When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;-- The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true. [Illustration: (WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE)] NOTHIN' TO SAY Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way! Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me-- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she? You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about _livin_' here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say! She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not "_twenty_!" When? And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? ... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say! Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found! There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! [Illustration: (NOTHIN' TO SAY)] [Illustration: (IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TITLE)] IKE WALTON'S PRAYER I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything-- Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;-- Just the wee cot--the cricket's chirr-- Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,-- Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor, New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!