Tired, at last, of our sport, home to dinner we run,
And find that, two hours ago, dinner was done.
But our meat and potatoes we relish quite well,
Though cold—and the reason we scarcely need tell.
Five hours spent in scudding and skating, I ween,
'Twould give to such lads as we, appetites keen.
VI.
At last the dim twilight succeeds to the day;
Our week's work is ended, and ended our play.
'Tis Saturday night, and we know with the morn,
Another dear Sabbath of rest will be born.
O'er wearied, we sink into slumber profound,
Assured that God's angels are watching around.
ROVER AND HIS LITTLE MASTER.
"Come, Rover!" said Harry, as he passed a fine old Newfoundland dog that lay on a mat at the door; "come, Rover! I am going down to the river to sail my boat, and I want you to go with me."
Rover opened his large eyes, and looked lazily at his little master.
"Come! Rover! Rover!"
But the dog didn't care to move, and so Harry went off to the river side alone. He had not been gone a great while, before a thought of her boy came suddenly into the mother's mind. Remembering that he had a little vessel, and that the river was near, it occurred to her that he might have gone there.