North Wind roamed through the forest searching every tree and bush for birds to chill, and chasing the evil Manitous over hill and dale.

Every day the old man went out through the forest hunting for wood to feed his fire, and although he was dressed in the warmest furs, he shivered with the cold.

At last the snow became so deep that he could not find the wood and he was obliged to return to his lodge without it. He was cold and hungry, and in despair threw himself down beside the few dull coals that were still smouldering and called aloud to Mauna-Boosha, the great and good Manitou, beseeching him to come to his rescue lest he perish.

At that moment the wind lifted the fur hangings at the door and there appeared before him a beautiful maiden. Her eyes were large and glowing, her cheeks were stained with wild roses, her hair was like the raven's plumage, and so long that it touched the ground when she walked. Her hands were covered with willow buds, and on her head was a wreath of pale pink blossoms. Her breath was odorous as a morn in spring and when she breathed the air of the lodge became warm. Her robe was long and trailing, and was covered with sweet grasses and ferns, her moccasins were made of white lilies.

"Thou art welcome, my daughter," said the old man. "My lodge is cold, but it will shield thee from the storm. Come, tell me who thou art. I am a mighty manitou. I blow my breath, and the streams cease to flow. The running waters stand still."

"I breathe softly," replied the maiden, "and beautiful flowers spring up all over the prairies."

"I shake. my locks," said the old man, "and the leaves run away like a flock of frightened birds and snow covers all the ground."

"I shake my curls," the maiden whispered softly, "and the warm rains fall from the clouds and drench the parched earth, the flowers lift up their heads, and the little bubbles splash over the growing streams like young plovers."

"When I walk about," continued the old man, "the leaves fall from the trees, and when I shout the tempest rides screaming on the wings of the North Wind. At my command, the animals hide in their holes and the birds fly away."

"When I walk about," the maiden responded, "the plants awaken and lift up their heads, the trees cover their nakedness with many leaves, the birds return to their nests, and all who see me sing for joy."

The old man made no further reply, his head drooped on his breast, and he slept. Then the sun came back, and a bluebird called:

"Sayee, sayee, I am thirsty," and the river called back in reply:

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