[Illustration:  (WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE)]

NOTHIN’ TO SAY

Nothin’ to say, my daughter!  Nothin’ at all to say! 
Gyrls that’s in love, I’ve noticed, ginerly has their way! 
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me—­
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother—­where is she?

You look lots like yer mother:  Purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: 
Like her, too, about livin’ here,—­because she couldn’t stay: 
It’ll ‘most seem like you was dead—­like her!—­But I hain’t got nothin’ to say!

She left you her little Bible—­writ yer name acrost the page—­
And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. 
I’ve allus kep’ ’em and gyuarded ’em, but ef yer goin’ away—­
Nothin’ to say, my daughter!  Nothin’ at all to say!

You don’t rikollect her, I reckon?  No; you wasn’t a year old then!  And now yer—­how old air you?  W’y, child, not “twenty!” When?  And yer nex’ birthday’s in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? ...  I wisht yer mother was livin’!—­But—­I hain’t got nothin’ to say!

Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found! 
There’s a straw ketched onto yer dress there—­I’ll bresh it off—­turn round. 
(Her mother was jes’ twenty when us two run away!)
Nothin’ to say, my daughter!  Nothin’ at all to say!

[Illustration:  (NOTHIN’ TO SAY)]

[Illustration:  (IKE WALTON’S PRAYER—­TITLE)]

IKE WALTON’S PRAYER

I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
  Nor jewels fine,
  Nor lands, nor kine,
Nor treasure-heaps of anything—­
  Let but a little hut be mine
  Where at the hearthstone I may hear
      The cricket sing,
    And have the shine
  Of one glad woman’s eyes to make,
  For my poor sake,
    Our simple home a place divine;—­
Just the wee cot—­the cricket’s chirr—­
Love, and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for
Great riches, nor
  For vast estates, and castle-halls,—­
  Give me to hear the bare footfalls
    Of children o’er
    An oaken floor,
  New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread
  With but the tiny coverlet
  And pillow for the baby’s head;
And pray Thou, may
The door stand open and the day
  Send ever in a gentle breeze,
  With fragrance from the locust-trees,
    And drowsy moan of doves, and blur
  Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,
    With afterhushes of the stir
  Of intermingling sounds, and then
    The good-wife and the smile of her
  Filling the silences again—­
      The cricket’s call,
        And the wee cot,
      Dear Lord of all,
        Deny me not!