ksul-uasc-mscc208_007

[[First column]]

put my spoon into the pudding. "There's
lumps in it like stones." And with that I tried
to break it, and couldn't; and feeling curious
like, I put it on the table. It seemed to be a
real stone. "In the sugar, likely," says I, and
broke the pudding away; and there in the
midst I saw--my breastpin. It had dropped in
while I was mixing it, and there it was.

About an hour afterwards all the servants
down the street had it to tell that Ann Gerry-
that's me--had gone mad, and rushed off to
drown herself. i went with nothin' on my
head, a-wringin' my hands and cryin'; but
where I went was to the court, to beg and pray
that dear boy's pardon of the magistrate, and
ask him to lock me up in the precious inno-
cent's place.

That boy I consider my boy now. He shall
have all I've got in the savings bank, every
penny. A better boy never lived; and as to
his mother, she's better now, and doin' fine
washin', as I can recommend to suit any lady.
That boy loves me. And this i always say to
all I know when I hear 'em talk of beggars and
tramps: "Don't judge, lest, as our parson reads
out of the Bible, you may be judged yourself
by them above you."

Those aint the words, but it's the spirit, and so I hope it's all the same.

---------

GATHERING SNOW-DROPS.

Now passed away is wintry night,
Comes back again the sunshine bright,
The golden flow of ruddy light-
And birds are on the wing;
The breaking buds are growing red,
And purple turns the violet bed,
The early primrose shows its head
in bright and early spring.

Keen is the air, the ponds still freeze,
The tangled branches on the trees
Still bare to shudder 'neath the breeze,
Through merry mortals sing;
While foremost in the floral race
The modest snow-drop shows its face,
And purely, sweetly take it's place
As first-born child of spring.

Then bright-eyed maidens, young and fair,
The snowy blossoms cull with care,
To twine them in their jetty hair
While merry voices ring;
For what think they of care or grief,
Of winter's chill or autumn leaf,
That life is sometimes sad and brief?-
With them 'tis ever spring!

Though seasons quickly come and go,
Great joys are theirs, few cares they know;
And heed not--it were better so-
What summer days may bring.
Laugh on, fair girls! and often stay,
To pluck sweet blossoms on your way,
And gatter snow-drops while you may-
For 'tis not always spring!

[[Second Column]]

WHERE'S M' BABY?

Where's my baby? where's my baby?
But a little while ago,
In my arms I held one fondly,
And a robe of lengthened flow
Covered little knees so dimpled,
And each pink and chubby toe.

Where's my baby? I remember
Now about the shoes so red,
Peeping from his shrotened dresses,
And the bright curls on his head;
Of the little teeth so pearly!
And the first sweet words he said.

Where's my baby? In the door yard
Is a boy with shingled hair,
Whittleing, as he tries to whistle,
With a big boy's manly air;
With his pants within his boot tops,
But my baby is not there.

Where's my baby? Ask that urchin,
Let me hear what he will say:
"Where's your baby, nma?" he questioned,
With a rognish look and way;
"Guess he's grown to be a boy, now,
Big enough to work and play."

Where's my baby? where's my baby?
Ah! the years fly on apace!
Yesterday I held and kissed it,
In its loveliness and grace;
But to-morrow sturdy manhood
Takes the little baby's place.

--------

WHAT IS LIFE?

A little crib beside the bed,
A little face above the spread,
A little frock behind the door,
A little shoe upon the floor.

A little lad with dark brown hair,
A little blue-eyed face and fair;
A little lane that leads to school,
A little pencil, slate and rule.

A little blithesome, winsome maid,
A little hand within his laid;
A little cottage, acres four,
A little old-time household store.

A little family gathering round;
A little turf-heaped, tear-dewed mound;
A little added to his soil;
A little rest from hardest toil.

A little silver in his hair;
A little stool and easy-chair;
A little night of earth-lit gloom;
A little cortege to the tomb.

---------

A VESPER HYMN.

The evening bells of Sabbath fill
The dusky silence of the night,
And through our gathering gloom distil
Sweet sparkles of immortal light;
Such hours of peace as theserequite
The labors of the weary week;
When thus, with souls refreshed and bright,
Forgiveness of our sins we seek.

O help us, Jesus, to conform
Our spirits, thoughts and lives to Thine!
Beyond this earthly strife and storm,
O make Thy star of love to shine
When we are sinking in the brine
Of doubt and care--O come, that we,
As Peter did, may safe resign
Our sinking helplessness to Thee!

[[Third Column]]

FROST PICT[URES]
[Pictu]res on the win[dow,]
[Pai]nted by Jack Frost,
Coming at the midnight,
With the noon are lost.
Here a row of [fir-]trees,
Standing straight and tall;
There a rapid river,
And a waterfall.

Here a branch of coral
From the briny sea;
There a weary traveller,
Resting 'neath a tree
Here a grand old iceberg
Floating slowly on;
There the mighty forest
Of the torrid zone.

Here a swamp all tangled,
Rushes, ferns and brake;
There a rugged mountain,
Here a little lake.
Thus a breath, the lightest
Floating on the air,
Jack Frost catches quickly,
And imprints it there.

And thus you are painting,
Little children, too,
On your life's fair window
Always something new.
But your little pictures
Will not pass away,
Like those Jack Frost's [fin]gers
Paint each winter day.

O, they will be lasting
As God's book of truth,
Whether made by Willie,
Johnnie, May or Ruth;
And your little pictures,
Each its story tells
Of the good or evil
Which within you dwells.

Each kind word or action
[Is a] picture bright;
Every [duty] mastered
Is [lovel]y in the light;
But each thought of anger,
Every word of strife,
Blemishes the picture,
Stains the glass of life.

-------

[[handwritten]]
-ints x 1.50
-gcloves x 45
x 10.00
-pen x .08
-ing [?]bou x 17.01
-at x .50
Flannel x 2.04
Cravat x 34
---
562
[[/handwritten]]