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SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

Be good, be pure, be noble, John,
Be honest, brave, and true,
And do to others as ye would

That they should do to you;

And place your trust in God, my boy,
"Though fiery darts be hurled,"
Then you can smile at Satan's rage,
And face a frowning world.

Good-bye! May Heaven guard and bless

Your footsteps day by day!

The old house will be lonesome, John,
When you are gone away.
The cricket's song upon the hearth
Will have a sadder tone;
The old familiar spots will be
So lonely when you're gone.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

THE woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.

The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

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Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop―
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if wish to go."

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Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm,
He guides her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY.

OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY.

It wasn't so when I was young—

We used plain language then;
We didn't speak of "them galoots,"
Meanin' boys or men.

When speaking of the nice hand-write
Of Joe, or Tom, or Bill,
We did it plain-we didn't say,
"He slings a nasty quill."

An' when we saw a girl we liked,
Who never failed to please,
We called her pretty, neat, and good,
But not "about the cheese."

Well, when we met a good old friend
We hadn't lately seen,

We greeted him, but didn't say,
"Hello, you old sardine!"

The boys sometimes got mad an' fit;
We spoke of kicks and blows;
But now they "whack him on the snoot,"
Or "paste him on the nose."

Once when a youth was turned away
By her he held most dear,

He walked upon his feet-but now
He "walks off on his ear."

We used to dance when I was young,
And used to call it so;

But now they don't-they only "sling
The light fantastic toe."

Of death we spoke in language plain
That no one did perplex;

But in these days one doesn't die-
He "passes in his checks."

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We praised the man of common sense;

"His judgment's good," we said

But now they say:

"Well, that old plum

Has got a level head."

It's rather sad the children now

Are learnin' all such talk;

They've learned to "chin" instead of chat,

An' "waltz" instead of walk.

To little Harry yesterday

My grandchild, aged two

I said, "You love grandpa?" said he, "You bet your boots I do.”

The children bowed to a stranger once;

It is no longer so

The little girl, as well as boys,

Now greets you with "Helloa!"

Oh, give me back the good old days, When both the old and young Conversed in plain, old-fashioned words, And slang was never "slung."

THE GALLANT BRAKEMAN.

DUST-GRIMED features, weather-beaten,
Hands that show the scars of toil,
Do you envy him his station,
Patient tiller of the soil?

In the storms or in the sunshine
He must mount the speeding train,
Ride outside at post of duty,
Heeding not the drenching rain.

In the pleasant summer weather,
Standing on the car-top high,
He can view the changing landscapes
As he rushes swiftly by;

THE GALLANT BRAKEMAN.

While notes this beauteous picture
Which the lonely landscape makes;
Suddenly across his dreaming

Comes the quick shrill cry for brakes.

But when winter's icy fingers

Cover earth with snowy shroud,
And the north wind, like a mad-man,
Pushing on with shrieking loud;
Then behold the gallant brakeman
Spring to heed the engine's call,
Running over the icy car-top-
God protect him if he fall.

Do not scorn to greet him kindly,
He will give you smile for smile,
Tho' he's nothing but a brakeman,
Do not deem him surely vile;
Speak to him in kindly language,

Tho' his clothes are coarse and plain,

In his fearless bosom, beats a

Heart that feels both joy and pain.

He may have a widowed mother,
He may be her only joy,
Mayhap in her home she's praying
For the safety of her boy;
How he loves that dear old mother,
Toiling for her day by day,
Always bringing her some present
Every time he draws his pay.

Daily facing death and danger,
One misstep or slip of hand
Sends the poor unlucky brakeman
To the dreaded unknown land;
When we scan our ev'ning paper,

Note what its filled columns say,
One brief line attracts our notice,
One more brakeman killed to-day.

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