Then do not ask me, Sweet, if I have loved before,
  Or if some day my heart might turn from thee;
In this brief hour, thou hast my soul of love,
  And thou are Is, and Was, and May be—­all to me.

A PICTURE.

A little maid, with sweet brown eyes,
Upraised to mine in sad surprise;
I held two tiny hands in mine,
  I kissed the little maid farewell. 
Her cheeks to deeper crimson flushed,
  The sweet, shy glances downward fell;
From rosy lips came—­ah! so low—­
    “I love you, do not go!”

I see it through the lapse of years—­
This picture, ofttimes blurred with tears. 
No tiny hands in mine are held,
  No sweet brown eyes my pulses wake—­
Only in memory a voice
  E’er bids me stay for love’s sweet sake.

* * * * *

HANG UP YOUR STOCKING.

Laugh, little bright-eyes, hang up your stocking;
      Don’t count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
            Knocking,
         Knocking at the door.

Through the key-hole slyly peeping,
Down the chimney careful creeping,
When the little folks are sleeping,
Comes he with his pack of presents. 
Such a grin! but then so pleasant
You would never think to fear him;
And you can not, must not hear him. 
He’s so particular, you know,
He’d just pick up his traps and go
If but one little eye should peep
That he thought was fast asleep. 
Searching broomstick, nails, and shelf,
Till he finds the little stocking—­
Softly lest you hear his knocking—­
Smiling, chuckling to himself,
He fills it from his Christmas store,
And out he slips to hunt for more.

Then laugh, little bright-eyes, and hang up your stocking;
      Don’t count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
            Knocking,
         Knocking at the door.

OPENING THE GATE FOR PAPA.

Hurrying out to the gateway
  Go two little pattering feet;
Eagerly out through the palings
  Peer two eyes bright and sweet.

A footstep as eager is answering
  The sweet eyes that patiently wait
And papa is kissing, and blessing
  The baby that opens the gate.

And every day all the long Summer,
  At noontime and evening late,
The little one’s watching for papa—­
  Waiting to open the gate.

And now the bright Summer is ended,
  And Autumn’s gay mantle unrolled;
The maple leaves wooing the breezes
  Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.

At noonday the face at the gateway
  Is flushed with a feverish glow,
At night the bright head on the pillow
  Is tossing in pain to and fro.

The father kneels down in his anguish,
  And stifles the sobs with groan;
He knows that his idol is going—­
  Going out in the midnight alone.