I Harry Ashland, One of My Lovers. HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the grass and plays in the clover; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and makes sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has a clean collar and goes to church, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, and live in a house like that." He wears a great apron like a sack,-it's hard they don't put him in trousers and jackets; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hope for the future o'ershoots them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without any visible means of support, And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he doesn't know where to put them. All day he's tumbling, and leaping and jumping,-run- But at twilight around my chair he lingers, clasping my men that "annex " you in stately fashion,- And I look in the honest eyes of this baby, and wonder what would have happened, maybe, If Heaven had not made me be twenty now, while Harry is only four. I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a promise that Harry made her, "To build her a house all full of doors, and live with her there some day;" But Ada is growing lank and thin,—they say she will have a peaked chin, And I think had nearly outgrown her "first love" before I came in the way. She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can make her, And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it doesn't matter how she is dressed, For Harry-sweetest of earthly lispers-has said in my ear, in loudest whispers, With his dear short arms around my neck, that he "likes the grown-up bonnets best." He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his private preference is a sawyer, And counselors, not less than carpenters, live by dust" and by bores. 64 saw It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial blockhead through. And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can always panel doors. It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if his hammer and will be good, If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy then, Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's needing, whether his business is planing or pleading, He has sixty cents in his little tin ''bank," and a keepsake in his drawer; But he always promises, "I'll get plenty-I'll find where they make it, when I'm twenty; I'll go down town where the other men do, and bring it out of the store." And then he describes such wonderful dresses, and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses, With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk cushions and rings of gold, And I think what a fond, true breast to dream on, what a dear, brave heart for a woman to lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for some baby a twelvemonth old! Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry a young man, gay and naughty. Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driving fast horses and cracking whips, The handsomest fellow!-Heaven bless him!--setting the girls all wild to possess him,— With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and cigars in those pretty lips! O, do you think he will quite forget me,- -do you believe he will ever regret me? [an idle myth, Will he wish the twenty years back again, or deem this While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, and sigh as my baby lover passes And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as I look at Mr. Smith! -Anonymous. I WAS sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard, 'Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. "But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too?" "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." Papa's Letter. "No, no, mamma; me wite letter, Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, "I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses 'Mid its waves of golden light. Then I said, "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair. No one heard the front door open, Down the street the baby hastened But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man." "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must do if I tan." Fain the clerk would have detained him, Suddenly the crowd was parted, No one saw the baby figure- Stood the beauteous vision there, Covered o'er with golden hair. Not a mark the face disfigured, A Good-Night and Good-Morning. FAIR little girl sat under a tree Sewingas long as her eyes could see, Such a number of rooks came over her head, She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, 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 A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret, They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Then comforted wholly she went away, And was just as still as a mouse, And I thought to be sure I should find her at once But lo! on the way as I started to look, That the scissors had scolloped round. I cried, "O, baby! what have you done? While she sobbed, "There was nothing for me to cut, And I thought I'd take two or three! " It was only a little later on, That the water began to splash, And I jumped and found she was rubbing away On her sister's holiday sash; But, catching a look of utter dismay As she lifted her innocent eyes, She whispered: "Don't worry, I'll wash it all clean, And hang it up till it dries." But the funny mishaps of that wonderful day I could not begin to relate; The boxes of buttons and pins she spilled, Like a cherub pursued by fate! Was to smooth out her wings on my breast. But the day drifted on till it came to an end, And I thought, as I looked on her lying asleep, That my beautiful child was human enough -Mrs. L. C. Whiton. |