'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery- And last he heerd was the old man say, Take keer of yourse'f!" Tuk the papers, the old man did, Fully believin' he 'd make his mark Some way-jes' wrapped up in him! And many a time the word 'ud come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum: At Petersburg, fer instance, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t' other way, And socked it home to the boys in gray, As they skooted fer timber, and on and on Jim a lieutenant, — and one arm gone, straps And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Think of him with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the old man, bendin' over him The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At had n't leaked fer years and years, As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His Father's, the old voice in his ears, "Well, good-by, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!" - They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by. There! little girl, don't cry! There! little girl, don't cry ! They have broken your slate, I know; Of your school-girl days But life and love will soon come There! little girl, don't cry! There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; But Heaven holds all for which you There! little girl, don't cry! THE WAY THE BABY WOKE AND this is the way the baby woke: As when in deepest drops of dew The shine and shadows sink and soak, The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence; The old path down the garden-walks still holds her footprints' dents; And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum. The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer, When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer; And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low, Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they did n't know. They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees; And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze; And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed; And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!" The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass, LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed; And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubt That Haly's little sunburnt hands 'll ever pull it out. An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!· An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't |