The desk beside the window,

Where the sun shines warm and bright:

And there in ease and quiet

The promised book you write;

While I sit close beside you,

Content at last to see

That you can rest, dear mother,

And I can cherish thee.

(The dream came true, and for the last ten years of her life Marmee sat in peace, with every wish granted, even to the "grouping together"; for she died in my arms.-L. M. A.)

*Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Company, by whom Miss Alcott's books are copyrighted.

TWO MOTHERS

BY RICHARD BURTON

A woman walking the street adown
Saw at a casement, glint the gown
Of a mother, meek, whose little son
Had died with his child-joys just begun,
And it smote her heart, for well she knew
What Mother-love with a life may do;
And she said, "Poor soul! how sad that she
Should lose the child in his grace and glee!"
For she thought of her boy that lived to-day,
Though man-grown now and far away.

But the woman there in the window-seat
Looked with a smile, not sad, but sweet,

And touched with pity, to the place
Where she had marked the other's face;
And she said, "Poor soul! her child is lost,
For now he is only a man sin-tossed!

But the boy I watched in his bright young day,
He bides in my heart a child for aye."

MOTHER, NURSE, AND FAIRY
BY JOHN GAY

"Give me a son." The blessing sent,
Were ever parents more content?
How partial are their doting eyes!
No child is half so fair and wise.

Waked to the morning's pleasing care, The mother rose and sought her heir. She saw the nurse like one possest, With wringing hands and sobbing breast. "Sure some disaster has befell:

"Speak Nurse: I hope the boy is well." "Dear Madam, think not me to blame; Invisible the Fairy came:

Your precious babe is hence conveyed,
And in the place a changling laid.

Where are the father's mouth and nose?
The mother's eyes, as black as sloes?
See here, a shocking arkward creature,
That speaks a fool in every feature.”

"The woman 's blind, (the mother cries) I see wit sparkle in his eyes."

"Lord, Madam, what a squinting leer! No doubt the Fairy hath been here." Just as she spoke, a pygmy sprite Pops through the key hole swift as light; Perched on the cradle's top he stands, And thus her folly reprimands:

"Whence sprung the vain conceited lie, That we the world with fools supply? What! give our sprightly race away For the dull, helpless sons of clay! Besides, by partial fondness shown, Like you we dote upon our own. Where yet was ever found a Mother Who'd give her booby for another? And should we change with human breed, Well might we pass for fools indeed."

Though fretful oft, and weak and small, A loving child, he was her all,—

The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite-aye, so sustain'd,
She battled onward, nor complain'd

Though friends were fewer:
And while she toil'd for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then, and now I see
That, though resign'd and cheerful, she
Has sorrow'd much:

She has,- He gave it tenderly,-
Much faith, and, carefully laid by,

A little crutch.

* From "The Victorian Anthology." Houghton Mifflin Company.

CHILDREN

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Children are what the mothers are.
No fondest father's fondest care
Can fashion so the infant heart
As those creative beams that dart,
With all their hopes and fears, upon
The cradle of a sleeping son.

His startled eyes with wonder see
A father near him on his knee,
Who wishes all the while to trace
The mother in his future face;
But 'tis to her alone uprise

His waking arms; to her those eyes
Open with joy and not surprise.

WIDOW AND CHILD

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

Home they brought her warrior dead;
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;

All her maidens, watching, said,

Then they praised him soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took a face-cloth from the face,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Like summer tempest came her tears
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

MOTHERS AND SONS *

By G. W. E. RUSSELL

I know no pleasanter theme for contemplation than this, and it is suggested to me by a letter from Accrington. After referring to the qualities of the Manchester Guardian, my correspondent writes: