come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?"    You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds of her, don't you know,—   How her face ust to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me! I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words, And then the glad chirp of the crickets As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass.    "Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower—     And softer—and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill,   'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. But, oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when her voice is away!"   Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning, And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day; And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'     The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" 

  

  

       THE LOST PATH.     

   Alone they walked—their fingers knit together, And swaying listlessly as might a swing Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, And from the covert of the hazel-thicket The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases Along the road-side in the shadows dim, Went following the blossoms of their faces As though their sweets must needs be shared with him. Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them, And folded all the landscape from their eyes, They only know the dusky path before them Was leading safely on to Paradise. 

  

  

       THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW.     

   "—And any little tiny 

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