A MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I.

The years have pa.s.sed in ceaseless round Since first they laid her here to rest In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound, With folded hands upon her gentle breast.

II.

The ivy twines about the crumbling stone, And Springtime's scented blossoms fling Their incense o'er the peaceful home That knows no more of suffering.

III.

Full many a Summer's sun has shed Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot, And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread Their garments here--she heeds them not!

IV.

The feathered wildlings of the wood and field Their untaught melody around it make, But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed Their gladsome songs can never more awake.

V.

O restful sleep beneath the crumbling mold To dream no more of hopes unrealized!

O Grave! What treasures do thy confines hold By us so dearly loved and fondly prized!

A FRECKLE-FACED BOY.

I.

I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease, Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees, And I wear out my pants in the seat and the knees; I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy-- A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

II.

I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet, I'm the c.o.c.k of the walk and the king of the "set;"

I'm hearty and healthy--and don't you forget The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy-- I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

III.

They send me to school with my satchel and books, And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks; And sometimes while there my teacher she looks And captures the things that provoke and annoy From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

IV.

My mammy she says that it's quite evident Of the country some day I'll be President; But auntie, she says from the way I am bent The gold of her dream will be full of alloy From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

V.

I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care, And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair, And off-colored patches quite often I wear; But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

THE DAM BELOW THE MILL.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom, With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June, And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine, Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line, And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still, And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below, And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know-- But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel That something so delectable that over yer will steal; For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on, Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as sh.o.r.e as yer born; Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix, And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks; For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

THE SERENADE.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high The fleecy clouds were drifting, And through them as she sailed the sky The moon's soft light was sifting.

II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray, Its silvery kiss imprinting, All dew-bedecked each flower and spray Like myriad jewels glinting.

III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound Of music sweet--entrancing-- 'Neath a latticed cas.e.m.e.nt, ivy-bound, Where love-lit eyes were glancing.

IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin There dulcet notes were blending, And strains divine from a violin In harmony ascending.