POETRY.

SHADOWS.

AT Shadow-time around my bed

I hear the lions growl, Across the ceiling overhead There flies a big black owl, And, last of all, the bogyman

Comes creeping silently— I keep as quiet as I can,

Yet still he stares at me.

I'm much too big and old to cry At nothing but a shade !

I lie quite still and try and try

To feel not much afraid.

And then, when I can bear no morn

His silence and his stare, There comes a rustling at the door—

And suddenly She's there !

I hear her pause and softly say: " Are you awake, my own ? " Then all the shadows fly away And we are left alone.

I do not need the candle-light To find the loveliest place Where just my head fits warm and tight Between her neck and face.

I never see the feathery wings Nurse always said she wore ; I 'spects she leaves her angel-

things Out on the passage floor, fold hurries on a soft grey frock From out the old oak chest, So that her coy may rock Quite comfy on her breast.

Such lots of funny things she knows :— How hard it is to sit With mousy-quiet hands and toes And watch my Auntie knit; How hard it is to be quite good And never make a noise— She must have always under- stood The thoughts of naughty boys.

I fold my hands in hers and pray

My prayer to her each night, I know like that they'll go away

And get to God all right.

And then I feel her soft cheek

brush Against my sleepy eyes, And through the big night- nursery's hush I hear her lullabies.

" Sleep now," she sings, "some boys, I know, Have mothers all the day,— But when the Shadows rise they go, And I, my son, can stay !" Though all the doors are shut, maybe, Though all the Black Things creep, Yet every night she comes to me And guards me whilst I sleep.

MILDRED HUXLEY.,