Tired Mothers.

LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee

Your tired knee that has so much to bearA child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers holding you so tight;
You do not prize the blessing overmuch-
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day

We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me
That while I wore the badge of motherhood

I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night, when you sit down to rest,
You miss the elbow from your tired knee;
This restless curly head from off your breast;

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into the grave had tripped-

I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At their little children clinging to their gowns; Or that the footprints, when the day is wet,

Are ever black enough to make them frown! If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floorIf I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more;

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky-
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I!
But ah, the dainty pillow next mine own
Is never rumpled by a shining head,
My singing birdling from its nest is flown--
The little boy I used to kiss-is dead!

WALT WHITMAN.

WALT WHITMAN was born in Westhills, Long Island, May 31, 1819, in a farm-house which overlooked the sea. While yet a child his parents moved to Brooklyn, where he acquired his education. He learned type-setting at thirteen years of age, two years later he taught a country school. He contributed to the Democratic Review before he was twenty-one years old. At thirty he traveled through the Western States, and spent one year in New Orleans editing a newspaper. Returning home he took up his father's occupation as carpenter and builder, which he followed for a while. During the War of the Rebellion he spent most of his time in the hospitals and camps, in the relief of the sick and disabled soldiers. For a time he was a department clerk in Washington.

In 1856 he published a volume entitled Leaves of Grass. This volume shows unquestionable power, and great originality, and contains passages of a very objectionable character, so much so, that no defense that is valid can be set up. His labors among the sick and wounded necessarily made great impressions; these took form in his mind and were published under the title of Drum Taps.

His poems lack much of coming up to the standard