Professor Spaghetti the music supplies, From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime; His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies, Is merrily thumping the rollicking time; The Widow McCann pats the tune with her slipper, The peanut-man hums as he peers from his stall, And Officer Quinn for a moment looks in To see the new steps at the hand-organ ball. The concert-hall tune echoes down the dark street, The mothers lean out from the windows to see, While soft sounds the pat of the dancers' bare feet, And tenement babies crow loud in their glee; And labor-worn fathers are laughing and chatting,-- Forgot for an hour is grim poverty's thrall;-- There's joy here to-night, 'neath the swinging arc-light, In "Finnegan's Court," at the hand-organ ball. * * * * * [Illustration] "JIM" Want to see me, hey, old chap? Want to curl up in my lap, Do yer, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink-- Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him? Little kitten, nothin' more, When we found him at the door. In the cold, And the baby, half undressed, Picked him up, and he was jest All she'd hold. Put him up fer me to see, And she says, so 'cute, says she, "Baby's cat." And we never had the heart Fer to keep them two apart After that. Seem's if _I must_ hear the beat Of her toddlin' little feet 'Round about; Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out. Seem's if I could hear her say, In the cunnin' baby way That she had: "Say 'dood-night' to Jimmie, do, 'Coz if 'oo fordetted to He'd feel bad." Miss her dreadful, don't we, boy? Day do'n't seem to bring no joy With the dawn; Look's if night was everywhere,-- But there's glory over there Where she's gone. Seems as if my heart would break, But I love yer for her sake, Don't I, Jim? See him sit and purr and blink, Don't yer bet he knows I think Lots of him? * * * * * IN MOTHER'S ROOM In Mother's room still stands the chair Beside the sunny window, where The flowers she loved now lightly stir In April's breeze, as though they were Forlorn without her loving care. Her books, her work-box, all are there, And still the snowy curtains bear The soft, sweet scent of lavender In Mother's room. Oh, spot so cool, and fresh, and fair, Where dwelt a soul so pure and rare, On me your fragrant peace confer, Make my life sweet with thoughts of her, As lavender makes sweet the air In Mother's room. * * * * * SUNSET-LAND Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,-- If you look, as the sun sinks low, Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies, Each one with its crest aglow, O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles Have beaches of golden sand, To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white, You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light At the harbor of Sunset-land.