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I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?
Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sailed?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me

Ah, me!

JEAN INGELOW.

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MY CHILDHOOD HOME.

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The little low hut was my natal rest,

When my childhood passed-Life's springtime blest;
Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed,
And the sun of promise my young heart warmed,
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide,
And left the dear hut by the river's side.

That little low hut, in lowly guise,
Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes,
And fairer trees were ne'er known before,
Than the apple-trees by the humble door-
That my father loved for their thrifty pride-
That shadowed the hut by the river's side.
That little low hut had a glad hearthstone,
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone,
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew,
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew;
But one by one the loved ones died,
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side.

X

The father revered and the children gay
The graves of the world have called away:
But quietly, all alone, here sits

By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits,
An aged woman, long years allied
With the little low hut by the river's side.

That little low hut to the lonely wife
Is the cherished stage of her active life;
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam,
As she sits by the window in pensive dream
And joys and woes roll back like a tide
In that little low hut by the river's side.

My mother-alone by the river's side

She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide,
And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call
To meet once more with the dear ones all,
And forms in a region beautified,
The band that once met by the river's side.

The dear old hut by the river's side
With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied-
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown,
That statelier fabrics have never known-
And I shall love with a fonder pride
That little low hut by the river's side.
B. P. SHILLABER (MRS. PARTINGTON).

RAIN ON THE ROOF.

HEN the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a bliss to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,

And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother
As she used long years agone,
To regard the darling dreamers

Ere she left then till the dawn;
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me,

As I list to this refrain

Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair And her star-eyed cherub brother A serene angelic pair!— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproo As I listen to the murmur

Of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue;
And I mind not, musing on her,
That her heart was all untrue:

I remember but to love her
With a passion kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well
As that melody of nature,

That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

COATES KINNEY.

BAIRNIES, CUDDLE DOON.

HE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

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Wi' muckle faucht an' din';

Oh try and sleep, ye waukrif rogues,
Your feyther's comin' in!"

They dinna hear a word I speak;

I try an' gie a frown,

But aye I hap them up and cry,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Wee Jaimie, wi' the curly heid,
He aye sleeps next the wa',

Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece'"
The rascal starts them a'!

I rin an' fetch them pieces-drinks-
They stop a wee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up and cry
"O weanies, cuddle doon!"

But scarce five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out frae neath the claes:
"Mither, mak Tam gie ower at ance!
He's kittlin wi' his taes!"

The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,
He'd baither half the toun;
But still I hap them up and cry,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

At length they hear their feyther's step, And as he nears the door

They draw their blankets o'er their heids, And Tam pretinds to snore.

“Hae a' the weans been guid?” he asks, As he pits off his shoon;

"The bairnies, John, are in their beds, And lang since cuddled doon."

And just afore we bed oursels

We look at our wee lambs;

Tam has his airm round wee Rab's neck,
And Rab his airm round Tam's.

I lift wee Jaimie up the bed,
And as I straik each crown,

I whisper, till my hairt fills up,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

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