Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 November 1889 — THE LITTLE FOLKS. [ARTICLE]

THE LITTLE FOLKS.

Don’t Wan’er Go to S’eep. At night -when sleep has hovered ’round the little, snowy bed. And borne away on snowy wings the little, golden head, Above the cloads and far away to that funny land of dreams— A merry land of fancy to infant minds, it seems— A mother sits and watches, wnile her heart is filled with joy, As she gazes on the features of her little, sleeping boy. Then oft from under covers a chubby hand will 'creep, And a tiny voice say; “iluzzer, I don’t wan'er go to s’eep." A mother’s lullaby is heard; then sleep with noiseless wings Steals little one away once more, while watchful mother sings. Then comes a blissful silence; the mother does not speak. Though that tear is speaking for her as it glistens on her cheek. She takes the sleeping baby and folds him to har breast— A mother’s arms, so gentle, will not rob him of his rest — And a prayer is sent up yonder, that God will truthful keep The lips that murmured “Muzzer, I don t wan’er go to s’eep.* Emily Speaks Her Mind. Little Emily, five years old, is a great favorite in spite of lier incorrigible freedom of expression. TJie other day slie had been on a visit with her mother at a friend’s, and had remained to dinner. At the table she had amused the family, with the possible exception of its elderly and serious head, by occasional remarks. As the meal was diawing to an end the hostess observed: “Emily, wouldn’t you like to stay here all the time and be our little girl?” Emily looked up, pointed her finger at the head of the family, and exclaimed, contemptuously: “What! and have hiui for a father?” Rainy Days. What pleasure a rainy day used to bring to us children! We were grandpa’s pets, Nettie, Bessie, and I, and did pretty much as we pleased, running barefooted through the woods, tearing our dresses, and tanning our faces till we looked like young Indians. That was in the summer time, when we ran wild. In winter we made a pretense of studying with Aunt Rachel, and wore very grave, business-like faces over our history and spelling lessons. I think grandpa was well pleased when the chilly, slowly dropping rain waked him yith its music—for it was always holiday wi ll us three then. He liked well to have his merry trio around him all day, and would call out up the stairs: “Susie, Nettie, Bessie, wake up—it’s raining!” In ten minutes three laughing chatterers scampered down in answer to his call and climbed over him like squirrels, while making plans for coming amusement. We were useful in our play, as the east garret bore Avitness. On its walls hung l’estoons of red seed corn, and bundles of sumach for dyeing thread, millet heads and silver-skin onions. It was a sight to please any artist’s eye —especially if he were a housekeeper as well. Then we picked over beans and peas and cabbage seed for Aunt Rachel, and put away all the newspapers in the big oak split basket, and the letters in brown paper bags, and rags into the barrel for carpet making. When the day was done we would cary down a fine supply of pop-corn for a feast after supper. And how the white captains flew about the hearth, and how nimbly we scrambled after them! There were other rainy days in the old home that I remember as well as the merry ones. One I shall never forget—one after which no rainy day was ever dear to me, except for the sadly sweet memories it brought. Even now, after so many years, when there comes a tearful November day, I think of that one lying so far back in the past, and my heart is filled with sorrow. On just such a . one our dear little Bessie was nearing the river of death. Gentle little Bessie! We had always loved her more lhan each other. Her loving heart twined its tendrils around ours very closely, and now, when she was lying so still aud white in Aunt Rachel’s room, dying, our childish hearts were well nigh breaking with grief. The rain pattered slowly down, fitful gust of wind whirled the dead leaves against the window-pane, the cedar branches bent heavily down, and the robins sheltered in its thick boughs twittered softly. Their loudest songs would not have disturbed Bessie now. Grandpa held tUe curly brown head against his breast, and looked into the thin white face with tightly closed lips as pale as Bessie’s own. As the little figure quivered iu the struggle for breath his own strong frame shuddered, and his eyes turned appealingly to Dr. Mason, the dear old physician, who loved our darling, and had been grandpa’s friend since they were boys together. He put his arm around his shoulder now, and said: \ “Tom, tlie precious darling will soon be free from pain, with her mother in heaven.” Aunt Rachel sat by, with us at her knees, two awed little things, too much frightened to cry aloud, as children do in trouble. We silently waited till the frail form grew still, and Dr, Mason took it out of grandpa’s arms and laid it gently on the bed, then led his old friend from the room. Ah, well, that all happened long ago, and at my fireside another little Bessie now plays throughout the rainy days. Yet I shall never forget the dreary day when Nature mingled her tears with ours, and seemed to mourn the loss of grandpa’s darling.— Myrtle May, in Waverly Magazine.