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SONGS FOR CHILDHOOD. |
87 |
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And the tear stole down from his half-shut eye. " Don't smoke!" said the child, " how it makes |
I followed down the street, because
That 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 Mother Dear;
The street�I can't begin it." " But what is strange about the house,
Or new�not like the others ?" " I guess you mean my trundle-bed�
Mine and my little brother's.
" O dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers� He's such a baby, he forgets;
And we are both such players; And there's a bar between, to keep
From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep:
0 dear! I want my mother!"
The sky grew stormy; people passed�
All muffled, homeward faring. " You'll have to spend the night with me,"
1 said, at last, despairing.
I tied a 'kerchief round her neck: " What ribbon's this, my blossom ?"
" Why, don't you know ?" she, smiling, said, And drew it from her bosom.
A card, with number, street, and name!
My eyes astonished met it. " For," said the little one, " you see
I might sometime forget it, And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it; y
For mother says she's very sure
I should get lost without it." |
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you cry |
!�' |
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The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal;
The busy old wife by the open door Was turning the spinning-wheel;
And the old brass clock on the mantle-tree
Had plodded along to almost three.
Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay,
Fast asleep were they both that summer day. |
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A LITTLE GOOSE. Eliza S. Turner.
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 soughing 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
Aud 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.
Don't cry; I'll take you to it." Sobbing, she answered, " I forget;
The organ made me do it.
" He came and played at Miller's step� The monkey took the money ; |
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POPPING COKN.
One autumn night, when the wind was high, And the rain fell in heavy flashes,
A little boy sat by the kitchen fire, A-popping corn in the ashes ;
Aud his sister, a curly-haired child of three.
Sat looking on, just close to his knee. |
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