I wrote some men and women in the city, Who give poor children help, as well as pity, "Send out as many as you can afford! And every one shall have a month's clean board, And carry back, from out our plenteous store, Enough to keep himself a fortnight more." The first night that we sat expecting them, I did what some whole families would condemn-- I moulded up my feelings into rhyme, In something less than fifteen minutes' time, Then voiced it to whoever would come near; I'll put the imposition right in here: [Illustration: "AND CARRY BACK, FROM OUT OUR PLENTEOUS STORE, ENOUGH TO KEEP HIMSELF A FORTNIGHT MORE."] [LET THE CLOTH BE WHITE.] Go set the table, Mary, an' let the cloth be white! The hungry city children are comin' here to-night; The children from the city, with features pinched an' spare, Are comin' here to get a breath of God's untainted air. They come from out the dungeons where they with want were chained; From places dark an' dismal, by tears of sorrow stained; From where a thousand shadows are murdering all the light: Set well the table, Mary dear, an' let the cloth be white! [Illustration: "THE HUNGRY CITY CHILDREN ARE COMING HERE TO-NIGHT."] They ha' not seen the daisies made for the heart's behoof; They never heard the rain-drops upon a cottage roof; They do not know the kisses of zephyr an' of breeze; They never rambled wild an' free beneath the forest trees. The food that they ha' eaten was spoiled by others' greeds; The very air their lungs breathed was full o' poison seeds; The very air their souls breathed was full o' wrong an' spite: Go set the table, Mary dear, an' let the cloth be white! The fragrant water-lilies ha' never smiled at them; They never picked a wild-flower from off its dewy stem; They never saw a greensward that they could safely pass Unless they heeded well the sign that says "Keep off the grass." God bless the men and women of noble brain an' heart, Who go down in the folk-swamps an' take the children's part-- Those hungry, cheery children that keep us in their debt, An' never fail to give us more of pleasure than they get! Set well the table, Mary; let naught be scant or small; The little ones are coming; have plenty for 'em all. There's nothing we should furnish except the very best To those that Jesus looked upon an' called to him an' blessed. [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Oh, Home--restful home! theme of praise and of song! Where the heart has its refuge, unfailing and strong; Where the cares of the world sign a partial release, And the soul can lie down to a sweet sleep of peace! The mine whence we dig out affection's pure gold, The fire where we warm our poor hearts when they're cold! The grand, tender chorus, by love's fingers stirred, Where all the sweet tones of the soul-life are heard! * * * * *