HGfe brakes' Sfiloral s6m£i*iet an3 Pictorial Home iSoeijianion, 
11 
3 
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 holding yours so tight; 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch; 
You are almost too tired to pray to-night. 
But it is blessedness! A year ago 
I did not see it as I do to-day— 
We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow 
To catch the sunshine till it slips away; 
And now it seems surpassing strange to mo 
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, curly head from off your breast, 
This lisping tongue that chatters const ntly: 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 
And ne’er would nestle in your palm again; 
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 
I could not blame you for your heart-ache then. 
I wonder so that mothers ever fret 
At little children clinging to their gown; 
Or that the foot prints, 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 home 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; 
My singing birdling from its nest hath flown ; 
The little boy 1 used to kiss is dead!— Aiding. 
“If you don’t give me some soup, I’ll tell yon!” 
The lady seemed a little troubled, and instead of 
sending Bobby out of the room, quietly yielded to his 
demand. 
Soup being removed, and fish introduced, there was 
a fresh demand. 
tion of the company had been pretty fully drawn to 
Bobby, about whom, in all probability, there prevail¬ 
ed but one opinion. 
The father was irritated at the incident. 
“Bobby you must be quiet, you can have no wine!” 
“Well, papa, if I don’t get some wine, mind—I’ll 
tell yon!” 
“You rascal, you shall have no wine!” 
“You had better do it,” answered Bobby, 
firmly. “Once, twice—will you give mo 
the wine? Come, now, mind I’ll tell 
yon! Once, twice-” 
The father looked canes and lashes at 
his progeny. Bobby, however, was not 
to be daunted. 
“Here goes now! Once—twice—will 
you do it? Once—twice—thrice! My 
trousers were made out of mother’s old 
window-shades!” 
Stiff English party dissolves in uncon- 
strainable merriment. 
Our Picture-Book. 
“Mamma, I want some sea-fish,” (a rarity in the 
Highlands). 
“Bobby,” said the mother, “you are very forward. 
You can’t get any fish. You must sit quietly, and 
not trouble us so much.” 
“ Well, mamma, if I don’t get some fish, I’ll tell yon !” 
A young lady in Lancaster has the in¬ 
itials Y. M. C. A. engraved on one corner 
of her visiting cards, which she hands to 
certain gentleman visitors. At first they 
suppose she belongs to the Young Men’s 
Christian Association, but it is not long 
before they rightly construe the letters to 
mean, 
'You May Come Again.” 
LITTLE BOY BOBBY. 
It is not wise to do or say anything to 
a child under an injunction not to teil. 
Here is a story in point, which was re¬ 
ported to Dr. Robert Chambers from the 
ladies at Fingask, Perthshire, Scotland: 
“A highland family of some dignity, 
but not much means, was to receive a 
visit from some English relations for the 
first time. Great was the anxiety and 
effort to make things wear a respectable 
appearance before these assumedly fastid¬ 
ious strangers. The lady had contrived 
to get up a pretty good dinner; but either 
from an indulgent disposition, or from 
some defect in her set of servants, she 
allowed her son Bobby, a little boy, to be 
present, instead of remanding him to the 
nursery. 
But little was she aware of Bobby’s 
power of torture. 
Bobby, who was dressed in a new 
jacket and a pair of buff-colored trousers, 
had previously received strict injunctions 
to sit at table quietly, and on no account 
to join in conversation. For a little while 
he carried out these instructions, till the 
last guest had been helped to soup, whereupon, dur¬ 
ing a short lull in the general conversation, Bobby 
quietly said: 
“ I want some soup, mamma.” 
“You can’t be allowed to have any soup, Bobby. 
You must not be always asking for things.” 
Little Buttercups. 
“Oh, Bobby, you’re a plague!” and then she gave 
him some fish. 
A little further on, Bobby observing his papa and 
the guests taking wine, broke in once more: 
“Papa, I would like a glass of wine!” 
By this time, as might well be suppose^, the atten- 
Beautiful Sentiment. —“I confess,” says Hilliard, 
“that increasing years bring with them an increased 
respect for men who do not succeed in life, as those 
words are commonly used. Heaven is said to be a 
place for those who have not succeeded upon earth ; 
and it is surely true celestial grace does not best 
thrive and bloom” in the hot blaze of 
worldly prosperity. Ill success some¬ 
times arises from a superabundance cf 
qualities in themselves good—from a con¬ 
science too sensitive, a taste too fastidious, 
a self-forgetfulness too romantic, a mod¬ 
esty too retiring. I will not go so far as 
to say, with the poet, that 'the world 
knows nothing of its greatest men,’ but 
there are forms of greatness, or at least 
excellence, which ‘die and make no signs;’ 
there are martyrs that miss the palm, but 
not the stake; heroes without the triumph.” 
Social Whimsicalities.—Ranney was 
a student who unfortunately could not 
pronounce the letter II, but used the let¬ 
ter W. Going down town one day, ho 
was witness to a fracas of some sort. 
Rushing to the society of his college mates, 
he exclaimed, in tones of great excite¬ 
ment, “ Boys, there’s a wiot down town!” 
“A what?” “ Why, a wow!” “A what?” 
‘ ‘ Why, a wumpus ; can’t you understand ?” 
During a recent freshet in Connecticut 
an editor telegraphed another at the scene 
of action: “Send me full particulars of 
the flood.” The answer came: “You will 
find them in Genesis.” 
The following anecdote was told by a preacher, for 
a fact: A preacher was praying, and in his prayer 
he said: “I pray the Lord to curtail the power of the 
devil.” Just then an old darkey in the congregation 
cried: “Yes! Amen! Bress God! Cut him tail 
right smack, smoove off.” 
