The little boy experiencing that tingling ’neath his vest Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight The buffetings of childhood--as we do here to-night. The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rimes-- So, Harvey, let us sit a while and think upon those times. THE ARMENIAN MOTHER I was a mother, and I weep; The night is come--the day is sped-- The night of woe profound, for, oh, My little golden son is dead! The pretty rose that bloomed anon Upon my mother breast, they stole; They let the dove I nursed with love Fly far away--so sped my soul! That falcon Death swooped down upon My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; ’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark, And so, and so my heart was wrung! Before my eyes, they sent the hail Upon my green pomegranate-tree-- Upon the bough where only now A rosy apple bent to me. They shook my beauteous almond-tree, Beating its glorious bloom to death-- They strewed it round upon the ground, And mocked its fragrant dying breath. I was a mother, and I weep; I seek the rose where nestleth none-- No more is heard the singing bird-- I have no little golden son! So fall the shadows over me, The blighted garden, lonely nest. Reach down in love, O God above! And fold my darling to thy breast. HEIGHO, MY DEARIE A moonbeam floateth from the skies, Whispering: “Heigho, my dearie; I would spin a web before your eyes-- A beautiful web of silver light Wherein is many a wondrous sight Of a radiant garden leagues away, Where the softly tinkling lilies sway And the snow-white lambkins are at play-- Heigho, my dearie!” A brownie stealeth from the vine, Singing: “Heigho, my dearie; And will you hear this song of mine-- A song of the land of murk and mist Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? Then let the moonbeam’s web of light Be spun before thee silvery white, And I shall sing the livelong night-- Heigho, my dearie!” The night wind speedeth from the sea, Murmuring: “Heigho, my dearie; I bring a mariner’s prayer for thee; So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, And the brownie sing thee lullabies-- But I shall rock thee to and fro, Kissing the brow _he_ loveth so. And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow-- Heigho, my dearie!” TO A USURPER Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold,-- A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old!