It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life!
This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.
[Mother and Son.]
Postman, good postman, halt I pray,
And leave a letter for me to-day;
If it’s only a line from over the sea
To say that my Sandy remembers me.
I have waited and hoped by day and by night;
I’ll watch—if spared—till my locks grow white;
Have prayed—yet repent that my faith waxed dim,
When passing, you left no message from him.
My proud arms cradled his infant head,
My prayers arose by his boyhood’s bed;
To better our fortunes, he traversed the main;
God guard him, and bring him to me again.
The postman has passed midst the beating rain,
And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain;
This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread
That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.
But hark! there’s a step! my heart be still!
A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill;
Did the postman return? my letter forget?
Oh ’tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet!
[The Missionary’s Story.]
Hard were her hands, and brown;
Coarsest of stuff her gown:
Sod hut her home.
Pale was her care-worn face,
Beauty and youth and grace
Long since have flown.
Stern was her lot in life;
She was a drunkard’s wife;
And forests drear
Shut not temptation out;
Strong drink was sold and bought;
Poor pioneer!