It is not much with which to dry
The bitter tears that flow;

Not much in your empty hands to lie
As the seasons come and go.

Yet he has not lived and died in vain,
For proudly you may say

He has left name without a stain
For your tears to wash away.

And evermore shall your life be blest,

Though your treasures now are few, Since you gave for your country's good the best God ever gave to you!

THE MOTHER'S RETURN

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

A month, sweet little ones, is past
Since your dear mother went away,—
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee:
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,—
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near;

"Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery

Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And answers back his sister's glee:
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all "since mother went away!"

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

But see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past-and, O the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

SOME LITTLE LETTERS *

From Louisa M. Alcott: Her Life, Letters and Journals.

The Alcott children were required to keep their journals regularly, and although these were open to

the inspection of father and mother, they were very frank, and really recorded their struggles and desires.

The Mother had the habit of writing little notes to the children when she wished to call their attention to any fault or peculiarity. Louisa preserved many of them, headed,

(EXTRACTS from letters from Mother, received during these early years. I preserve them to show the ever tender, watchful help, she gave to the child who caused her the most anxiety, yet seemed to be the nearest to her heart till the end.-L. M. A.)

No. 1.- MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL,- Will you accept this doll from me on your seventh birthday? She will be a quiet playmate for my active Louisa for seven years more. Be a kind mamma, and love her for my sake.

Beach Street, Boston, 1839.

YOUR MOTHER.

FROM HER MOTHER

DEAR DAUGHTER,

Cottage in Concord, 1842.

Your tenth birthday has arrived. May it be a happy one, and on each returning birthday may you feel new strength and resolution to be gentle with sisters, obedient to parents, loving to every one, and happy in yourself.

I give you the pencil-case I promised, for I have

observed that you are fond of writing, and wish to encourage the habit.

Go on trying, dear, and each day it will be easier to be and do good. You must help yourself, for the cause of your little troubles is in yourself; and patience and courage only will make you what mother prays to see you,- her good and happy girl.

Concord, 1843.

DEAR LOUY,- I enclose a picture for you which I always liked very much, for I imagined that you might be just such an industrious daughter and I such a feeble but loving mother, looking to your labor for my daily bread.

Keep it for my sake and for your own, for you and I always liked to be grouped together.

MOTHER.

The lines I wrote under the picture in my journal:

TO MOTHER

I hope that soon, dear mother,
You and I may be

In the quiet room my fancy

Has so often made for thee,

The pleasant, sunny chamber,
The cushioned easy-chair,
The book laid for your reading,
The vase of flowers fair;