Do you know what's in my pottet? And here's my ball, too, in my pottet,
Such a lot o' treasures in it!
Listen, now, while I bedin it;
Such a lot o' sings it hold,
And all there is you sall be told-
Everysin' dat's in my pottet,
And here's my pennies, one, two, three, That Aunt Mary gave to me; To-morrow day I'll buy a spade, When I'm out walking with the maid. I can't put dat here in my pottet,
And when, and where, and how I dot it. But I can use it when I've dot it.
First of all, here's in my pottet A beauty shell; I picked it up; And here's the handle of a cup That somebody has broke at tea; The shell's a hole in it, you see; Nobody knows that I have dot it, I keep it safe here in my pottet.
Here's some more sin's in my pottet;
Here's my lead, and here's my string, And once I had an iron ring, But through a hole it lost one day; And here is what I always say— A hole's the worst sin in a pottet— Have it mended when you've dot it.
PEAK gently! it is better far To rule by love than fear; Speak gently! let no harsh words mar The good we might do here.
Speak gently to the little child
Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild- It may not long remain.
Speak gently to the young, for they Will have enough to bear: Pass through this life as best they may, 'Tis full of anxious care.
Speak gently to the aged one
Grieve not the careworn heart; The sands of life are nearly runLet such in peace depart.
Speak gently to the poor
Let no harsh tone be heard ; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word.
Speak gently to the erring-know They must have toiled in vain : Perchance unkindness made them so- Oh! win them back again.
Speak gently! He who gave his life, To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were in fierce strife, Said to them, "Peace! be still."
Speak gently!-'tis a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy, which it may bring. Eternity shall tell.
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
ES, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. Just listen to this :
When old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through And 1 with it, helpless, there, full in my view, What do you think my eyes saw through the fire, That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher, But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining! He must have come there after me, Toddled alone from the cottage without Then, what a shout—* Oh, how i shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men, Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man, We're coming to get you as fast as we can.” They could not see him, but I could; he sat Still on the beam, his little straw hat Carefully placed by his side, and his eyes Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, Calm and unconscious as nearer it crept.
The roar of the fire up above must have kept The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came what a cry!
Again and again-O God,
The axes went faster, I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat That scorched them--when, suddenly, there at their feet
The great beams leaned in-they saw him-then, crash, Down came the wall! The men made a dash- Jumped to get out of the way--and I thought "All's up with poor little Robin," and brought Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there, when swift, at my side, Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame Straight as a dart-caught the child—and then came Back with him-choking and crying, but saved! Saved safe and sound!
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire, Should fall in and bury me.
To see Robin now; he's as bright as a dime, Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time; Tom, it was, saved him. Now isn't it true, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew? There's Robin now-see, he's strong as a log And there comes Tom too--
BOME, listen all, while I relate
What recently befell
Unto a farmer down in Maine While digging of a well.
Full many a yard he dug and delved, And still he dug in vain : "Alack!" quoth he. "e'en water seems Prohibited in Maine!"
And still he dug and delved away, And still the well was dry:
The only water to be found Was in the farmer's eye.
For, by the breaking of the bank That tumbled from the station, All suddenly his hopes were dashed Of future liquidation.
And now his sands were running fast, And he had died, no doubt- But that just when the earth caved in He happened to be out!
The little girls are petted all,
Called "honey," "dear," and "sweet,'
My sister has her rags and dolls Strewn all about the floor, While old dog Growler dares not put His nose inside the door.
And if I go upon the porch
In hopes to have a play,
Some one calls out, "Hello, young chap, Take that noisy dog away!"
My hoop is used to build a fire,
My ball is thrown aside;
But boys are cuffed at home and school, And mother let the baby have
And knocked about the street.
My top, because it cried.
HINE on, thou bright beacon, unclouded and free,
From thy high place of calmness, o'er life's troubled sea;
Its morning of promise, its smooth waves are gone,
And the billows roar wildly; then, bright one, shine on.
The wings of the tempest may rush o'er thy ray; But tranquil thou smilest, undimmed by its sway; High, high o'er the worlds where storms are unknown, Thou dwellest all beauteous, all glorious,—alone.
From the deep womb of darkness the lightning-flash leaps, O'er the bark of my fortunes each mad billow sweeps From the port of her safety by warring-winds driven ; And no light o'er her course-but yon lone one of Heaven.
Yet fear not, thou frail one, the hour may be near, When our own sunny headland far off shall appear; When the voice of the storm shall be silent and past, In some Island of Heaven we may anchor at last.
But, bark of eternity, where art thou now? The wild waters shriek o'er each plunge of thy prow On the world's dreary ocean thus shatter'd and tost ;— Then, lone one, shine on! "If I lose thee, I'm lost!"
XIV. THE GRASP OF THE DEAD.
WAS the battle-field, and the cold pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying;
And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and brave were lying.
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