POETRY.

(From the Pic/dish of Morris Rosenfeld.) I HAVE one child, and only one, The dearest little lad,

And seeing him, I feel as though The whole wide world I had.

But 0 so seldom do I see My boy awake and bright, I always find him fast asleep When I come home at night.

So early must I go to work, So late it sets me free, A stranger in my house I am, And strange my child to me.

I come back home with heart 4 oppressed.

For sorrow shrouds my days, My pale wife tells how prettily Our little darling plays.

How well he talks, how know- ingly He makes his sly demand, "0 Mother, when will Daddy come, A penny in his hand?"

I listen, and I stand erect,

And cry, "Yes, it shall be!" My love is kindled to a flame, My child shall look on me!"

I stand beside his little bed, He lies so still, so fair.

Ah, see! He whispers in his dreams, "0 Daddy, are you there ? "

I kiss the little eyes. 0 joy ! I have not kissed in vain. They open wide ! He sees me now !

Alas ! they close again.

"It is your Father, dearest boy, And here's the penny due." Again he whispers in his dreams, "0 Daddy, is it you ?"

Ah, heavy is my load of grief, Ah, bitter is my lot !

One day, my child, you will awake,

And look—and find me not.

B. PAUL NEUMAN.