come a bit too late For Fireman Mike O'Rafferty of Engine Twenty-eight. And then the morning paper may have half a column filled With, "Fire at Bullion's Warehouse," and the line, "A Fireman Killed"; And, in a neat, cheap tenement, a wife may mourn her dead, And all the small O'Raffertys go fatherless to bed And he'll not be a hero, for, you see, he didn't fall On some blood-spattered battle-field, slain by a rifle-ball; But, maybe, on the other side, on God's great roll of fame, Plain Fireman Mike O'Rafferty'll be counted just the same.  

 

     LITTLE BARE FEET 

  Little bare feet, sunburned and brown, Patterin', patterin' up and down, Dancin' over the kitchen floor, Light as the foam-flakes on the shore,—   Right on the go from morn till late, From the garden path ter the old front gate,—   There hain't no music ter me so sweet As the patterin' sound of them little bare feet. When I mend my nets by the foamin' sea, Them little bare feet trot there with me, And a shrill little voice I love'll say:   "Dran'pa, spin me a yarn ter-day."   And I know when my dory comes ter land, There's a spry little form somewheres on hand; And the very fust sound my ears'll meet Is the welcomin' run of them little bare feet. Oh, little bare feet! how deep you've pressed Yer prints of love in my worn old breast! And I sometimes think, when I come ter die,   'Twill be lonesome-like in the by and by; That up in Heaven I'll long ter hear That little child's voice, so sweet and clear; That even there, on the golden street, I'll miss the pat of them little bare feet.  

 

     A RAINY DAY 

  Kind er like a stormy day, take it all together,—   Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather; If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complainin', And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'. Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin'   From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin', With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin', Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'. 

 

  Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder, Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder, Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges, Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges. Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over, Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the 

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