You became my little assistant, my home angel, my youngest and sweetest singing bird, and I miss the little voice that I have heard in an adjoining room, catching up and echoing little snatches of melody as they were being composed. I miss those soft and sweet kisses. I miss the little hand that was always first to be placed on my forehead to "drive away the pain." I miss the sound of those little feet upon the stairs. **** I miss you in the garden. I miss you everywhere, but I will try not to miss you in heaven. "Papa, if we are good, will an angel truly come and take us to heaven when we die?" When the question was asked, how little did I think the angel was so near! But he did truly come, and the sweet flower was translated to a more genial clime. “I do wish papa would come." Wait a little while, Kittie, and papa will come. The journey is not long. He will soon be Home.

William B. Bradbury.

HOW'S MY BOY?

)! sailor of the sea!

"Ho!

How's my boy-my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"

"My boy John

He that went to sea;

What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsmai
Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish
But knows my John.

"How's my boy-my boy?

And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no

Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton."" "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?"
"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor;
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound

I

Her owners can afford her!

say, how's my John ?"

"Every man on board went down,

Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother.

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him, and no other!

How's my boy-my boy?"

Sydney Dobell.

THE boy carried in his face the "open sesame” to every

door and heart.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lips, redder still,
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy—
I was once a barefoot boy.
Prince thou art-the grown up man
Only is republican;

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy,
In the reach of ear and eye;
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O, for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,

How the woodchuck digs his cell,

And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

O, for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,

Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!

Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
O, for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone gray and rude;
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frog's orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch; pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet.

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Loose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,