"That, Father, will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon;

The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapp'd a fagot-band;

He plied his work; and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:

She wander'd up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reach'd the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlook'd the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept; and, turning homeward, cried,

"In Heaven we all shall meet ";

When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross'd:

The marks were still the same;

They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They follow'd from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

66

OUR FOLKS.

ETHEL LYNN.

"HI! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell
A fellow just a thing or two:
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there,

I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks :

When you were home, · old comrade, say, Did you see any of our folks?

A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,

And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.

And so you saw them, when? and where?
The old man, is he hearty yet?

And mother, - does she fade at all?

Or does she seem to pine and fret

For me? And Sis?. has she grown tall?

And did you see her friend,

That Annie Moss

you know

(How this pipe chokes!)

Where did you see her?- tell me, Hal,

A lot of news about our folks.

You saw them in the church, - you say;
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out;
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me, like a man,
What is the matter with our folks?"
"I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in His arms,
Before the Sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;

And so

Fair Annie blooms no more! And that's the matter with your folks.

See, this brown curl was kept for you;

And this white blossom from her breast;

And here, your sister Bessie wrote

A letter, telling all the rest.

Bear up, old friend."

And, as men will, keeps down the tears

Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief.

Then answers he:

“ Ah, Hal, I'll try ;

But in my throat there's something chokes, Because, you see, I've thought so long

To count her in among our folks.

I s'pose she must be happy now;
But still I will keep thinking too,

I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind, and true;
But maybe not.

She's safe up there;

And when His Hand deals other strokes,

She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know,
And wait to welcome in our folks."

POOR LITTLE JOE.

PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

PROP yer eyes wide open Joey,

Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples? No, a heap sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! Flowers, Joe,-I know'd you'd like 'em, Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,

Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort;

And I puts on lots o' cheek,
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum.
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,

Never seed one, I

suppose."

How I bring'd you up, poor Joe! (Lackin' women folks to do it:)

Sich a' imp you was, you know, –
Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in,

(Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you couldn't hyper much!
Joe, it hurted when I seen you

Fur the first time with yer crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,