"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we ;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid;
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied:

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit ;
My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness;
Thy thanks to all that aid;
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go;
My bird, when prison-bound;
My hand-in-hand companion - No,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.
Then O wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE.

ALL in our marriage garden

Grew, smiling up to God,

A bonnier flower than ever

Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled;

And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.

PICTURES OF MEMORY. AMONG the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.