There are, maybe, some suspicions Of an alcoholic presence . . . ‘Tak’ a sup of this, my wumman!’ . . . New Year comes but once a twelvemonth. XVIII CHILDREN: PRIVATE WARD HERE in this dim, dull, double-bedded room, I play the father to a brace of boys, Ailing but apt for every sort of noise, Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom. Roden, the Irishman, is ‘sieven past,’ Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face. Willie’s but six, and seems to like the place, A cheerful little collier to the last. They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day; All night they sleep like dormice. See them play At Operations:—Roden, the Professor, Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties; Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes, Holding the limb and moaning—Case and Dresser. XIX SCRUBBER SHE’S tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face With flashes of the old fun’s animation There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation Bred of a past where troubles came apace. She tells me that her husband, ere he died, Saw seven of their children pass away, And never knew the little lass at play Out on the green, in whom he’s deified. Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, All simple faith her honest Irish mind, Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: Telling her dreams, taking her patients’ part, Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart. XX VISITOR HER little face is like a walnut shell With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. Well might her bonnets have been born on her. Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother The subject of a strong religious call? In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom’s way, Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails. XXI ROMANCE ‘TALK of pluck!’ pursued the Sailor, Set at euchre on his elbow, ‘I was on the wharf at Charleston, Just ashore from off the runner. ‘It was grey and dirty weather, And I heard a drum go rolling, Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, Awful dour-like and defiant. ‘In and out among the cotton, Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows— Poor old Dixie’s bottom dollar! ‘Some had shoes, but all had rifles, Them that wasn’t bald was beardless, And the drum was rolling _Dixie_, And they stepped to it like men, sir!