Golden Grain Garnered from the World's Great Harvest-field of Knowledge / Comprising Selections from the Ablest Modern Writers of Prose, Poetry, and Legendary Lore

LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see, My sister Bet's mamma to me.
Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say, I love her well the whole bright day; For Sis is kind as kind can be, Until, indeed, we've finished tea— Then (why did God make ugly night?) She never, never treats me right. But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head, 'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"
Just when the others, Fred and Fay, Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,— Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks, Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box— I must (it's that bad gas, I think, That makes me, somehow, seem to wink!) Must leave them all, to seek the gloom Of sister Bet's close-curtained room, Put on that long, stiff gown I hate, And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!

GHOSTS.

"GHOSTS."

Now, is it fair that I who stand Taller than Dolly by a hand, (I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told, That Cousin Doll is ten years old!) And just because I'm only seven, Should be so teazed, yes, almost driven, Soon as I've supped my milk and bread, To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?
I've lain between the dusky posts, And shivered when I thought of ghosts; Or else have grown so mad, you know, To hear those laughing romps below, While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!) With one dim lamp for company. I've longed for courage, just to dare Dress softly—then trip down the stair, And in the parlor pop my head With "No, I will not stay a-bed!"
I'll do it yet, all quick and bold, No matter how our Bet may scold, For oh! I'm sure it can't be right To keep me here each dismal night, Half scared by shadows grimly tall That dance along the cheerless wall Or by the wind, with fingers chill, Shaking the worn-out window sill— One might as well be sick, or dead, As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!

THERE IS NO DEATH..

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