Twilight.

A poem 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.