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Show ...Our ioys and 8itK. EDITED BY AUNT BUSY. r,:t3hi departTTient Is conducted solely in the Inter-I Inter-I fstB of our girl and boy readers. icnt 5l,Ky ls e,a1 t0 hear any time from the ih, nnr. nePhews w'o read this page, and to give : lh0"l I11 lh advice and help in her power. v ritp on one side of the paper only. IJO -ot have Litters too lone. ' i"?1,,"01-18 and verses 'In be e,adlv received and carefully edited. Tlie manuscripts of contributions not accepted will dp returned. i .thHesVn Jott,?rs to Aunt Busy. Intermountain Catholic, Salt Lake City. SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. ; Into the Silent Land! ; Ah! who shall lead us thither? ! Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, . And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who-leads us with a gentle hand, Thither, O, thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you ye boundless regions Of all perfection. Tender morning visions Of beauteous souls, the future's pledge and band; Who in life's battle firm doth stand, ' Shall bear hope's tender blossoms ! Into the Silent Land ? O, Land! O, Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted ; Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand To the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land! Henry W. Longfellow. . Monday Morning. . The hell had rung several times that morning-It morning-It was an. obtrusively loud bell at the best, and Monday morning, when the maid was washing so lhat Jean was obliged to answer its noisy summons, iv;is not the time when it appealed to her most favorably. fa-vorably. She had a slight headache, too, and she jumped at the sound, and said: "Oh, dear!" in a one that implied unutterable things. "A peddler, 1 suppose," muttered Jean, crossly. "As if anybody any-body was likely to want silver polish or scented soap at 9 o clock Monday morning! ' It was not a peddler on the front steps, however. A mite of a boy in blue overalls stared up into her face with an unwinking solemnity which might have made her smile some other morning when her nerves were not twitching. But there was no sign f mirth cither in her face or voice as she said, brusquelv, "Well, what is it? Why did you ring the bell?" The small boy put his finger into his mouth and I seemed in danger of forgetting his errand altogeth er. Jean, looking past him, perceived a group of children on the walk, and realized impatiently that the little fellow had been made spokesman for the others. She was about to repeat her inquiries in a ; ; louder tone when the small voice at her elbow piped ! . out, 'Tlease c'n we have a f'ower?" ! Jean had a sense of injury. The fact that she j , had been called from her dusting to hear such j ; request seemed littlo short of shameful. "Indeed i you cannot!" she exclaimed. "I don't raise flowers : J to give away. And I don't like to come to the door .i for nothing." V: The tallest of the group on the sidewalk moved ' uneasily. "Come, Jimmy." said a motherly voice, j which did not sound as if it belonged to a girl of i I 1-2 or 13. Jean cast a quick glance at the small figure in. the gingham frock, and asked irritably, "Why did you send Kim for a flower?" The "girl on tlie sidewalk waited to take her wee brother's hand before speaking. She lifted her plain, patient little face a3"she made answer: "Mamma died last week. We're going down to the place where they buried her, an' we wanted a llower to put on her grave. We didn't suppose you'd rare" and here the wistful eyes glanced toward lhe garden "'cause you've got so many." She was turning away, and she looked half frightened when Jean's breathless voice checked . her. "Oli. wait!" Jean cried. "Plea.se wait, I didn't 1 understand !" She caught up the tow-headed Jim-! Jim-! my and hugged him penitently to his undisguised I consternation, and the astonishment of the rest. I "You poor, little, motherless mite!" she whispered. "And to think I grudged you one flower, and was cross because I was called away from my dusting for a minute! Come into the garden, every one f you !' ; They went away fifteen minutes later, their f hands tilled with flowers and their faces brighjfc with i f miles. And the face which looked after them had changed strangely in that quarter of an hour. Its impatience and petulance had vanished, and in their place was a tender understanding that glori- - jled even the drudgery of a Monday morning. AS A LITTLE CHILD. J (S. E. Iviser in Chicago Record-Herald.) 1 Oft through the dark my little one . I Comes stealing softly to my bed, To clamber in and cuddle down I And on my bosom lay his head: I hear him whisper eoaxingly: "Please let me sleep with you tonight," i And as he nestles close to me tl His childish fears are put to flight. ij j Ah. if lie knew how weak, how frail j J Am T in whom. he puis his trust, I How blindly and how oft I fail. I How oft my face is in the dust. I I He would not rush to me when fear I I Comes with her sable wings outspread; I The faith he has when I am near j Would cease to bring him to my bed. I Some day perchance theyTI bring him where I J 1 lonjr have slept from visions free; I And. weeping, they leave him there f I To lie serenely close to me. I Oh ,mav I hear him, trusting, say, j ; As he is reaching upward then: ' ! I "Please, my father. T have come tolay ; j 1 My head upon your breast again. f t I Be careful how you criticize the efforts of the iPf j children. The clipped wing never grows egam ij' Make it a matter of conscience never to , mislead I f I the child, for he is a traveler newhy arrived from a ; I grange country. Allow him-as his world jndens : I to have opinions of his own; let him be a Pnal- I itv, not a mere echo. Have f aitfc in God for your II I sons and daughters. According to you' faith so !! 1 will it be unto you. M ake your home the center of ll I i attraction to your children; let them feel drawn to f i vou and like it, like the needle to the pole. Re pect I; M Uie secrets of your children, but do not worry them io confide in you. ' j i i i ' hhm . t , s .i. u i- - 7S"T"7 "TT-rr" A Mother Worth Minding. "My mother says " "Ho ! your mother she isn't one of the kind that's worth minding." "What do you mean?" advancing threateningly toward the boy standing with his back to a tree. "She's as good a mother as ever lived and I won't have you say 6uch things." ' A knot of boys gathered close to the speaker, ! one cool and quiet, the other with angry, heated face. "She isn't worth minding, and you know it, Jack Somers." was the reply. "You've said so yourself your-self many and many a time." - - "That's true," came in a loud whisper from one of the boys standing near. "Everybody knows it, too," came from another. Jack turned upon the speaker in angry amazement amaze-ment : "You're a pretty lot of boys talking about your mother that way, and pretending you like her all the time!" ' - "We do like her," came in choru3 from a half-dozen half-dozen boys. Well, what do you mean? anger giving place to surprise. w "Why, just this that you don't think she's -worth minding." "I never said such a thing in my life," said Jack, trying to recall any remark of this kind. "Look here, Jack," said one of the boys, coming forward, "you don't seem to see. what George and the other boys are driving at. You may not have said so in words that your mother isn't worth minding, mind-ing, but you do say so by your actions. This morning, morn-ing, when your mother asked you to post a letter, you said you wouldn't have time to go around by the postofSce, and yet you have had half an hou before school in which to play ball. When she told you to put on your coat for fear you would be cold, you still left it hanging over the fence, paying pay-ing no attention to what she said. Tell you what it is, old fellow, I don't know of anything so satisfactory, satis-factory, in the long run as minding mother." ' The angry light died from Jack's faca before Tom had finished his speech, and as it came' to a close he turned and walked away. Here was a boy who loved his mother dearly, and yet how unmindful he had been of her wishes! "Guess I needed that lesson, and although the boys may never know it, I am much obliged to them for it. I'll sec that they don't have to tell me again!" And they did not. Anecdote of the Holy Father. We heard this week a pretty anecdote of nift Holiness and a little boy. The Holy Father, as is well known, has a great love for the little ones, especially es-pecially little boys, and they with a child's unerring instinct, know at once that they are dear to him. Marchese Francesco Patrizi, whose wife is an American lady, has a dear little sou of 5 years old, whose many scrapes have earned him the nickname of "Buster Brown." The other day several children chil-dren with their parents had a private audience with His Holiness. Little Bernard knelt down and kissed the foot of the Sovereign Pontiff, as he had been told he should do, and then with a sudden impulse, he jumped on the Holy Father's knees, threw hi- arms around his neck and around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks, and Piux X. folded him close in his embrace. "Why did you do that, Bernard Ber-nard V. he was asked afterwards, and he looked un at us with big innocent eyes. "Because the Holv "Father looked like mother does when we are good." NO BOY KNOWS. There are many things that boys may know Why this and that are thus and so ; - Who made the world in the dark and lit The great sun up to lighten it. Boys know new things every day When they study or when they play, When they idle or sow and reap But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. Boys who listen or should, at least May know that the round old earth rolls east; And know that the ice and the snow and the Tain, Ever repeating their parts again. Are all just water the sunbeams first Sop from the earth, in their endless thirst f And pour again till the low streams leap But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. A boy may know what a long glad while It has been to him since the dawn's first smile, When forth he fared in the realm divine Of brook-laced woodland and spun sunshine; He may know each call of his truant mates And the paths they went, and the pasture gates Of the 'cross lots home through the dusk so deep But no hoy knows when he goes to sleep. O, I have followed me o'er and o'er, From the flagrant, drowse on the parlor floor To the pleading voice of the mother when I even doubted I heard it, then To the sense of a kiss and a moonlit room And dewy odors of locust bloom. A sweet white cot, and a cricket's cheep But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. James Whitcomb Riley. |
