Till both their faces grew as red

As saucepans made of copper.

And then they shelled, and popped, and ate,
All kinds of fun a-poking,

While he haw-hawed at her remarks,
And she laughed at his joking.

And still they popped, and still they ate-
John's mouth was like a hopper-
And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt,
And shook and shook the popper.

The clock struck nine-the clock struck ten,
And still the corn kept popping;
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve,
And still no signs of stopping.

And John he ate, and Sue she thought-
The corn did pop and patter-
Till John cried out, "The corn 's a-fire!
Why, Susan, what 's the matter?"

Said she, "John Styles, it's one o'clock;
You'll die of indigestion;

I'm sick of all this popping corn—
Why don't you pop the question?"

ANONYMOUS.

The Twins.

IN form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,

And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,

It reached a fearful pitch;

For one of us was born a twin,
And not a soul knew which.

One day to make the matter worse,
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being washed by nurse,
We got completely mixed;

And thus, you see, by fate's decree,
Or rather nurse's whim,

My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.

This fatal likeness ever dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged,
When John turned out a fool.
I put this question, fruitlessly,
To every one I knew,

"What would you do, if you were me,
that you were you."

To prove

Our close resemblance turned the tide

Of my domestic life,

For somehow, my intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In fact, year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on,

And when I died, the neighbors came

And buried brother John.

HENRY S. LEIGH.

A Little Goose.

THE chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring;

And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying;

When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a sinall voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;

No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other:
Half scared, half confidential, said,
"Oh! please, I want my mother!"
"Tell me your street and number, pet:
Do n't cry, I'll take you to it."
Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.

"He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.

I've walked about a hundred hours,

From one street to another:

The monkey 's gone, I 've spoiled my flowers, Oh! please, I want my mother."

"But what's your mother's name? and what The street? Now think a minute."

"My mother's name is mamma dear-The street-I can't begin it."

"But what is strange about the house, Or new-not like the others?"

"I guess you mean my trundle-bed, Mine and my little brother's.

"Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers,--
He's such a baby he forgets;

And we are both such players;-
And there's a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,
For Harry rolls when he 's asleep:
Oh dear! I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing.

I tied a kerchief round her neck-
"What ribbon 's this, my blossom?"
"Why do n't you know?" she smiling, said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name; My eyes astonished met it; "For," said the little one, "you see

I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing

That tells you all about it;
For mother says she 's very sure
I should get lost without it."

ELIZA SPROAT TURNER.

Tired Mothers.

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.

Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,— You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

I did not see it as I do to-day

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-
This restless curling head from off your breast,—
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palin again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,-If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more,

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;