"But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice.

If gran'ma's making currant-cake, She'll let me put the ginger spice, An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake; An' then she says she thinks it fun To taste the edges when it's done.

"That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip, hooray!

My gran'ma's got a washing day; For gran'pa's shirts are on the line, An' stockings, too--six, seven, eight, nine!

She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie Her ap.r.o.n round to keep me dry; An' on her little stool I'll stand Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand!

There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say, 'Young Miss is always in the way.'

An' me and gran'ma will have tea At dinner-time--just her an' me-- An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice.

My goodness! Won't it all be nice?

"Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day, 'Cause mother finds me in the way.

Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out; Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about; Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see, At home, they can't put up with me."

When Baby Strayed

When Baby strayed, it seemed to me, Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly.

At once, with frenzied haste, my feet Ran up and down the busy street.

If ever in my life I prayed, It was the evening Baby strayed.

And yet my great concern was this (Not dread of losing Baby's kiss,

And Baby's soft small hand in mine, And Baby's comradeship divine),

'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears!

Whose hand but mine could dry her tears?

I without Baby? In my need I were a piteous soul indeed.

But piteous far, beyond all other, A little child without a mother.

And G.o.d, in mercy, graciously Gave my lost darling back to me.

O high and lofty One!

THOU couldst have lived to all eternity Apart from ME!

In majesty, upon that emerald throne.

Thou, with Thy morning stars, Thy dawns, with golden bars, And all the music of the heavenly train.

Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to gain By seeking me?

What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . .

less than nought.

And yet Thy mercy sought.

Yea, Thou hast set my feet Upon the way of holiness, and sweet It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . .

But (this I learnt the night that Baby strayed) Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern for me: My desolate estate, apart from Thee!

If Only ----

If only dinner cooked itself, And groceries grew upon the shelf; If children did as they were told, And never had a cough or cold; And washed their hands, and wiped their boots, And never tore their Sunday suits, But always tidied up the floor, Nor once forgot to shut the door.

If John remembered not to throw His papers on the ground. And oh!

If he would put his pipes away, And shake the ashes on the tray Instead of on the floor close by; And always spread his towel to dry, And hung his hat upon the peg, And never had bones in his leg.

Then, there's another thing. If Jane Would put the matches back again Just where she found them, it would be A save of time to her and me.

And if she never did forget To put the dustbin out; nor yet Contrive to gossip with the baker, Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her.

Ahem! If wishes all came true, I don't know what I'd find to do, Because if no one made a mess There'd be no need of cleanliness.

And things might work so blissfully, In time--who knows?--they'd not need me!

And this being so, I fancy whether I'll go on keeping things together.

Listening

His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain That hurtles on the window pane.

Let's draw the curtains close and sit Beside the fire awhile and knit.

Two purl--two plain. A well-shaped sock, And warm. (I thought I heard a knock, But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.) Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before The fleecy wools--a different thing, And best for wear. (Was that his ring?) No. 'Tis the m.u.f.fin man I see; We'll have threepennyworth for tea.

Two plain--two purl; that heel is neat.

(I hear his step far down the street.) Two purl--two plain. The sock can wait; I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!)

The Dear Folks in Devon

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- mas, and to-night I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly berries bright.

The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd dearly love to see, And those dear folks down in Devon, how they'll talk and think of me.

Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas morn, and if there's one As comes across from Canada straight from their absent son, My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my Dad'll likely say: "Don't seem like Christmas time no more, with our dear lad away."

I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef, and Brother Jimmy's wife Will say her never tasted such, no, not in all her life.

And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt in your mouth, 'tis true, But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as mothers always do!

Ah me! If I could just have wings, and in the dimsey light Go stealing up the cobbled path this lonesome Christmas night, Lift up the latch with gentle hand--My!

What a shout there'd be!

From those dear folks down in Devon!

What a welcomin' for me!