NDER the haystack, little Boy Blue

Sleeps with his head on his arm,
While voices of men and voices of maids
Are calling him over the farm.
Sheep in the meadows are running wild,
Where a poisonous herbage grows,
Leaving white tufts of downy fleece
On the thorns of the sweet, wild rose.
Out in the fields where the silken corn
Its plumed head nods and bows,
Where the golden pumpkins, ripen below,
Trample the white-faced cows.

But no loud blast on the shining horn
Calls back the straying sheep,

And the cows may wander in hay or corn,
While their keeper lies asleep.

His roguish eyes are tightly shut,
His dimples are all at rest;
The chubby hand tucked under his head,
By one rosy cheek is pressed.

Waken him! No! Let down the bars
And gather the truant sheep,
Open the barn-yard and drive in the cows,
But let the little boy sleep.

For year after year we can shear the fleece,
And corn can always be sown;

But the sleep that visits little Boy Blue Will not come when the years have flown.

CATTER the germs of the beautiful,

By the wayside let them fall,

That the rose may spring by the cottage gate,
And the vine on the garden wall;
Cover the rough and the rude of earth
With a veil of leaves and flowers,

And mark with the opening bud and cup
The march of summer hours!

Scatter the germs of the beautiful

In the holy shrine of home;

Let the pure, and the fair, and graceful there

In the loveliest lustre come;

Leave not a trace of deformity

In the temple of the heart,

But gather about its hearth the gems

Of nature and of art.

Scatter the germs of the beautiful

In the temples of our God-
The God who starred the uplifted sky,
And flowered the trampled sod!
When he built a temple for himself,
And a home for his priestly race,
He reared each arm in symmetry,
And covered each line in grace.

Scatter the germs of the beautiful

In the depths of the human soul! They shall bud, and blossom, and bear the fruit, While the endless ages roll;

Plant with the flowers of charity

The portals of the tomb,

And the fair and the pure about thy path

In paradise shall bloom.

66

HICH snall it be? which shall it be? I looked at John-John looked at me (Dear patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet,) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak. "Tell me again what Robert said;" And then I listening bent my head. "This is his letter: "

"I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty and work and care,

Which I, though willing, could not share;

I thought of seven mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

"Come, John," said I,

"We'll choose among them, as they lie
Asleep; so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped
Where the new, nameless baby slept.
"Shall it be baby?" whispered John.
I took his hand, and hurried on
To Lily's crib. Her sleeping grasp
Held her old doll within its clasp;
Her dark curls lay like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly her father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in a loving way,

When dream or whisper made her stir,

And, huskily, John said, "Not her-not her."

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed

Across the boyish faces, three,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw, on Jamie's rough, red cheek,
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face,
Still in sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
We whispered while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one-

Could he be spared? "Nay, He, who gave,
Bids us befriend him to his grave;

Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love.

"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek, in willful way,

And he shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee,"

The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our oldest lad,

Trusty and thoughtful, good and glad

So like his father. "No, John, no

I cannot, will not, let him go."

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And after that, toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy, in truth, that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in Heaven.

E call them weeds, the while with slender fingers, Earth's wounds and scars they seek to cover o'er; On sterile sands, where scarce the raindrop lingers, They grow and blossom by the briny shore.

We call them weeds; did we their form but study,
We many a secret might unfolded find;
Each tiny plant fulfills its heaven-taught mission,
And bears the impress of Immortal Mind.

We call them weeds; the while their uses hidden
Might work a nation's weal, a nation's woe;

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

nd I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;

I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,

I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved, who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.