THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

Kindly and warm and tender,

He nestled each childish palm

So close in his own that his touch was a prayer

And his speech a blessed psalm.

He has turned from the marvelous pages

Of many an alien tome —

Haply come down from Olivet,

Or out from the gates of Rome —

Set sail o'er the seas between him

And each little beckoning hand

That fluttered about in the meadows

And groves of his native land,—

Fluttered and flashed on his vision

As, in the glimmering light

Of the orchard-lands of childhood,

The blossoms of pink and white.

And there have been sobs in his bosom,

As out on the shores he stept,

And many a little welcomer

Has wondered why he wept.—

That was because, O children,

Ye might not always be

The same that the Savior's arms were wound

About, in Galilee.

Friend of a wayward hour, you came

Like some good ghost, and went the same;

And I within the haunted place

Sit smiling on your vanished face,

And talking with — your name.

But thrice the pressure of your hand —

First hail — congratulations — and

Your last “God bless you!” as the train

That brought you snatched you back again

Into the unknown land.

“God bless me?” Why, your very prayer

Was answered ere you asked it there,

I know — for when you came to lend

Me your kind hand, and call me friend,

God blessed me unaware.

He's jes’ a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin’

Feller,— humped, and sort o’ sulkin’ —

Like, and ruther still-appearin’ —

Kind-as-ef he wuz n't keerin’

Whether school helt out er not —

That's my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kind o’ liked him — whether

Childern, er growed-up together!

Fifteen year’ ago and better,

‘ Fore he ever knowed a letter,

Run acrosst the little fool

In my Primer-class at school.

When the Teacher wuz n't lookin’,

He'd be th'owin’ wads; er crookin’

Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more'n

Likely, on the stove; er borin’

Gimlet-holes up thue his desk —

Nothin’ that boy would n't resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin’

On to say, he seemed so knowin’,

Other ways, and cute and cunnin’ —

Allus wuz a notion runnin’

Thue my giddy, fool-head he

Jes’ had be'n cut out fer me!

Do n't go much on prophesyin’,

But last night whilse I wuz fryin’

Supper, with that man a-pitchin’

Little Marthy round the kitchen,

Think-says-I, “Them baby's eyes

Is my Henry's, jes’ p'cise!”