There are whips, and tops, and pieces of stringu, There are shoes which no little feet wear, There are bits of ribbon and broken rings, And trcsses of golden hair. There are little dresses folded away Out of the light of the sunny day. There are dainty jackets that never werc worn, There are toys and models of ships, There are books and picures all faded and torn, And marked hy the finger tips Of dimplcd hands that have fallen to dust, Yet I strive to think tliat the I-ord is just. But a feellng of bitterness filis my soul Sometimes, when I try to pray, That the reaper has spared so tnany flowers Aud taken mine away. And I almost doubt if the Lord can know rh.it a mother's hcartcaa luve them so. Then I think of the many weary ones, Who are waitïng and watching to-night For the slow return of faltcrinsj feet That have strayed lrom the paths of rïght , Who have darkeñed their Uves by sharae and in, Whom the snares of the tempier have gathered in, They wander far in distant climes, They perish by tire and tiood, And tneir handfi are black with the direst crimes That kindled the wrxth of God. Yet a mother's song has soothed thcin to ret - She hath lulled them to slumber upon her brcat. And Ürao I think of my children three, My babc-s tliat nevtr grow old, AnJlittfrw they are waiting and watching for me. In the with streett o" gold; Safi?, sirfe Trom the cares of the weary years, Krom sorrow, and sin. and war. And 1 thank my God with falling tears tor the things in the bottom drawer.