Till both their faces grew as red As saucepans made of copper. And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, While he haw-hawed at her remarks, And still they popped, and still they ate- The clock struck nine-the clock struck ten, And John he ate, and Sue she thought- Said she, "John Styles, it's one o'clock; I'm sick of all this popping corn— ANONYMOUS. The Twins. IN form and feature, face and limb, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reached a fearful pitch; For one of us was born a twin, One day to make the matter worse, And thus, you see, by fate's decree, My brother John got christened me, This fatal likeness ever dogged "What would you do, if you were me, To prove Our close resemblance turned the tide Of my domestic life, For somehow, my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In fact, year after year the same And when I died, the neighbors came And buried brother John. HENRY S. LEIGH. A Little Goose. THE chill November day was done, And hopelessly and aimlessly When, mingled with the sighing wind, And shivering on the corner stood No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, Her dimpled face was stained with tears; And one hand round her treasure while "He came and played at Milly's steps, 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 mamma 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. "Oh dear! I ought to be at home And we are both such players;- The sky grew stormy; people passed I tied a kerchief round her neck- A card with number, street, and name; My eyes astonished met it; "For," said the little one, "you see I might sometimes forget it: That tells you all about it; ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. Tired Mothers. A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,— You almost are too tired to pray to-night. I did not see it as I do to-day We are so dull and thankless; and too slow The little child that brought me only good. And if, some night when you sit down to rest, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,-If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my house once more, If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, |