At noontime and evening late,
The little one's watching for papa--
Waiting to open the gate.

And now the bright Summer is ended,
And Autumn's gay mantle unrolled;
The maple leaves wooing the breezes
Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.

At noonday the face at the gateway
Is flushed with a feverish glow,
At night the bright head on the pillow
Is tossing in pain to and fro.

The father kneels down in his anguish,
And stifles the sobs with groan;
He knows that his idol is going--
Going out in the midnight alone.

He buries his face in the pillow,
Close, close, to the fast failing breath;
A little arm clasps his neck closely,
A voice growing husky in death

Says pleadingly, half in a whisper:
"Please, darling papa, don't cry;
I know Birdie's going to Heaven--
I heard doctor say he will die;

"But I'll ask God for one of the windows