Won't sit up, you can't arrange him;
I don't see why Pa don't change him
At the store.

Now we've got to dress and feed him,
And we really didn't need him
More'n a frog;

Why'll they buy a baby brother
When they know I'd good deal ruther
Have a dog?

SEND THEM TO BED WITH A KISS.
O mothers, so weary, discouraged,
Worn out with the cares of the day,
You often grow cross and impatient,
Complain of the noise and the play;
For the day brings so many vexations,
So many things going amiss;

But mothers, whatever may vex you,
Send the children to bed with a kiss!

The dear little feet wander often,

Perhaps, from the pathway of right, The dear little hands find new mischief To try you from morning till night; But think of the desolate mothers

Who'd give all the world for your bliss, And, as thanks for your infinite blessings, Send the children to bed with a kiss!

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATION8

For some day their noise will not vex you,
The silence will hurt you far more;
You will long for their sweet childish voices,
For a sweet childish face at the door;
And to press a child's face to your bosom,

You'd give all the world for just this!
For the comfort 'twill bring you in sorrow,
Send the children to bed with a kiss!

In New Orleans Picayune.

SONG.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
There is ever a something sings alway;
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,

And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;

There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-
There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,

In the midnight black or the midday blue;

The robin pipes when the sun is here,

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.

The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere; But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;

There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-

There is ever a song somewhere!

James Whitcomb Riley.

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I haf von fonny leedle poy,

Dot gomes shust to mine knee,

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue

As effer you did see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings

In all barts of der house,

But vat of dot; he vos mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He gets der measles, und der mumps,
Und everydings dots oudt;
He shphills mine glass of lager beer,
Poots shnuff indo mein kraut;

He shtuffs mine pipe mit Limburg scheese,
Dot vas der roughest chouse,