His task was then anew begun,
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more the little maid sought he
And bent him down upon his knee;
She turned her eyes upon the floor;
I think she thought the game a bore
He circled then his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best;
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid—he did.
And then—though why I can't decide—
The little maid looked satisfied.
* * * * *
MY TRUNDLE BED.
As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane,
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread,
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.
So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song,
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read—
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed"
As I listened, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.
Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven—
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven."
Years have passed, and that dear mother
Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,
And I trust her sainted spirit
Rests within the home of God:
But that scene at summer twilight
Never has from memory fled,
And it comes in all its freshness
When I see my trundle bed.
This she taught me, then she told me
Of its import great and deep—
After which I learned to utter
"Now I lay me down to sleep."
Then it was with hands uplifted,
And in accents soft and mild,
That my mother asked—"Our Father!
Father! do thou bless my child!"