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,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

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
With resolute heart and purpose grim,

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

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,
He saw them coming one by one,—

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;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane. ·

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;
And under the silent evening skies

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,
And raked and stirred the fire,
And talked of different kinds of corn,
And hitched their chairs up nigher.

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,
All kinds of fun a-poking,

While he haw-hawed at her remarks,
And she laughed at his joking.

And still they popped, and still they ate-
John's mouth was like a hopper-
And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt,
And shook and shook the popper.

The clock struck nine-the clock struck ten,
And still the corn kept popping;
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve,
And still no signs of stopping.

And John he ate, and Sue she thought—
The corn did pop and patter-
Till John cried out, "The corn 's a-fire!
Why, Susan, what's the matter?"

Said she, "John Styles, it 's one o'clock;
You'll die of indigestion;

I'm sick of all this popping corn-
Why do n't you pop the question?"

The Twins.

IN form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached a fearful pitch;

ANONYMOUS.

For one of us was born a twin,
And not a soul knew which.

One day to make the matter worse,
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being washed by nurse,
We got completely mixed;

And thus, you see, by fate's decree,
Or rather nurse's whim,

My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.

This fatal likeness ever dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged,
When John turned out a fool.
I put this question, fruitlessly,
To every one I knew,

"What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you."

Our close resemblance turned the tide
Of my domestic life,

For somehow, my intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In fact, year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on,

And when I died, the neighbors came

And buried brother John.

HENRY S. Leigh.

A Little Goose.

THE chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring;

And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying;

When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood

A child of four, or over;

No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other:
Half scared, half confidential, said,
"Oh! please, I want my mother!"
"Tell me your street and number, pet:
Do n't cry, I'll take you to it."
Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.

"He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.

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?"