When the lessons and tasks are ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me To bid me "good-night" and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine and love on my face!

And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last; Of love, that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past.

Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of G.o.d was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feelings 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 tempests of fate blowing wild; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child.

They are idols of hearts and of households, They are angels of G.o.d in disguise, His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still beams in their eyes; Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know how Jesus could liken The kingdom of G.o.d to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just as much shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray G.o.d to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself.

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 G.o.d.

My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from 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-- Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door.

I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green and the flowers That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and eve, Their songs in the school and the street, Shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet.

When lessons and tasks 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Found in the desk of Charles d.i.c.kens after his death.

CHARITY.

When you meet with one suspected Of some secret deed of shame, And for this by all rejected As a thing of evil fame, Guard thine every look and action, Speak no word of heartless blame, For the slanderer's vile detraction Yet may soil thy goodly name.

When you meet with one pursuing Ways the lost have entered in, Working out his own undoing With his recklessness and sin; Think, if placed in his condition, Would a kind word be in vain, Or a look of cold suspicion Win thee back to truth again?

There are spots that bear no flowers, Not because the soil is bad, But the Summer's genial showers Never made their bosoms glad.

Better have an act that's kindly Treated sometimes with disdain, Than, in judging others blindly, Doom the innocent to pain.

NO OBJECTION TO CHILDREN.

It was a block of yellow-brown houses in South Boston, looking as much like a sheet of gingerbread as anything.

An express-wagon had just backed up to No. 21 in that block, and the driver, unloosing ropes here and there, proceeded to unpack the luggage.

"What have we here?" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, the downstairs tenant. "A menagerie, I do believe. Come here, John."

There was, indeed, on the very top of the load a gray horse that in the twilight looked very real till one noticed the rockers on which it stood.

But there was a kennel with a live terrier's head at the window, a bird-cage with its fluttering tenant, a crib and high chair besides, suggesting that the folks in the other part might, in the language of Mrs.

Bacon, "make music."

Now, the downstairs tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, were precise, orderly people, living, like many other city people, in desert-island fashion, and only hoping that everybody else would mind their own business. It had been for weeks their great comfort that the other part was unoccupied, and now this load of household goods br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with pets and their belongings was an unwelcome sight.

There were no young Bacons--no, indeed! Plants did not flourish in their shaded windows nor canary birds splash water from their tiny baths upon the clear gla.s.s. No dog barked a noisy welcome when his master returned at night. No cat purred in her mistress's lap. The housekeeping of the Bacons was a fight against dirt, dust, sunshine and noise; and somehow pets bring all these.

"Well, John," said Mrs. Bacon as she turned from the window and pulled the shade over the sacred gla.s.s, "there's an end to peace and quiet. We must keep the entry doors locked; and don't you be whistling round to attract a child. Give them an inch and they'll take an ell. If folks must have rocking horses and what goes with them, they ought to move into the country, where they will not be pestering other people."

But, to the surprise of the Bacons, they were not pestered, only by the patter of little feet overhead, or a woman's voice singing cradle-songs or joining in her child's laughter. Crying there was, too, sometimes, but it was so soon hushed in motherly caresses that it seemed a sort of rainbow grievance only.

At night, when the father came home, there was quite a joyful noise upstairs, at which time John's face was a little wistful. But the new family did not intrude for ever so small a favor.

Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants were pa.s.sing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild flowers.

One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's kitchen door.

"Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs.

"Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked up with dandelion stems--that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There, resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day.

There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife, drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of "Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the keyhole. This time the door opened in response:

"Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?"

"Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice--a very hoa.r.s.e little voice it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel.

"I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?"

"See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle.

"Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?"

"Bacon--no 'dear' about it."

"I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?"

"No."

"Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling; you'll get cold."

"I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs.

"It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for dandelions--his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw me put up fruit last fall--there's where he got the idea; though, as to telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to death to hear him cough."

"Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon.