HE was the boy of the house you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad,
He was never tired and never sick,
And nothing could make him sad.

If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end
But his bed-time came too soon.

Did some one urge that he make less noise,
He would say with a saucy grin,
“Why, one boy alone doesn’t make much stir—
I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!

“There’s two of twins—oh it must be fun
To go double at everything,
To holler by twos, and to run by twos,
To whistle by twos, and to sing!”

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy,
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out in the garden path,
With the terrier at his heels,
You knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
At his tricks, as the day went by,
“The most mischievous child in the world!”
She said, with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
And his mother declared each day
Was putting wrinkles into her face,
And was turning her brown hair grey.

His grown-up sister referred to him
As a trouble, a trial, a grief,
“The way he ignored all rules,” she said,
“Was something beyond belief.”

But it never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in clatter and din,
And had only one regret in the world—
That he hadn’t been born a twin.
. . . . . . . . . .
There’s nobody making a noise to-day,
There’s nobody stamping the floor,
There’s an awful silence up-stairs and down,
There’s crape on the wide hall door.

The terrier’s whining out in the sun—
“Where’s my comrade?” he seems to say,
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There’s no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door,
Is sobbing her young heart out,
Don’t cry little girl, you’ll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.

The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him “darling” and “sweet,”
The maiden aunt is holding the shoes
That he wore on his restless feet.

How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!

So solemn and still the big house seems—
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No startling shriek, no voice piping out,
“I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!”

There’s a man and a woman pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything—
The boy of the house is asleep.

From neighbor’s broil they kept away—
No liking for such things had they,
And O, each had a cannie mind!
Each could be deaf, and dumb, and blind;
Of words—nor pence—were none too free—
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

I would not have you think this pair
Went on in weather always fair,
For well you know in married life
Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife;
They couldn’t always just agree—
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

But near of heart they ever kept,
Until at close of life they slept,
Just this to say when all was past—
They loved each other to the last,
They’re loving yet in heaven, maybe—
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THERE’S a cup on the very topmost shelf
Of the cupboard built in the wall,
On one side a vine is traced on the delf
With forget-me-nots blue and small;
On the other the words stand boldly up
That were once a pride and a joy,
For a legend it bears, this old-fashioned cup,
Which runs, “For a good little boy!”

’Twas bought by a mother with eyes as blue
As forget-me-nots pretty and shy,
When youth was her portion, and love was true,
And the days went merrily by.

On the cottage floor where the sunbeams crept,
Played her own sturdy lad of three,
And but yesterday he smiled and he slept
Such a pretty babe on her knee.

He followed her down to the garden gate
On her way to the little town,
“Now hurry right back, and don’t you be late,”
He said with a pout and a frown.

He must have some toys for the Christmas-tide,
So she bought him a tiny sled,
And a nice little box of sweets beside
To go into his mouth so red.

“Was there anything else!” she asked herself,
“She could buy for the laddie small?”
It was then that she saw the cup of delf
Which stands on the shelf in the wall.

“For a good little boy,” ah, that meant him,
With a face as sweet as a rose,
“He is good,” she said, and her eyes grew dim,
“From his curly head to his toes.”

And she carried her treasures one by one
To the cottage down in the lane,
Where the winter sunbeams brightly shone
On his face at the window pane.

He was proud of the sleigh with its jingling bells
And the box was a thing of joy,
“But the cup is best,” he said, “for it tells
That I’m such a good little boy.”

O poor little mother, your eyes so blue,
Faded out with the wash of tears!
O poor little mother, your heart so true,
It broke with the weight of years!

And there, on the very topmost shelf,
The old-fashioned cup it has stood,
Since a day long ago when she owned to herself
That her boy was no longer good.

There is dust on it now, but believe me, dear,
It was once a pride and a joy,
With its legend of love, so bright and so clear,
Which runs, “For a good little Boy.”

Jack’s mother didn’t use to be
So awful good to him an’ me,
For often when I’d go down there
On Saturday’s, when it was fair,
To get him out to fish or skate,
She’d catch me hangin’ round the gate,
An’ look as cross as some old hen,
An’ tell me, “Go off home again,
It’s not the thing for boys,” she’d say,
“A hangin’ round the creek all day,
You go off home and do your task,
No, Jack can’t go, you needn’t ask,”
An’ when he got in scrapes, why, she
Would up and lay it on to me,
An’ wish I lived so far away
Jack couldn’t see me every day.

But last night when I’d done the chores,
It seemed so queer like out of doors,
I kept a listenin’ all the while
An’ looking down the street a mile;
I couldn’t bear to go inside,
The house is lonesome since he died,
The robber book we read by turns
Is lyin’ there—an’ no boy learns
All by himself, ’cause he can’t tell
How many words he’ll miss or spell,
Unless there’s someone lookin’ on
To laugh at him when he gets done.

An’ neighbor women’s sure to come
A visitin’ a feller’s home,
An’ talkin’ when they look at me
’Bout how thick us two used to be—
A stealin’ off from school, an’ such—
An’ askin’ “Do I miss him much?”
’Till I sneak off out doors, you see,
They just can’t let a feller be!
Well, I walked down the road a bit,
Smith’s dog came out, I throwed at it,
An’ do you know it never howled
Same as it always did, or growled,
It seemed to say, “why! Jim’s alone,
Now, I wonder where’s that other one?”

Afore I knew it I was down
Way at the other end of town,
A hangin’ round in the old way
For some one to come out an’ play.
There wasn’t no one there to look
So I slipped in to our old nook,
I found his knife hid in the grass
Where we’d been Zulus at the pass,
The can of bait, an’ hook an’ line,
Were lyin’ with the ball of twine,
An’ “Jim,” I seemed to hear him say,
“The fish will suffer some to-day!”

’Twas more than I could stand just then,
I got up to go off home, when
Someone kissed me on the cheek,
An’ hugged me so I couldn’t speak,
You won’t believe it, like as not,
But ’twas Jack’s mother, an’ a lot
Of great big tears came stealin’ down
Right on my face; she didn’t frown
A single bit—kept sayin’ low,
“My blue eyed boy! I loved you so!”
Of course I knew just right away
That she meant Jack—my eyes are grey—
But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,
Blue like you see up in the skies,
An’ shine that used to come and go—
One misses eyes like his you know.

An’ by-an-by she up and tried
To tell me that she’d cried an’ cried,
A thinkin’ of the times that she
Had scolded Jack an’ scolded me,
An’ other things that I won’t tell
To anyone, because—O, well,
Boys can’t do much, but they can hold
Tight on to secrets till they’re old.
She’s Jack’s relation, that’s why she
Feels kind of lovin’ like to me,
But when she called me her own lad,
Oh, say, I felt just awful bad;
My head it went round in a whirl,
I up and cried just like a girl.

But say, if Jack did see us two
He laughed a little, don’t you know,
For if I’d ever brag around
That I’d lick some one, safe an’ sound,
He’d laugh an’ say, “Jim, hold your jaw!
You know your’re scared to death of maw.”
Oh! I’d give all this world away
If I could hear him laugh to-day,
I get so lonesome, it’s so still
An’ him out sleepin’ on that hill;
For nothin’ seems just worth the while
A-doin’ up in the old style,
Cause everything we used to do
Seemed always jus’ to need us two.
My throat aches till I think ’twill crack,
I don’t know why—it must be Jack.

There ain’t no fun, there ain’t no stir,
His mother—well ’tis hard on her,
But she can knit, and sew, and such—
Oh, she can’t miss him half so much!

BUT let us argue for a space
Before we say that long good-bye,
Now heaven grant us store of grace,
We are so human, you and I.

Full well you know the old time way
Will easiest seem unto our feet,
Full well you know with yesterday
No fair to-morrow may compete.

Then some day, Bess, we will be old,
Think you our hearts content will stay
With bleak December, or, grown bold,
Will they not race back into May?

Look not upon his acres wide,
But think how weary life would be,
Your body walking at his side,
Your soul back in the spring with me.

Why will you try to cheat poor love
Who only asks you for his own,
His blindness should compassion move,
Yet what compassion have you shown?

Say, “Love, take all I have to give,
For nothing would I keep from thee,
We’ll walk together while we live,
And thou shalt make the path for me.”

The pretty blush is on your face,
We will not say that long good-bye,
Now heaven grant us store of grace,
We are so human, you and I.

My ladye wears a satin shoe,
With silver buckle wide,
A tiny thing from heel to toe
That is my joy and pride.

My ladye wears upon her face
A little touch of scorn,
No fuller share of pride and grace
Hath any woman born.

My ladye’s face is sweet and fair,
My ladye’s eyes are grey,
She goeth out to take the air
On every sunny day.

But never fairy hands did spin
Silk like my lassie’s hair,
As for the strings beneath her chin
I would not have them there.

Lest one dear dimple growing shy
That everyone should see,
Within those silken strings would try
To hide itself from me.

My lassie wears a gown of white,
Which needs no pearls to deck,
With lace like cobweb, soft and light,
Full-gathered at her neck.

My lassie wears upon her breast
No knot of ribbon gay,
Forget-me-nots she loves the best,
Plucked at the dawn of day.

My lassie’s feet like two white mice
Go slipping through the grass,
And all the dew-drops think them nice,
And kiss them as they pass.

The satin shoe with buckle drest
Is richer, it may be,
But if the truth must be confest,
Not half so good to see.

My lassie’s face is fair to see,
My lassie’s eyes are blue,
And always do they tell to me
Her heart is fond and true.

“Walk thou unmoved through perils great,
While we thy strength applaud,
With Courage true I crown to-day
The fairest work of God.”

I came and found you sweet and wild,
Love—only love—could tame you,
To think, O pretty thoughtless child
That greedy death must claim you.

Your dimpled hands are folded now
Above the snowy bosom,
The lilies creep and kiss your brow,
O tender broken blossom!

The white lids hide the eyes so clear,
So witching and beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you dear
Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home,
The City we call heaven?
Ah! were they glad to have you come,
My little maid of seven?

Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note with keen delight
Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God’s streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.

O wind, you are railing, railing,
’Tis the voice of a shrew,
Wearied at length, and failing,
Then beginning anew:
Here you come sighing, sighing,
Down to my casement wide,
A moment and you are flying
Away in pique and pride.

I love your chasing and panting,
I love the melody,
That you go so gaily chanting
To earth, and sky, and sea.
Our birds go southward soaring,
When signs of frost appear,
You, with your sighing and roaring,
Sing to us all the year.

The glories of earth are but chaff in the wind,
The riches of earth but a song,
Now listen, my brother, I think you will find
You have tried to do me a wrong.

You had all that to me had been denied,
I starved while you feasted well,
You have fame, and a hundred things beside,
You have watched your coffers swell.

Yet when we come by the will of fate
To the warmth of one woman’s eyes,
And fate declares it is not too late
To give me a great surprise.

You come with the weight of your yellow gold,
And the trappings of your success;
You come with your bearing, courtly and bold,
You woo in your haughtiness.

You try to dazzle her eyes of blue,
And you try to steal for yourself
The heart of a woman good and true,
Go, be content with your pelf.

Learn there are treasures you may not grasp,
Joys you must surely miss,
The hand you court lies in my clasp
The lips are my own to kiss.

A penniless fellow! you used to say—
Own to the truth if you can—
We stand here together this summer’s day,
And I am the richer man.

The sunshine would be creeping down
Upon her hair of golden brown,
And farther yet that it might peep
At her awake, at him asleep,
And both were his to have and hold,
How runs the foolish song so old?
“By Baby-Bunting!
 Papa’s gone a-hunting
 To get a little rabbit-skin
 To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

But he must to his hunting go,
A cloak this pen of his must win
As soft as silk and white as snow,
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.
Strange that his poem deep and strong
Should wait upon a nursery song,
“By Baby-Bunting!
 Papa’s gone a hunting,
 To get a little rabbit skin
 To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

Love is a myth that men create
From vapors of the heart and brain,
O pen, I fear you lied of late!
Hark, softly rings the old refrain!
“By Baby-Bunting!
 Papa’s gone a-hunting,
 To get a little rabbit-skin
 To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”

A full content dwells in her face,
She’s quite in love with life,
And for a title, wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned “Wife,”
And so I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold
She just keeps house for me—
For me,
She just keeps house for me.

What though I toil from morn till night,
What though I weary grow,
A spring of love and dear delight
Doth ever softly flow,
And so I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
The woman with the heart of gold
She just keeps house for me.

Our children climb upon her knee
And lie upon her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The highest and the best,
And so I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold
She just keeps house for me.

“Did I not love her well, think you her charms
Would move my pulse in this delicious way,
And make me long to fold her in my arms,
Hold her love’s prisoner by night and day?
’Tis joy to think of her white-lidded eyes—
So full of dreams, so full of tender speech—
Her slender form—and yet, it were not wise
To be too rash—come, let your wisdom teach.
She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good,
I could not choose but love her if I would.

“I fain would make her all my own, this maid,
I love her well, but would it be quite right
To risk so much? At times I grow afraid
To lift her up to such a dizzy height.
You know my prospects and you know my pride,
(It is a weighty matter to be wed)
And yet, I only know when at her side
That life is rich in joy and bliss,” we said.
“She is so piquant, winsome, fair, and good,
I could not choose but love her if I would.”

“I could not choose but love her if I would”
You boast, but if you loved her you would say,
“I would not choose but love her if I could,”
So answered him the old man, stern and gray.
“There’s passion in your words, but you have fears,
Your high position! Ah! you are afraid!
Boy, learn this truth from one of sober years,
The man who really, truly, loves a maid
Knows only two things well—no more, no less—
Her matchless worth—his own unworthiness.”