Creeping up on her white, white cheek,

As the sweet, sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;'
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad, sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up, wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, "Dear mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see, and see, and do not see

In your white, white face all the livelong day?"
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, papa ?

Where were you going, papa, papa ?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,

And the blue men rowing,

And are you standing on the high deck

Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?

I wish I could see what she can see,

But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,

Papa, papa?

Don't you remember, papa, papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,

And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,

And heard the winter winds roar down the street,

And knock like men at the window-pane?

And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three.
When will you come back again,
Papa, papa?

Papa, I like to sit by the fire;

Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,

That every day I might cry and say,

"Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, papa, if I could but know!

Do you think her voice was always so low?

Did I always see what I seem to see When I wake up at night, and her pillow is wet? You used to say her hair it was gold

It looks like silver to me.

But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, papa?
Or did I dream she was brighter before?

She makes me remember my snow-drop, papa, That I forgot in thinking of you,

The sweetest snow-drop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell, and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell, and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?

Do not mind my crying, papa,

I am not crying for pain.

Do not mind my shaking, papa,

I am not shaking for fear;

Though the wild, wild wind is hideous to hear,

And I see the snow and the rain.

When will you come back again,

Papa, papa?

SYDNEY DObell.

"PAPA SAYS SO, TOO."

A TINY rap fell on the door;
I quickly stepped across the floor
And turned the knob for Perley Moore.

66

Good-morning, little one," I said; "How early you are out of bed!

Is that what makes your cheeks so red?"

"I'se tum a vis'tin' oo to-day,
I tol' Aunt Nelly if I may;

Of tourse oo tan, Aunt Nelly say;
An' so I'se tum an' brought my doll;
My hat is dittin' mos' too small;
Oo fink dis is a pitty s'awl?"

All this the little maiden said,

While yet her hat was on her head,

And shawl was o'er her shoulders spread.

I said, "How is your Aunty Nell?

I hope to hear that she is well."

She lifted up her great black eyes,
Pursed up her mouth, and looked so wise,
As if to note my great surprise.

"Aunt Nelly's dot de whoopin' toff,
An' has to have some chitten broff,
An' nassy stuff from Dr. Goff;
An' s'e's all tovered up in bed,
An' has a wet cloff on s'e's head,
An' s'e tan't eat s'e 's toas'ed b'ead."

Somehow I knew she told a fib,
Her little tongue was all too glib;
And so, to lead the gypsy on,
I questioned her of Uncle John.

"Oh, Untle Don's down to de city
He's daun to dit me somefin pitty
I dess t'ill be a 'ittle kitty;
Oh, no, I dess t'ill be a baby-

He say he some time dit one, maybe."

"You do not want another cousin?
For you have now at least a dozen :
There's Tom and Jim, and Joe and Hurley,
And then your little namesake, Perley."

"Why, Perley, you have told a lie !”
She poked her fat fist in her eye,
And straightway raised a deafening cry.
The briny tears ran down her cheek,
Sobs choked her so she could not speak,
And all her attitude was meek.

"Why did you tell me such a tale ? To find you out I could not fail ! "

She came and stood beside my knee
A prettier puss there could not be.
My fingers in her hand she took,
And gave me such a curious look:
"Tom read it to me in a book;
The boy was 'ittle Henwy Pool, -
He dot ze book at Sunday-Tool,
An' Tommy says zose books are true,
An' papa says so, too, — don't oo? "

JENNIE T. HAZEN LEWIS.

66

THE POETRY OF IRON.

THERE is a wonderful fascination about iron-work and ironworkers. Novelists have made them the scenes and heroes of their stories; poets have made them the themes of deathless song. We sing of the forge of Tubal Cain, and Hector swore by the forge that stithied Mars' helm;" but the other trades are passed over. When did poet, in lofty numbers, sing of the carpenter lathing a back room on the second floor? Who chants the brawny arms and thrilling deeds of a man climbing a fourstory ladder with a hod of mortar? Does anybody stand with rapt emotion and watch a painter putty up a nail-hole? I would not exchange my one hour at midnight in the iron-works at Ashland for a whole week watching a man mix mortar with a hoe. Why, these iron-works surround the Ashlanders with enough romance to last a Western community at least six weeks. And yet, I suppose there are people about here who never saw a nail made in their lives. I have known times in my own eminently useful and highly ornamental career times when I was trying to nail a front gate to a leather hinge when I wished there had never been a nail made, anywhere, by anybody. And I watched them as they fell from the ponderous machines, fast as rain-drops, and it seemed to me, as I watched them fall, that I could hear the dull, treacherous thud of the hammer on the human thumb, the low wail of a woman's anguish, “the big, big D" of a young man in his agony. These strange, weird feelings and fancies rushed into my mind like a torrent. stooped and picked up a brand-new nail, as a memento of my visit. Then I laid it down again; sadly, but not slowly. I have

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