Say "Hullo!" and "How d'ye do?"
Other folks are good as you.

When you leave your house of clay,
Wandering in the far away;

When you travel through the strange
Country far beyond the range,

Then the souls you've cheered will know
Who you be, and say, "Hullo!"

Sam Walter Foss, in New York Weekly.

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes

To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,

Quick as a flash 'tis gone;

Nowhere to fall but off,

Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,

Nowhere to sleep but in bed,

Nothing to weep but tears,

Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,

Ah, well! Alas! Alack!
Nowhere to go but out,

Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to read but words,

Nothing to cast but votes,

Nothing to hear but sounds,
Nothing to sail but boats.

Nothing to see but sights,

Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got,
Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait,
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but commonsense
Can ever withstand these woes.

Ben King.

HIS NEW BROTHER

Say, I've got a little brother,
Never teased to have him, nother,

But he's here;

They just went ahead and bought him,
And last week the doctor brought him;
Wa'n't that queer?

When I heard the news from Molly,
Why! I thought at first 'twas jolly,
'Cause, you see,

I s'posed I could go and get him,
An' then Mamma 'course she would let him
Play with me.

But when I had once looked at him,
"Why," I says, "my sakes! is that him?

Just that mite?"

They said, "Yes," and "Ain't he cunnin'?"
He's a sight.

He's so small, it's jest amazin

And you'd think that he was blazin',
He's so red.

And his nose is like a berry,
And he's bald as Uncle Jerry
On the head.

Why, he isn't worth a dollar;
All he does is cry and holler,
More and more;

Won't sit up, you can't arrange him;
I don't see why Pa don't change him
At the store.

Now we've got to dress and feed him,
And we really didn't need him

More'n a frog:

Why'll they buy a baby brother

When they know I'd good deal ruther
Have a dog?

Joseph C. Lincoln.

SEND THEM TO BED WITH A KISS

O mothers, so weary, discouraged,
Worn out with the cares of the day,
You often grow cross and impatient,
Complain of the noise and the play:
For the day brings so many vexations,
So many things going amiss;
But, mothers, whatever may vex you,
Send the children to bed with a kiss!

The dear little feet wander often,

Perhaps, from the pathway of right,
The dear little hands find new mischief
To try you from morning till night;
But think of the desolate mothers

Who'd give all the world for your bliss,
And, as thanks for your infinite blessings,
Send the children to bed with a kiss!

For some day their noise will not vex you,
The silence will hurt you far more;
You will long for their sweet childish voices,
For a sweet childish face at the door;
And to press a child's face to your bosom,
You'd give all the world for just this!
For the comfort 'twill bring you in sorrow,
Send the children to bed with a kiss!

In New Orleans Picayune.

SONG

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
There is ever a something sings alway;

There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.

The sunshine showers across the grain,

And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;

There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear—

There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,

In the midnight black or the midday blue; The robin pipes when the sun is here,

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,

And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;

There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear—

There is ever a song somewhere!

James Whitcomb Riley.

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS

I haf von fonny leedle poy,

Dot gomes shust to mine knee,

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue

As effer you did see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings

In all barts of der house,

But vat of dot; he vos mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He gets der measles, und der mumps,
Und everydings dots oudt;

He shphills mine glass of lager beer,
Poots shnuff indo mein kraut;