kickshaws."—Shakespeare.
O the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me, 'Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree, Wi' denty flavorin's o' spice an' musky rosemarie, The little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea, An' e'en its fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee, Till a' its frazen sheen o' white maun melten hinnie be— Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee, Aye mickle do I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie, But maist I luve the luvein' han's that could the giftie gie O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
HIS MOTHER.
DEAD! my wayward boy—my own— Not the Law's! but mine—the good God's free gift to me alone, Sanctified by motherhood. "Bad," you say: Well, who is not? "Brutal"—"with a heart of stone"— And "red-handed."—Ah! the hot Blood upon your own! I come not, with downward eyes, To plead for him shamedly,— God did not apologize When He gave the boy to me. Simply, I make ready now For His verdict.—You prepare— You have killed us both—and how Will you face us There!
KISSING THE ROD.
O heart of mine, we shouldn't Worry so! What we've missed of calm we couldn't Have, you know! What we've met of stormy pain, And of sorrow's driving rain, We can better meet again, If it blow! We have erred in that dark hour We have known, When our tears fell with the shower, All alone!— Were not shine and shadow blent As the gracious Master meant?— Let us temper our content With His own. For, we know, not every morrow Can be sad; So, forgetting all the sorrow We have had, Let us fold away our fears, And put by our foolish tears, And through all the coming years Just be glad.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone— And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o'
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