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Till both their faces grew as red
As saucepans made of copper.
And then they shelled, and popped, and ate,
All kinds of fun a-poking,
And she laughed at his joking.
And still they popped, and still they ate
John's mouth was like a hopperAnd stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt,
And shook and shook the popper.
The clock struck nine—the clock struck ten,
And still the corn kept popping;
And still no signs of stopping.
And John he ate, and Sue she thought
The corn did pop and patter-
Why, Susan, what 's the matter?”
Said she, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock;
You 'll die of indigestion;
In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
And each for one another.
It reached a fearful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
And not a soul knew which.
One day to make the matter worse,
Before our names were fixed,
We got completely mixed;
Or rather nurse's whim,
And I got christened him.
This fatal likeness ever dogged
My footsteps when at school, And I was always getting flogged,
When John turned out a fool. I put this question, fruitlessly,
To every one I knew, “ What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you.”
Our close resemblance turned the tide
Of my domestic life,
Became my brother's wife.
Absurd mistakes went on,
HENRY S. LEIGA.
A Little Goose.
The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
And set the gas-lights flaring;
A LITTLE GOOSE.
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying; When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a sınall voice crying.
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;
And wind blown curls to cover.
Her round blue eyes ran over;
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:
Do n't cry, I 'll take you to it." Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.
“He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money ;
The monkey was so funny.
From one street to another:
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 ?"
The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
I said at last, despairing.
“What ribbon 's this, my blossom? ”
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
wear a little thing
Eliza SPROAT TURNER.
A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.
But it is blessedness! A year ago
I did not see it as I do to-day-
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only good.
And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee, -
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
And ne'er would nestle in your palın again;
I could not blame you for your heartache then.
I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown;
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
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, There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;