Now, Harry, pull the chairs up,
  And, Fanny, get the shawl;
We'll play that we are sailors,
  And that we're in a squall.

The fire will be a lighthouse,
  To warn us off the shore;
And we will place the footstools
  For rocks, out on the floor.

Now this chair is the stern
  And that one is the bow;
But there, you must be careful,
  And not lean hard, you know.

Now, sailors, pull that sail up,
  And tuck the corners in—
Well if you want it tighter,
  Ask mother for a pin.

Now couldn't we sing something
  About the "Ocean Blue"?
Well, never mind, "By-baby"
  Or anything will do.

Take care, you careless sailors,
  And mind what you are about,
You know the sea will drown you,
  If you should tumble out.

Up and down the play-room,
  Then behind the door,
Now upon the sofa,
  Now upon the floor.

In below the table,
  Round the big arm-chair,
Goes my little brother,
  Crying "Are you there?"

And when brother sees me,
  Then away I run;
And he follows after,
  Merry with the fun.

So at hide and seek we play.
And pass the happy hours away.

Into the meadow
  Over the way,
Tumbling and tossing
  The new-mown hay.

Into the hedgerow
  Picking the May;
Over the hills
  And far away.

Down by the brook
  Where the ripples play,
Whirling and winding
  Their silvery way,

Then home again
  By a different way,
Picking an armful
  Of wildflowers gay.

For mother dear
  To gladden her way,
And wake in her heart
  A cheerful lay.

For every leaf
  Has it's sunny ray;
All nature is happy
  And seems to say:

Girls and boys,
  Come out to play.
The sun is shining
  Away, away.

Two merry men,
  One summer day,
Forsook their toys,
  And forgot their play.

Two little faces,
  Full of fun,
Two little hearts
  That beat as one.

Four little hands,
  At work with a will,
Four little legs
  That can't keep still.

For labour is sweet,
  And toil is fun,
When mother wants
  Any work to be done.

Tell me little ladies,
  Playing in the sun,
How many minutes
  Till the baking's done?

Susy gets the flour,
  All of golden dust;
Harry builds the oven,
  Lily rolls the crust.

Pat it here, and pat it there;
  What a dainty size!
Bake it on a shelf of stone,
  Nice mud pies!

Now we want a shower—
  For we need it so—
It would make a roadside,
  Such a heap of dough.

Turn them in, and turn them out,
  How the morning flies!
Ring the bell for dinner—
  Hot mud pies!

I know a little girl,
  Who is very fond of play:
And if her ma would let her,
  Would do nothing else all day.

She has a little doll,
  And another one quite large.
She plays she has a little home,
  And house cares to discharge.

But when her mamma calls her,
  Some real work to do,
She does not like to leave her play,
  And pouts till she is through.

In the hay, in the hay,
  Toss we and tumble;
No one to say us nay,
All through this Summer's day!
  No one to grumble.

In the hat, in the hay,
  Arthur we'll smother;
Bring armfuls, heap them high,
Pile them up—now good-bye,
  Poor little brother!

In the hay, in the hay,
  Snugly reclining,
Shaded from the noontide heat,
Smelling the clover sweet,
  See us all dining;

While the haymakers sit
  Under the willows,
Each with his bread and cheese
Spread out upon his knees,
  Hay for their pillows.

Hark! how the laugh and chat,
  Happy, light hearted!
Now to their work they go,
Raking up one long row,
  Fit to be carted.

Now comes the wagon near,
  Quickly they're loading;
Rake away! rake away!
While it's fine make the hay—
  Rain is foreboding.

Now that the sunset ray
  Says the day's over,
Homeward we make our way,
In the cart strewn with hay,
  Smelling of clover.

                Mrs. Hawtrey

"Ho! for a frolic!"
  Said Johnny the stout;
"There's coasting and sledding;
  I'm going out."

Scarcely had Johnny
  Plunged in the snow,
When there came a complaint
  Up from his toe:

"We're cold" said the toe,
  "I and the rest;
There's ten of us freezing,
  Standing abreast."

Then up spoke an ear;
  "My, but it's labor—
Playing in winter. Eh!
  Opposite neighbour!"

"Pooh!" said his nose,
  Angry and red;
"Who wants to tingle?
  Go home to bed!"

Eight little fingers,
  Four to a thumb,
All cried together—
  "Johnny, we're numb!"

But Johnny the stout
  Wouldn't listen a minute;
Never a snow-bank
  But Johnny was in it.

Tumbling and jumping,
  Shouting with glee,
Wading the snow-drifts
  Up to his knee.

Soon he forgot them,
  Fingers and toes,
Never once thought of
  The ear and the nose.

Ah! What a frolic!
  All in a glow,
Johnny grew warmer
  Out in the snow.

Often his breathing
  Came with a joke;
"Blaze away, Johnny!
  I'll do the smoke."

"And I'll do the fire,"
  Said Johnny the bold.
"Fun is the fuel
  For driving off cold."

Supper is over,
  Now for fun,
This is the season
  Children must run;

Papa is reading;
  Says, of these boys;
"Pray did you ever
  Hear such a noise?"

Riding on "camels"
  Over the floor,
See, one's a squirrel
  Climbing the door;

There goes the baby
  Flat on his nose,
Brother was trying
  To tickle his toes.

Little he minds it,
  Though he would cry,
Changed it to laughter
  As Lyn galloped by;

Order is nowhere,
  Fun is the rule;
Think, they are children
  Just out of school.

Home is their palace;
  They are the kings
Let them be masters,
  Of just a few things;

Only one short hour
  Out of all day,
Give them full freedom;
  Join in their play.

Do not be angry
  Do not forget
You liked to make noise
  Sometimes do yet;

Home will be sweeter
  Till life is done
If you will give them
  An hour of fun.

Play-time, play-time, hurrah!
  Out in the fields together!
Don't let us lose a moment's time,
  This fine, bright, glorious weather.

Run, boys! Run, boys! faster!
  Ball and the bats for cricket;
Jack, you're the fastest runner here,
  Be off, and pitch the wicket.

Football for those who choose—
  The goal stick—go, Jim, fix it;
Give us the ball; who's won the toss?
  Now, for the first who kicks it.

No lazy ones today;
  Off, stretch your legs running!
Now for the hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
  And let the noise be stunning.

Hear how it echoes round!
  Another and another!
No fear of noise, it won't disturb
  Old granny and poor mother.

Hullo there! no foul play!
  Dick, what is that you're saying?
No bad words and no cruel sport;
  We're come for fun and playing.

Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way,
You can't be contented with innocent play;
But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,
Is never left off till it ends in a cry.

What! are there no games you can take a delight in,
But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting?
It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude
That boys can't be merry, without being rude.

Now what is the reason you never can play
Without snatching each other's playthings away?
Would it be any hardship to let them alone,
When every one of you has toys of his own?

I often have told you before, my dear boys,
That I do not object to your making a noise;
Or running and jumping about, anyhow,
But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.

So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,
I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word,
I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball,
And not let you play with each other at all.

When the voices of children are heard on the green,
  And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
  And everything else is still.

"Then come home my children, the sun is gone down
  And the dews of the night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
  And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides in the sky the little birds fly,
  And the hills are covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
  And then go home to bed."
The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed,
  And all the hills echoed.

                W. Blake

  Here we go on the garden swing,
    Under the chestnut tree.
  Up in the branches birdies sing
    Songs to Baby and me,
    Baby and Kitty and me.
Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,
And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

  And there's room on the seat for three,
  Just Baby and Kitty and me
    Merrily swinging,
    Merrily singing,
  Under the chestnut tree.

  Up to the clustering leaves we go,
    Down we sweep to the grass,
  Touching the daisies there below,
    Bowing to let us pass,
    Smiling to us as we pass.
Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,
And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

  And there's room on the seat for three,
  Just Baby and Kitty and me
    Merrily swinging,
    Merrily singing,
  Under the chestnut tree.

One day it chanced that Miss Maud did meet
  The poet's little son,
"I'm going skating, Sir," she said;
  "And so am I," said John.

  "If you can skate and I can skate,
  Why let me skate with you,
We'll go the whole world round and round,
  And skate the whole year through."

They skated left, and skated right,
  Miss Maud and little John,
That is—as long as there was ice
  For them to skate upon.

And then they did unstrap their skates
  Like other girls and men,
And never used them once—until
  They put them on again!

Lessons now at last are over,
    Books and slates are put away;
  Hymns attentively repeated,
  Copy without a blot completed,
Now's the time for fun and play.

Lessons done with cheerful spirit
Bring the sure reward of merit,
Smiling face and heart so gay;
    In this bright and smiling weather,
    Merrily they all together,
With the skipping rope will play;

And if only Tom and Polly
Will come too, it will be jolly!
Here they are now, foot it lightly,
Hand in hand they skip so sprightly,
    Bees are humming,
    Summer's coming.

Birds are singing as they're bringing
Twigs from many a distant tree;
    Lined with down, and moss, and feather,
    Where they'll sit and chirp together,
Oh! how snug those homes will be!

O'er the ropes so lightly skipping,
O'er the grass so lightly tripping,
    The children are as glads as they.
Lessons are done with cheerful spirit,
Bring the sure reward of merit;

And remember, too, that they
Who work hardest day by day,
Always most enjoy their play.

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's day;
  So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
  And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his;
  So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
  And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,
  And bang with might and main,
It's head against the parlor door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
  And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
  A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot.
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
  To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake,
  Thus to distress your aunt:
No Drury-lane for you to-day!"
And while papa said "Pooh, she may!"
  Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,
  And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,
  Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
  Stood in the lumber-room:
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While molly mopp'd it with a mop,
  And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
  (I always talk to Sam:)
So what does he, but takes, and drags
Me in the chaise among the flags,
  And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall and not so thick
  As these; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good
  As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
  Won't hide it, I'll be bound;
And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
  They keep them on the ground.

He who checks a child with terror,
  Stops its play and stills its song,
Not alone commits an error
  But a great and grievous wrong.

Give it play, and never fear it;
  Active life is no defect.
Never, never break its spirit;
  Curb it only to direct.

Would you stop the flowing river,
  Thinking it would cease to flow?
Onward in must flow forever;
  Better teach it where to go.

"And so you do not like to spell,
Mary, my dear, oh, very well:
'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say,
And you had rather be at play.

"Then bring me all your books again;
Nay, Mary, why do you complain?
For as you do not choose to read,
You shall not have your books, indeed.

"So, as you wish to be a dunce,
Pray go and fetch me them at once;
For if you will not learn to spell,
'Tis vain to think of reading well.

"Do you not think you'll blush to own
When you become a woman grown,
Without one good excuse to plead,
That you have never learnt to read?"

"Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then,
"Do let me have my books again;
I'll not fret any more indeed,
If you will let me learn to read."

                Jane Taylor

Mrs Grammar once gave a fine ball
To the nine different parts of our speech;
  To the short and the tall,
  To the stout and the small,
There were pies, plums and puddings for each.

And first little Articles came,
In a hurry to make themselves known—
  Fat A, An, and The;
  But none of the three
Could stand for a minute alone.

The Adjectives came to announce
That their dear friends the Nouns were at hand,
  Rough, rougher and roughest,
  Tough, tougher and toughest,
Fat, merry, good-natured and grand.

The Nouns were indeed on their way,
Tens of thousands, and more, I should think;
  For each name we could utter,
  Shop, shoulder, or shutter,
Is a noun: lady, lion or link.

The Pronouns were hastening fast
To push the Nouns out of their places:
  I, thou, he, and she,
  You, it, they, and we,
With their sprightly intelligent faces.

Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs!
A great crowd is coming in view!"
  To light and to smile,
  To fight and to bite,
To be, and to have, and to do.

The Adverbs attended on the Verbs,
Behind as their footmen they ran;
  As this, "to fight badly,"
  And "run away gladly,"
Shows how fighting and running were done.

Prepositions came in, by, and near;
With Conjunctions, a wee little band,
  As either you or he,
  But neither I nor she;
They held their great friends by the hand.

Then, too, with a hip, hip, hurrah!
Rushed in Interjections uproarious;
  Dear me! well-a-day!
  When they saw the display,
"Ha! Ha!" they all shouted out, "glorious!"

But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh!
While the fun and the feasting pleased each,
  Pounced on them at once
  A monster—a Dunce!
And confounded the nine parts of speech!

Help! friends! to the rescue! on you
For aid Verb and Article call;
  Oh! give your protection
  To poor Interjection,
Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!

Three little words we often see,
And Article, a, an, the.

Noun's the name of anything,
As school or garden, hoop or string.

Adjective tells the kind of noun,
As great, small, pretty, white or brown.

Instead of nouns, the Pronoun stand
John's head, his face, my arm, your hand.

Verbs tell us of something being done,
To read, write, count, sing, jump, or run.

How things are done, the Adverbs tell,
As slowly, quickly, ill, or well.

A Preposition stands before
A noun, as in or through a door.

Conjunctions join the nouns together
as men and children, wind and weather.

The Interjection shows surprise,
As Oh, how pretty! Ah, how wise!

The whole are called nine parts of speech,
Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

The poor wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs so that others may be fed,—
Feels less fatigue, than that decreed
To him that cannot think or read!

                Hannah More

A sweet little baby brother
  Had come to live with Flo,
And she wanted it brought to the table,
  That it might eat and grow.
"It must wait a while," said grandma,
  In answer to her plea,
"For a little thing that hasn't teeth
  Can't eat like you and me."

"Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?"
  Asked Flo in great surprise,
"O my, but isn't it funny?—
  No teeth, but nose and eyes.
"I guess," after thinking gravely,
  They must have been forgot.
Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?
  I'd like to know why not."

That afternoon, to the corner,
  With paper, and pen, and ink,
Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me;
  If you do, it'll 'sturb my think.
I'm writing a letter, grandma,
  To send away to-night,
An' 'cause it's very 'portant,
  I want to get it right."

At last the letter was finished,
  A wonderful thing to see,
And directed to "God, in Heaven."
  Please read it over to me,"
Said little Flo to her grandma,
  "To see if it's right, you know."
And here is the letter written
  To God by little Flo:—

"Dear God: The baby you brought us
  Is awful nice and sweet,
But 'cause you forgot his tooffies
  The poor little thing can't eat.
That's why I'm writing this letter,
  A purpose to let you know.
Please come and finish the baby,
  That's all—From Little Flo."

                Eben. E. Rexford

True ease in writing
  Comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest
  Who have learned to dance.

                Pope

Hurrah for the postman
  Who brings us the news!
What a lot it must take
  To pay for his shoes.

For he walks many miles
  Each day of the week,
And though he would like to,
  Must not stay to speak.

Red stripes round his blue cap,
  With clothing to match it;
If he lost any letters,
  Oh, wouldn't he catch it!

    FIRST

Dear Grandmamma—I write to say
  (And you'll be glad, I know,)
That I am coming, Saturday,
  To spend a week or so.

I'm coming, too, without mamma,
  You know I'm eight years old!
And you shall see how good I'll be,
  To do as I am told.

I'll help you lots about your word—
  There's so much I can do—
I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs,
  And feed the chickens, too.

And maybe I will be so good
  You'll keep me there till fall;
Or, better still, perhaps you'll say
  I can't go home at all!

Now grandmamma, please don't forget
  To meet me at the train,
For I'll be sure to come—unless
  It should cloud up and rain!

    SECOND

Dear Mamma—Please put on your things,
  And take the next express;
I want to go back home again—
  I'm very sick, I guess!

My grandma's very good to me,
  But grandma isn't you;
And I forgot, when I came here,
  I'd got to sleep here, too!

Last night I cried myself to sleep,
  I wanted you so bad!
To day, I cannot play or eat,
  I feel so very sad.

Please, mamma, come, for I don't see
  How I can bear to wait!
You'll find me, with my hat and sack
  Out by the garden gate.

And grandma will not care a bit
  If you should come, I know;
Because I am your own little girl,
  And I do love you so.

Dear Grandmamma, I will try to write
  A very little letter;
If I don't spell the words all right,
  Why next time I'll do better.

My little rabbit is alive,
  And likes his milk and clover,
He likes to se me very much,
  But is afraid of Rover.

I have a dove as white as snow,
  I hall her "Polly Feather";
She flies and hops about the yard,
  In every kind of weather.

The hens are picking off the grass,
  And singing very loudly;
While our old peacock struts about,
  And shows his feathers proudly.

I think I'll close my letter now,
  I've nothing more to tell;
Please answer soon, and come to see
  Your loving, little Nell.

Dear Old Uncle—I dot oor letter;
My dear mamma, she ditten better;
She every day a little bit stronger,
Don't mean to be sick very much longer.

Dear little baby had a bad colic;
Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic.
Toot a dose of tatnip—felt worse as ever;
Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!

Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad;
Worse fit of sickness ever I had!
Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill?
Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.

I used to sleep all day, and cry all night;
Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite.
Got a head of hair jess as black as night
And big boo eyes, yat look very bright.

My mamma say, never did see
Any ozzer baby half as sweet as me.
Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too;
Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.

Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all,
Aunties and cousins, big folks and small.
Can't say any more, so dood by—
Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!

"Did you ever get a letter?
  I did the other day.
It was in a real envelope,
  And it came a long, long way.

A stamp was in the corner
  And some printing when it came,
And the one that wrote the letter
  Had put 'Miss' before my name.

Then there came a lot more written,
  I forget now what it read,
But it told the office people
  Where I lived, mamma said.

Don't you s'pose those letter-persons,
  If they hadn't just been told,
Would have thought 'twas for a lady
  Who was awful, awful old?

For it looked real big and heavy,
  The outside was stuck with glue,
So they couldn't know I'm little,
  I don't think they could. Do you?"

                Youth's Companion

I'm going to write to papa,
  I guess he'd like to hear
What his little girl is doing,
  The same as when he is near;

I'll tell him how I miss him,
  And how I'd wish he'd come,
And never, never, leave us,
  But always stay at home.

I'll tell him 'bout my dolly,
  She's sleeping on the floor,
I fear that noise will wake her,
  Oh! please don't slam the door.

For I must not be bothered,
  That's just what ma would say,
When she begins a letter,
  And sends me off to play.

I'll send him lots of kisses,
  And one bright shining curl,
I'll ask him to remember
  His lonely little girl;

I want so much to see him,
  But I won't cry a wink,
Cause when I write my letter,
  The tears would blot my ink.

I'm going to write to papa,
  And oh! how glad he'll be.
To get a little letter
  That was written all by me.

I gaze upon ye, once again,
  Old records of the past,
And o'er the dim and faded lines
  My tears are falling fast;

I deem'd not there was a power yet,
  In these few simple words,
To stir within my quiet heart
  Such old familiar chords.

Ye bring me back mine early dreams—
  Oh, but to dream them now,
With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,
  And pure unsadden'd brow!

The loved—the lost—the changed—
  The dead—all these we conjure up,
And mingled in the draught
  That lies in memory's magic cup.

Old letters—sad mementoes ye,
  Of friendship's shatter'd chain,
Oh! that the hand these pages traced,
  My own might clasp again.

They tell me yet of early love,
  Of feelings glad and gay,
Of childhood's April hopes and fears—
  The writers, where are they?

Time's changes are for deeper things
  Than folly's vain pursuit,
Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place
  For autumn's ripen'd fruit.

Look back upon the buried past,
  But not with vain regret,
Be grateful for the many joys
  That bloom around thee yet.

Bend heavenward thine onward course,
  That years of coming age
May leave an impress in life's book,
  Pure as its opening page!

I was sitting in my study,
  Writing letters, when I heard:
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
  That you mustn't be disturbed.

But I'se tired of the kitty,
  Want some ozzer thing to do.
Writing letters is 'ou mamma?
  Tan't I write a letter, too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
  Run and play with kitty now."
"No—no mamma; me wite letter,
  Ten you will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait,
  As his sweet eyes searched my face—
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
  Form of childish witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
  As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said: "I'll make a letter,
  Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses
  From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted,
  'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said: "Now, little letter,
  Go away and bear good news,"
And I smiled as down the staircase
  Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
  Down to Mary in his glee:
"Mamma's witting lots of letters;
  I'se a letter, Mary, see."

No one heard the little prattler,
  As once more he climbed the stair.
Reached his little cap and tippet,
  Standing on the table there.

No one heard the front door open,
  No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
  On the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened,
  Till he reached the office door:
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,
  Is there room for any more?

'Cause this letter's going to papa;
  Papa lives with God, 'ou know:
Mamma sent me for a letter;
  Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,
  "Not to-day, my little man;"
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
  'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,
  But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening,
  By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
  People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
  At that moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure,
  No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
  Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late: a moment only
  Stood the beauteous vision there:
Then the little face lay lifeless
  Covered o'er with golden hair.

Rev'rently they raised my darling,
  Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead
  Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark left the face disfigured,
  Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended—
  "Papa's letter" was with God.

I have got a letter,
  A letter of my own,
It has my name upon it,
  Miss Bessie L. Stone.

My papa sent it to me,
  He's away from home—you see
I guess the postman wondered
  Who Bessie Stone could be.

I'd like to send an answer,
  But I don't know how to spell;
I'll get mamma to do it,
  And that will do as well.

Little girl across the way,
  You are so very sweet,
I shouldn't be a bit surprised
  If you were good to eat.

Now what I'd like if you would too,
  Would be to go and play—
Well, all the time, and all my life,
  On your side of the way.

I don't know anybody yet
  On your side of the street,
But often I look over there
  And watch you—you're so sweet.

When I am big, I tell you what,
  I don't care what they say,
I'll go across—and stay there, too,
  On your side of the way.

Heaven first taught letters
  For some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover,
  Or some captive maid.

They live, they speak,
  They breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul,
  And faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wish
  Without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush,
  And pour out all the heart—

Speed the soft intercourse
  From soul to soul,
And waft a sigh
  From Indus to the pole.

Whatever you have to say my friend,
  Whether witty, grave, or gay,
Condense as much as ever you can,
  And that is the readiest way;
And whether you write of rural affairs,
  Or particular things in town,
Just take a word of friendly advice—
    "Boil it down."

Letters from home! How musical to the ear
  Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main,
When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,
  Across the billow floats the gentle strain,
The words the tear-drops of his memory move;
  They tell a mother's or a sister's love;
And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come
  Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home.
How warmly there the tender home-light shines!
  What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

  Dear Brother Ben,
  I take my pen
To tell you where,
  And how, and when,
I found the nest
  Of our speckled hen.
  She would never lay,
  In a sensible way,
Like other hens,
  In the barn or the hay;

  But here and there
  And everywhere,
On the stable floor,
  And the wood-house stair,
  And once on the ground
  Her eggs I found.
  But yesterday
  I ran away,
With mother's leave,
  In the barn to play.

  The sun shone bright
On the seedy floor,
  And the doves so white
  Were a pretty sight
As they walked in and out
  Of the open door,
  With their little red feet
  And their features neat,
Cooing and cooing
  More and more.

  Well, I went out
  To look about
  On the platform wide,
  Where side by side
I could see the pig-pens
  In their pride;
And beyond them both,
  On a narrow shelf,
I saw the speckled hen
  Hide herself

Behind a pile
  Of hoes and rakes
And pieces of boards
  And broken stakes.
"Ah! ha! old hen,
  I have found you now,
But to reach your nest
  I don't know how,
Unless I could creep
  Or climb or crawl
Along the edge
  Of the pig-pen wall."

  And while I stood
  In a thoughtful meed,
The speckled hen cackled
  As loud as she could,
  And flew away,
  As much as to say,
"For once my treasure
  Is out of your way."
I did not wait
  A moment then:
I couldn't be conquered
  By that old hen!

  But along the edge
  Of the slippery ledge
  I carefully crept,
  For the great pigs slept,
And I dared not
  even look to see
If they were thinking
  Of eating me
  But all at once,
  Oh, what a dunce!

I dropped my basket
  Into the pen,
The one you gave me,
  Brother Ben;
There were two eggs in it,
  By the way,
That I found in the manger
  Under the hay.
Then the pigs got up
  And ran about
With a noise between
  A grunt and a shout.

And when I saw them,
  Rooting, rooting,
Of course I slipped
  And lost my footing,
  And tripped,
  And jumped,
  And finally fell
Right down among
  The pigs pell-mell.
For once in my life
  I was afraid;
  For the door that led
  Out to the shed

Was fastened tight
  With and iron hook,
And father was down
  In the fields by the brook,
Hoeing and weeding
  His rows of corn,
And here was his Polly
  So scared and forlorn,
But I called him, and called him,
  As loud as I could.
I knew he would hear me—
  He must and he should.

"O father! O father!
  (Get out, you old pig).
O father! oh! oh!"
  For their mouths are so big.
Then I waited a minute
  And called him again,
"O father! O father!
  I am in the pig pen!"
And father did hear,
  And he threw down his hoe,
And scampered as fast
  As a father could go.

The pigs had pushed me
  Close to the wall,
And munched my basket,
  Eggs and all,
And chewed my sun-bonnet
  Into a ball.
And one had rubbed
  His muddy nose
All over my apron,
  Clean and white;

And they sniffed at me,
  And stepped on my toes,
But hadn't taken
  The smallest bite,
When father opened
  The door at last,
And oh! in his arms
  He held me fast.

                E. W. Denison

Little pens of metal,
  Little drops of ink,
Make the wicked tremble,
  And the people think.

Blest be that gracious power
  Who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image
 On the mind:

Beasts may convey,
  And tuneful birds may sing
Their mutual feelings
  In the opening spring;

But man alone has skill
  And power to send
The heart's warm dictates
  To the distant friend:

Tis his also to please,
  Instruct, advise,
Ages remote,
  And nations yet to rise.

                Crabbe

Use the pen! there's magic in it,
  Never let it lag behind;
Write thy thought, the pen can win it
  From the chaos of the mind.

Many a gem is lost forever
  By the careless passer-by,
But the gems of thought should never
  On the mental pathway lie.

Use the pen! reck not that others
  Take a higher flight than thine.
Many an ocean cave still smothers
  Pearls of price beneath the brine.

So thy words and thoughts securing
  Honest praise from wisdom's tongue,
May, in time, be as enduring
  As the strains which Homer sung.

                J. E. Carpenter

Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
The pen is mightier than the sword.

                Lord Lytton

Such a little thing—a letter,
  Yet so much it may contain:
Written thoughts and mute expressions
  Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.

When our hearts are sad at parting,
  Comes a gleam of comfort bright,
In the mutual promise given:
  "We will not forget to write."

Plans and doings of the absent;
  Scraps of news we like to hear,
All remind us, e'en though distant,
  Kind remembrance keeps us near.

Yet sometimes a single letter
  Turns the sunshine into shade;
Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,
  Blights our hopes and makes them fade.

Messengers of joy or sorrow,
  Life or death, success, despair,
Bearers of affection's wishes,
  Greetings kind or loving prayer.

Prayer or greeting, were we present,
  Would be felt, but half unsaid;
We can write—because our letters—
  Not our faces—will be read?

Who has not some treasured letters,
  Fragments choice of other's lives;
Relics, some, of friends departed,
  Friends whose memory still survives?

Touched by neither time nor distance,
  Will their words unspoken last?
Voiceless whispers of the present,
  Silent echoes of the past!

    Never be in haste in writing:
Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,
Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But once
Begun, work thou all things into thy work:
And set thyself about it, as the sea
About the earth, lashing it day and night:
And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it
As thorough as the fossil flower in clay:
The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,
Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,
Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.

                P. J. Bailey

Every cottage,
Four-roomed cottage,
Should contain full
Forty PICTURES.

Every cottage,
Six-roomed cottage,
Should contain full
Sixty PICTURES.

Every villa,
Eight-roomed villa,
Should contain full
Eighty PICTURES.

Every mansion,
Ten-roomed mansion,
Should contain a
Hundred PICTURES.

Every large school
For instruction
Should contain a
THOUSAND PICTURES.

Walls are made to
Keep out weather
And also to
Display PICTURES.

Count your PICTURES
All your walls on.
See if you have
Quite the number,
You will want more
You will wish more,
You will get more
Shouldn't wonder.

PICTURES they are
Made to please you—
First to please you
When you buy them;
Next to please your
Own dear children,
Pictures please and
Teach them too.
Next to please your
Friends and neighbours
When they kindly
Call on you.

They'll admire them,
Then they'll praise them.
Then that pleases
You again.
PICTURES please and
Teach for ever,
All the Children,
Women, Men.

See my slate. I dot it new
  Cos I b'oke the other,
Put my 'ittle foot right froo,
  Runnin' after modder.

I tan make you lots of sings,
  Fass as you tan tell 'em,
T's and B's and O rings,
  Only I tan't spell 'em

I tan make an elephant,
  Wid his trunk a hangin';
An' a boy—who says I tan't?
  Wid his dun a bangin'

An' the smoke a tummin' out;
  (Wid my t'umb I do it,
Rubbin' all the white about,)
  Sparks a flying froo it.

I tan make a pretty house,
  Wid a tree behind it,
And a 'ittle mousey-mouse
  Runnin' round to find it.

I tan put my hand out flat
  On the slate and draw it;
(Ticklin' is the worst of that!)
  Did you ever saw it?

Now, then, s'all I make a tree
  Wid a birdie on it?
All my pictures you s'all see
  If you'll wait a minute.

No, I dess I'll make a man
  Juss like Uncle Rolly,
See it tummin', fass it tan!
  Bet my slate is jolly!

Come, here is a slate,
  And a pencil, and string.
And now sit you down, dear,
  And draw pretty thing;
A man and a cow,
  And a horse and a tree,
And when you have finished
  Pray show them to me.

What! cannot you do it?
  Shall I show you how?
Come, give me your pencil;
  I'll draw you a cow.
You've made the poor creature
  Look very forlorn!
She has but three legs, dear,
  And only one horn.

Now look, I have drawn you
  A beautiful cow;
And see, here's a dicky-bird,
  Perched on a bough,
And there are some more
  Flying down from above;
There now, is not that
  Very pretty, my love?

Oh, yes, very pretty!
  Now make me some more—
A house with a gate,
  And a window, and a door,
And a little boy flying
  His kite with a string;
Oh, thank you, mamma,
  Now I'll draw pretty thing.