LL LYON

Says Bobby to Mother:
"I'll be good as I can."
"I _know_ you will, Bobby;
You're Mother's little man."

BUT--

His mother then takes every match from the box;
The door of the pantry securely she locks;
Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink
In the best hiding places of which she can think
And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on,
What mischief her Bobby will do while she's gone!

AN OLD SONG--"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!"

When people ask me where I live,
I hate to have to go and give
A name like Smithville, plain.
I'd rather say:--"Sir, if you please,
My home is in the Hebrides,"
Or, "High up in the Pyrenees,"
Or, "At Gibraltar, Spain."

"Constantinople," too, sounds fine,
And "Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine,"
And "Madagascar," too;
And "Yokohama" sounds so great,
And "Hindustan" is just first-rate;
I rather like even "Bering Strait,"
And "Cuzco" in Peru.

And yet, I would not be at night,
Alone upon the "Isle of Wight,"
Or on the "Zuyder Zee."
At "Nova Zembla," in a gale,
I know that I should just turn pale;
For fear of earthquakes, I should quail
In "sunny Italy."

A place that sounds nice on the map,
May have a little too much snap
To keep within its wall,
And so, though many names I see,
That sound as stylish as can be,
There's no place quite so good for me,
As Smithville, after all!

_Blanche Elizabeth Wade._

#UNCLES AND AUNTS AND OTHER RELATIVES#

GRANDMOTHER'S MEMORIES

BY HELEN A. BYROM

[Illustration: "STANDS WATCHING THE SETTING SUN."]

Grandmother sits in her easy-chair,
In the ruddy sunlight's glow;
Her thoughts are wandering far away
In the land of Long Ago.
Again she dwells in her father's home,
And before her loving eyes
In the light of a glorious summer day
The gray old farm-house lies.

She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel
And the spinner's happy song;
She sees the bundles of flax that hang
From the rafters, dark and long;
She sees the sunbeams glide and dance
Across the sanded floor;
And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze
That steals through the open door.