Driving Home the Cows. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover and through the wheat Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, Thrice since then had the lanes been white, For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; Together they followed the cattle home. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. Popping Corn. AND there they sat, a-popping corn, John Styles and Susan Cutter John Styles as fat as any ox, And Susan fat as butter. And there they sat and shelled the corn, Then Susan she the popper shook, Then John he shook the popper, Till both their faces grew as red As saucepans made of copper. And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, While he haw-hawed at her remarks, And still they popped, and still they ate- The clock struck nine-the clock struck ten, And John he ate, and Sue she thought— Said she, "John Styles, it 's one o'clock; I'm sick of all this popping corn- The Twins. IN form and feature, face and limb, It puzzled all our kith and kin, ANONYMOUS. For one of us was born a twin, One day to make the matter worse, And thus, you see, by fate's decree, My brother John got christened me, This fatal likeness ever dogged "What would you do, if you were me, Our close resemblance turned the tide For somehow, my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In fact, year after year the same And when I died, the neighbors came And buried brother John. HENRY S. Leigh. A Little Goose. THE chill November day was done, And hopelessly and aimlessly When, mingled with the sighing wind, And shivering on the corner stood A child of four, or over; No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, And one hand round her treasure while "He came and played at Milly's steps, I've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another: The monkey 's gone, I 've spoiled my flowers, Oh! please, I want my mother." "But what's your mother's name? and what The street? Now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear— The street-I can't begin it." "But what is strange about the house, Or new-not like the others?" |