uff.
You see your father serving out the dark meat and the light
Until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite.

And when, he asks you what you'll have,--you've heard it all before,--
You know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more;
For, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye,
And so you say, "I've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie.

When comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite,
And eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite.
You can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small,
Folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all.

Since I can first remember I've been told that when the cake
Is passed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take
The piece that's nearest to him, and so all I ever got,
When comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot.

It worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay
A-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away.
But when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me,
Say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? Oh, gee!

With no one round to notice what you're doing--bet your life!--
Boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife,
Nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest
And so, for lots of things, I like the second table best

_Nixon Waterman._

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in their tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming
Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,--
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows weak as a woman's
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His su