THERE'S a funny old fellow, so I've heard say, 

Who comes along with the close of day, 

With a big, big bag on his shoulders hung, 

And a shadowy mantle about him flung. 

Now the funniest part of the story, dears, 

Is this, that nobody ever hears 

The old man's footsteps, so quiet is he, 

And his queer old self nobody can see. 

But what do you think he comes to do, 

O little ones, gray-eyed, brown-eyed, or blue? 

He sprinkles sand on your eyelids white 

As soon as 't is time to say good-night; 

And the dear little eyes, so heavy they grow 

They droop, and at last close tight, you must know; 

And, wrapping his mantle around you fast, 

He carries you off to dreamland at last. 

Would you know the name of this wonderful man? 

Ask mamma to tell you if she can. 

Long ago, my darlings, when I, like you, 

Was a golden-haired child with eyes of blue, 

He came to me with the twilight gray 

And made me weary, at last, of play, 

Just as he comes to my own little one 

Even now, when the long, long day is done. 

—Mary L. Brine