It's a' to please my ain gudeman, There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; And spread the table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, If Colin's weel, and weel content, I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, The Inglenook The Inglenook For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house WILLIAM J. MICKLE, Evening at the Farm Over the hill the farm-boy goes. His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The early dews are falling; Into the stone-heap darts the mink; Cheerily calling, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day: In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Now to her task the milkmaid goes. While the pleasant dews are falling;— The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 66 Soothingly calling, So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool. Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" The Inglenook The To supper at last the farmer goes. The stories are told, then all to bed. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRidge. Home Song Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; For those that wander they know not where To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, And are baffled, and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly To stay at home is best. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The Inglenook Etude Rêaliste I A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat No flower-bells that expand and shrink As shine on life's untrodden brink,- |