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The

To supper at last the farmer goes.
Inglenook The apples are pared, the paper read,

The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling,-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring" So, boss! so!"

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

Home Song

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care,

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,

And are baffled, and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest:

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;

To stay at home is best.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGfellow.

The

Inglenook

Etude Réaliste

I

A baby's feet, like seashells pink,
Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,—
A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink
Gleam half so heavenly sweet,

As shine on life's untrodden brink,-
A baby's feet.

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Inglenook

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,
Where yet no leaf expands,

Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-
A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brands

When battle's bolt is hurled,

They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled

Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world,-
A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
A baby's eyes.

Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
And sleep flows out and in,

Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
Their speech make dumb the wise,

By mute glad godhead felt within

A baby's eyes.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

We Are Seven

-A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;-
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my

mother."

The Inglenook

The

Inglenook

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid
Then ye are only five."

66 Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper there.

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