And then “Three cheers for the baby!”
          I tell you those cheers were meant,
        And the way in which they were given
          Was enough to raise the tent. 
        And then there was sudden silence,
          And a gruff old miner said,
        “Come, boys, enough of this rumpus;
          It’s time it was put to bed.”

So, looking a little sheepish,
But with faces strangely bright,
The audience, somewhat lingering,
Flocked out into the night. 
And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
“He wasn’t a bit afraid! 
He’s as game as he is good-looking;
Boys, that was a show that paid!”

AUNT TABITHA.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Whatever I do and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn’t the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago),
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

      Dear aunt!  If I only would take her advice—­
      But I like my own way, and I find it so nice! 
      And besides, I forget half the things I am told,
      But they all will come back to me—­when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; She would never endure an impertinent stare, It is horrid, she says, and I mustn’t sit there.

      A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
      But it isn’t quite safe to be walking alone;
      So I take a lad’s arm,—­just for safety, you know,—­
      But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn’t do so.

      How wicked we are, and how good they were then! 
      They kept at arm’s length those detestable men;
      What an era of virtue she lived in!—­but stay—­
      Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha’s day?

      If the men were so wicked—­I’ll ask my papa
      How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? 
      Was he like the rest of them?  Goodness! who knows? 
      And what shall I say if a wretch should propose?

      I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,
      What a wonder Aunt Tabitha’s aunt must have been! 
      And her grand-aunt—­it scares me—­how shockingly sad
      That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

      A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
      Let me perish to rescue some wretched young man
      Though when to the altar a victim I go,
      Aunt Tabitha’ll tell me she never did so!

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.