The To supper at last the farmer goes. Inglenook The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. Home Song Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; For those that wander they know not where To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, And are baffled, and beaten and blown about The By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; Inglenook To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; 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. Etude Rêaliste I A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat No flower-bells that expand and shrink As shine on life's untrodden brink,- The Inglenook II A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,— 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, III A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies, 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, I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, 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, The Inglenook The Inglenook "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, If two are in the churchyard laid "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's |