way, And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day! I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime Er dollar, when he married, far to start housekeepin' on!—   So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone! I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a gittin' married, one by one, And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—   An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back! And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline To not see what a wife they 'd git if they got Evaline! I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,—   She 'd come, and leave her housework, far to be'p out little Jane, And talk of her own mother 'at she 'd never see again—   Maybe sometimes cry together—though, far the most part she Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she 'd put her bonnet on And say she 'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John! I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—   Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John—   You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life Far a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife—   'Less some one married Evaline, and packed her off some day!—   So I got to thinkin' of her—and it happened thataway. 

  

  

       BABYHOOD.     

   Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:     Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away. Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story,—     Let's find the pictures, and fancy all the rest:—   We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best! Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees. Turn to the lane, where we used to "teeter-totter,"     Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold, Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the 

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