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The

Inglenook

But sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.

Yet come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon

Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,

66

"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

I Am Lonely

The world is great: the birds all fly from me,
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went

And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by,
I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,

And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.

From "The Spanish Gypsy."

GEORGE ELIOT.

The Inglenook

Brother and Sister

But were another childhood-world my share,

I would be born a little sister there.

I

I cannot choose but think upon the time

When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss
At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime,
Because the one so near the other is.

He was the elder and a little man
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread,
And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,
Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.

I held him wise, and when he talked to me
Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the
best,

I thought his knowledge marked the boundary
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the

rest.

If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath;
Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith.

II

Long years have left their writing on my brow,
But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam
Of those young mornings are about me now,
When we two wandered toward the far-off stream

The With rod and line. Our basket held a store Inglenook Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had

more,

Because he was the elder and a boy.

The firmaments of daisies since to me
Have had those mornings in their opening eyes,
The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparency
Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,

And wild-rose branches take their finest scent
From those blest hours of infantine content.

III

Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways,
Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill,
Then with the benediction of her gaze

Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still

Across the homestead to the rookery elms,
Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound,
So rich for us, we counted them as realms
With varied products: here were earth-nuts
found,

And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade;
Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew,
The large to split for pith, the small to braid;
While over all the dark rooks cawing flew,

And made a happy strange solemnity,

A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me.

IX

We had the selfsame world enlarged for each
By loving difference of girl and boy:
The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach
He plucked for me, and oft he must employ

A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe
Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind
"This thing I like my sister may not do,
For she is little, and I must be kind."

Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned
Where inward vision over impulse reigns,
Widening its life with separate life discerned,
A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains.

His years with others must the sweeter be
For those brief days he spent in loving me.

GEORGE ELIOT.

The Inglenook

Home

O Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay,
And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day;
I wish from my heart I was far away from here,
Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.

The Inglenook

For it's home, dearie, home-it's home I want to be.

Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree

They're all growing green in the old countree.

In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet
With her babe on her arm as she came down the

street;

And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready

For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.

And it's home, dearie, home,—

O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;
And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king;
With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue
He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used
to do.

And it's home, dearie, home,—

O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the
west,

And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,
For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our

pennon free,

And it soon will blow us home to the old countree.

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