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My little boy with his arrows
A HARVEST SONG.
He watched the rising shadow Till the tallest elms were dark, And over the dewy grasses Wandered the fire-fly's spark.
Then seizing a feathered arrow,
I. "The corn, oh, the corn, 'tis the ripening of the
corn! Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the
moon, Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is
yelloon; 'Tis the harvesting of wheat and the barley must be shorn.
CHORUS. " The corn, oh, the corn, and the yellow mellow
corn! Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap
again the morn, And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll
thank the Lord.
It rose till it pierced the sunlight,
Then he shouted aloud: " Come, father!
II. “ The wheat, oh, the wheat, 'tis the ripening of
the wheat! All the day it has been hanging down its heavy
head, Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red; 'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labor
“ Yes, child, and above the darkness
V. · The corn, oh, the corn, and the blessing of the
corn! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath
the moon. We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mould -
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride, you know: Somebody's hand had rested there,
Was it a mother's soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light?
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still gleams in their eyes; Those truants from home and from heaven
They have made me more manly and mild; And I know now how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child!
I ask not a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done,
To temper the glare of the sun;
But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
God knows best; he has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wasted his name above
Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him –
Yearning to hold him again to the heart And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head, “Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
MARIE R. LACOSTE.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God: My heart is the dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
That meet me each morn at the door!
And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning for me.
THE CHILDREN. When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed;
My neck in their tender embrace'
Shedding sunshine of love on my face! And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood too lovely to last; Of joy that my heart will remember,
While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin
And the glory of gladness within.
And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh! there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!
I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended,
And Death says, “ The school is dismissed!” May the little ones gather around me To bid me good-night and be kissed!
CHARLES M. DICKINSON.
BE LIKE THE SUN.
Be like the sun, that pours its ray
CAROLINE A. MASON,
They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;