Came his cronies, some to gaze Rapt in wonder; some Some with envy dumb. May he,” many a gossip cried, “ Be from peril kept”; Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept. Joseph Skipsey HOW'S MY BOY? 6 Ho, Sailor of the sea ! How's my boy - my boy ?” And in what good ship sail'd he?" 66 You come back from sea, And not know my John? “How's my boy — my boy? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Speak low, woman, speak low ! ” About my own boy John? Why should I speak low, sailor?” “ That good ship went down.” “How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor? say how's my John ?” Every man aboard her.” my boy? men, sailor? - How's my boy What care I for the Sidney Dobell THE SAD MOTHER O WHEN the half-light weaves Wild shadows on the floor, How ghostly come the withered leaves Stealing about my door! ! I sit and hold my breath, Lone in the lonely house ; Naught breaks the silence still as death, Only a creeping mouse. The patter of leaves, it may be, But liker patter of feet, That never felt the heat. The small feet of my son, Cold as the graveyard sod; That may not win to God. “Come in, dear babe," I cry, Opening the door so wide. How dark it is outside! And though I kneel and pray Long on the threshold-stone The little feet press on their way, And I am ever alone. Katharine Tynan Hinkson AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S LAMENT STILL farther would I fly, my child, To make thee safer yet, With his dread hand murder-wet! With stealthy steps wind-fleet, But the dark night shrouds the forest, And thorns are in my feet. O moan not! I would give this braid Thy father's gift to me But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. no more Ah! spring not to his name he come He is smoldering into ashes Beneath the blasted gum : The white man kindled there, Till heaven-high went its glare ! And but for thee, I would their fire Had eaten me as fast! But no— when his bound hands had signed The way that we should fly, I saw thy father die! No more shall his loud tomahawk Be plied to win our cheer, Beneath his shadowing spear: Shall guide not as before, And the mountain-spirits mimic His hunting call no more! O moan not! I would give this braid Thy father's gift to me For but a single palmful Of water now for thee. Charles Harpur LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE O That those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine,—thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; |