The Poetry Corner

Twilight.

By H. P. Nichols

The happiest hour of all the day To me, is always last; When both my studies and my play, My walks and work, are past. When round the bright warm fire we come, With hearts so light and free, And all within our happy home Are talking quietly, Then, by my dear, kind father's side I sit, or on his knee, And then I tell him I have tried His gentle girl to be. And then he says the little child Is loved by every one, Who has a temper sweet and mild And smiling as the sun. Let me do always as I should, Nor vex my father dear; And let me be as glad and good As he would have me here.