Nay! start not at that sparkling light,
"Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain;
There, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.

Dorothy Wordsworth.

A Charm to Call Sleep

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep,

Come to my blankets and come to my bed, Come to my legs and my arms and my head, Over me, under me, into me creep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep,

Blow on my face like a soft breath of air, Lay your cool hand on my forehead and hair, Carry me down through the dream-waters deep Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep,

Tell me the secrets that you alone know, Show me the wonders none other can show, Open the box where your treasures you keep. Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep:

Softly I call you; as soft and as slow

Come to me, cuddle me, stay with me so, Stay till the dawn is beginning to peep.

Henry Johnstone.

Night

The snow is white, the wind is cold-
The king has sent for my three-year-old.
Bring the pony and shoe him fast
With silver shoes that were made to last.
Bring the saddle trimmed with gold;
Put foot in stirrup, my three-year-old;
Jump in the saddle, away, away!

And hurry back by the break of day;
By break of day, through dale and down,
And bring me the news from Slumbertown.

Mary F. Butts.

Bed-Time

Tis bed-time; say your hymn, and bid "Good night,

"God bless mamma, papa, and dear ones all."
Your half-shut eyes beneath your eye-lids fall;
Another minute you will shut them quite.
Yes, I will carry you, put out the light,
And tuck you up, although you are so tall.
What will you give me, Sleepy One, and call
My wages, if I settle you all right?
I laid her golden curls upon my arm,
I drew her little feet within my hand;

Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss,
Her heart next mine, beat gently, soft and warm ;
She nestled to me, and, by Love's command,

Paid me my precious wages,-Baby's kiss.

Lord Rosslyn.

Nightfall in Dordrecht*

The mill goes toiling slowly around

With steady and solemn creak,

And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak.

While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep,

My little one hears that the old mill sings:

66

Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And, over his pot of beer,

The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;

He mocks at the winds that caper along

From the far-off clamorous deep

But we we love their lullaby song

Of" Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

*From "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field. Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound

Groans of the stony mart

To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round,

Hitched to our new milk-cart!

And you shall help me blanket the kine
And fold the gentle sheep

And set the herring a-soak in brine-
But now, little tulip, sleep!

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,

While the old mill buffets the frowning skies
And scolds at the stars that wink;

Over your face the misty wings

Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And rocking your cradle she softly sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Eugene Field.

X

FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD

Sunday's child is full of grace.

Old Proverb.