HOUSED.

GOOD-BY, mamma," and forth she flies,

Fit comrade for the radiant day

A host of groundless fears arise;
Those steps may go astray.

O mother robin, lend me wings

To follow where my birdie goes:

Like thine, she darts away and sings,
Unconscious of her foes.

Good-night, mamma," the same sweet voice,

Still eager for to-morrow's sun;

While I so earnestly rejoice

The anxious day is done.

My little warbling bird is still;

And yet I love this hour the best ; For there she is, secure from ill,

Within her sheltered nest.

MARY THACHER HIGGINSON.

From " Harper's Bazar."

Copyright, 1898, by HARPER & Brothers.

THE LOVE OF GOD.

LIKE a cradle rocking, rocking-
Silent, peaceful, to and fro,
Like a mother's sweet looks dropping
On the little face below,

Hangs the green earth swinging, turning,
Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow;
Falls the light of God's face bending
Down and watching us below.

And as feeble babes that suffer,
Toss and cry and will not rest,
Are the ones the tender mother

Holds the closest, loves the best,
So when we are weak and wretched,
By our sins weighed down, distressed,
Then it is that God's great patience
Holds us closest, loves us best.

O great heart of God! whose loving
Cannot hindered be nor crossed,
Will not weary—will not even
In our death itself be lost-
Love divine! of such great loving!

Only mothers know the cost;

Cost of love, which all love passing,

Gave a Son to save the lost.

SAXE HOLM, (H. H.). From Saxe Holm's Stories.

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

A BABY SONG.

COME, white angels, to baby and me ;
Touch his blue eyes with the image of sleep,
In his surprise he will cease to weep;
Hush, child, the angels are coming to thee.

Come, white doves, to baby and me;

Softly whirr in the silent air,

Flutter about his golden hair;

Hark, child, the doves are cooing to thee.

Come, white lilies, to baby and me;
Drowsily nod before his eyes,

So full of wonder, so round and wise;
Hist, child, the lily-bells tinkle for thee.

Come, white moon, to baby and me;
Gently glide o'er the ocean of sleep,
Silver the waves of its shadowy deep;

Sleep, child, and the whitest of dreams to thee.

ELIZABETH Stoddard.

I HEARD A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

I HEARD a cry in the night,

And swift I stole from my bed, To find her, my heart's delight, Once more in the lonesome night, As before they called her dead.

I pulled the curtains away,

I bent my lips to her cheek:
She had fled from the glare of day,
Afar on her lonesome way;

Night came, and I heard her speak.

Again I harked to the call

Of the one little voice so dear;
No matter what might befall,
I had found her, my darling, my all,
And I held her warm and near.

I laid me down by her side;
I cooed like a mother dove.
Ah, was it her lips that replied,
Or only the wind that sighed,
And not my dainty, my love?

Mother-Song.

For cruel the morning came,

And mocking the blue sky smiled,
And the sun arose like a flame,

And vainly I called her name,

And I wept in vain for my child.

63

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
From "Harper's Bazar."

Copyright, 1893, by Harper and Brothers.