I see the old dear faces,

I greet them hand to hand; But sadly too, for the places

Seem strange in that curious land; Till a new light breaks, and all other Grows dim to my streaming eyes;

For a son has found his mother

In the depths of the throbbing skies.

Yes, my heart it lies beyond, dear,
Where that sun is burning low,
And were you not so fond, dear,
I might perhaps—but no!

Are you weary already with walking?
And tears! What tears, dear, too!

How selfish of me to be talking,

My darling, in this way to you!

A FANCY.

A LITTLE sprite sat on a moonbeam,
When the night was waning away,
And over the world to the eastward

Spread the first faint flush of the day.
The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
And a fat little fairy was he;

Around him the white clouds were sleeping, And under him slumbered the sea.

Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
And laughed when she thought of the fun,
For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
Would soon melt away in the sun;

So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders,
And winked at a bright little star-
The moon was remarkably knowing,
As old people always are.

"Great madam," then answered the fairy,

"No doubt you are wonderfully wise,
And know probably more than another
Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
But to think that we don't in our own way
An interest in sky-things take,

Is a common and fatal blunder

That sometimes you great ones make.

"For I've looked up from under the heather, And watched you night after night,

And marked your silent motion,

And the fall of your silvery light.

I have seen you grow larger and larger,
I have watched you fade away;

I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
At the sudden approach of day.

"So don't think for a moment, great madam,

Tho' a poor little body I be,

That I haven't my senses about me,

Or am going to fall into the sea.

I have had what you only could give me—
A pleasant night ride in the sky;
But a new power arises to eastward,
So now, useless old lady, good-bye."

He whistled a low sweet whistle,
And up from the earth so dark,
With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,
There bounded a merry lark.

He's mounted the tiny singer,

And soared through the heavens away, With his face all aglow in the morning,

And a song for the rising day.

JACK.

YOU'RE Only a dumb little dog, Jack,
About ten or twelve pounds or so,
And your wits must be all in a fog, Jack,
If you have any wits, I know.

But you've two such soft brown eyes, Jack,
And such long grey silky hair;

And, what very much more I prize, Jack,
Such a warm little heart in there.

They say warm hearts are rare, Jack,

And I almost believe that it's true; But there ar❜n't many hearts can compare, Jack, With that staunch little heart in you.

Of course, we that speak and can read, Jack,
Have plenty of friendships sweet;

But, in spite of them all, there's a need, Jack,
For a friend like the friend at my feet.