TROTTIE'S DOINGS.
Trottie is a cunning little boy, not quite three years old. His cradle is a little netted hammock. It is fastened at one end to his mamma's sewing-machine, and at the other to a hook in the wall. When Trottie grows tired he does not trouble his mamma, but gets into the little hammock and rocks himself to sleep.
One day the door-bell rang. The little fellow picked up his mother's best bonnet, which she had placed upon the bed. Crushing it down over his little golden curly head he hastened to the door.
He found the minister there, a tall, stately gentleman, wearing a stove-pipe hat. Trottie's strange appearance made the gentleman laugh, and he asked, "Where are you going, my little man?"
Trottie made no answer, but, after a prolonged stare at the stove-pipe hat, asked, "Are you Mr. Yankee Doodle?" Mamma came down just then. Laughing, she invited the visitor in.
Not long afterwards Trottie thought he would like to churn. When his mother's back was turned he put his two dear little kittens, "Starry Eyes" and "Bluebell," into the churn, and poured a cup of water over them. He was just lifting the dasher when his mother heard the kittens mewing and took them out.
He loves the kittens dearly, and would not hurt them for anything.
JENNIE JUDSON.
hen the western light is fading, And the deepening shadows fall, When the night winds through the branches Softly to each other call; When in grassy country meadows Heavy hang the clovers red, And the stars begin to twinkle In the dusky arch o'erhead; |
When within the crowded city Spring the dark lamps into flame, And long rows of lighted windows Set the street as in a frame; When the busy hours are over, Cares and worries put away, And the evening enters softly After the retreating day; When the sound of homeward footsteps Echoes through the quiet street, Or the wayside grass is trampled By the tread of hurrying feet,— Then, in stately shining windows, Hung with misty laces white, Or in low-roofed cottage doorways Opening out into the night; With their merry voices silent, And their playthings put aside, Bright eyes, blue or black or hazel, All with eager watching wide, |
Stand a hundred little maidens,
Looking out beneath the stars,
Waiting in a hundred households
For a hundred dear papas;
And the quick, familiar footsteps
Nearer through the darkness come,
Till a hundred happy voices
Cry at once their "Welcome home!"