His mother then takes every match from the box; The door of the pantry securely she locks; Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink In the best hiding places of which she can think And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on, What mischief her Bobby will do while she's gone! AN OLD SONG--"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!" When people ask me where I live, I hate to have to go and give A name like Smithville, plain. I'd rather say:--"Sir, if you please, My home is in the Hebrides," Or, "High up in the Pyrenees," Or, "At Gibraltar, Spain." "Constantinople," too, sounds fine, And "Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine," And "Madagascar," too; And "Yokohama" sounds so great, And "Hindustan" is just first-rate; I rather like even "Bering Strait," And "Cuzco" in Peru. And yet, I would not be at night, Alone upon the "Isle of Wight," Or on the "Zuyder Zee." At "Nova Zembla," in a gale, I know that I should just turn pale; For fear of earthquakes, I should quail In "sunny Italy." A place that sounds nice on the map, May have a little too much snap To keep within its wall, And so, though many names I see, That sound as stylish as can be, There's no place quite so good for me, As Smithville, after all! _Blanche Elizabeth Wade._ #UNCLES AND AUNTS AND OTHER RELATIVES# GRANDMOTHER'S MEMORIES BY HELEN A. BYROM [Illustration: "STANDS WATCHING THE SETTING SUN."] Grandmother sits in her easy-chair, In the ruddy sunlight's glow; Her thoughts are wandering far away In the land of Long Ago. Again she dwells in her father's home, And before her loving eyes In the light of a glorious summer day The gray old farm-house lies. She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel And the spinner's happy song; She sees the bundles of flax that hang From the rafters, dark and long; She sees the sunbeams glide and dance Across the sanded floor; And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze That steals through the open door. Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall; And up from the glen comes the musical roar Of the distant waterfall. The cows roam lazily to and fro Along the shady lane; The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far From the fields of golden grain. And grandma herself, a happy girl, Stands watching the setting sun, While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease, And the long day's work is done; Then something wakes her--the room is dark, And vanished the sunset glow, And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise, From the dreams of long ago. Great-Aunt Lucy Lee By Cora Walker Hayes