She hung her head repenting, But her little hand stroked tenderly And with her rosy mouth she kiss'd And sigh'd, "Perhaps—if you insist- Then he flung his arms about her, And you must not hold me back." She kissed him as she answered, And Wellington had both his legs, And Garibaldi," here she sighed, So the children talked in the twilight Of many a setting sun, And she'd stroke his chin and clap her hands That the beard had not begun; For though she meant to be brave and good Yet often the thought of the wooden leg HOW'S MY BOY? SYDNEY DOBELL. Ho, sailor of the sea! "What's your boy's name, good wife, What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. How's my boy my boy? And unless you let me know Brass button or no, sailor, Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton 66 Speak low, woman, speak low!" And why should I speak low, sailor, If I was loud as I am proud How's my boy-my boy? Be she afloat, or be she aground, I say, how's my John? "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother How's my boy my boy? — LITTLE BELL. T. B. WESTWOOD. PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he "What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks 66 66 'Sing me your best song before I go." And the blackbird piped; you never heard Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, And the while the bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And, from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — Little Bell sat down amid the fern: Up, away the frisky squirrel hies— Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 66 Little Bell looked up and down the glade; - Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,- And the while these frolic playmates twain In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, |