■nil B9BHM HH£HI ■BNHS ■BuRt m mp «$&™ nl 111 TBI ffi ■ ■'''■■ Illifl ■■H 8hf lllf sfiKawfi .* «.H -£..-.„ "*b J? ..*»_.. - f :S^ *W -^IK- ~"b? ?£W&r. "-w a* Vv V ^^ <*V;iB&r% >°/^^°- ,/^^%*^ «7 ^ V. ^o 5 •-^IK: "bv* -.ifflf^"- ^o* • t • o * o •i^->o **.*£&.% /.^%>o .4^/Ji^/V 0«*.^>>o A^^ ^ ••- rt f >9^'- "W -. i w ^ bK .-. ^-o^ •« "oV 4 o >* v % '•$$$: ,/\ Vf^.- _ ♦♦»% ;- ^ •■ 'bV'* 'bK «& <& Kj o • » * «G '% V G°* .«.^>>o ,**\c^% \ A^* c.^ ^ - ! 5ilill5 ? «• a^^ 0° .«£^> °o A *•' o. *'T;t* A <, -?. ** A G^ V *?x«* A ° a^ **ta&:. \ 1 »»*^L'* "> » -&> o- ™- ^li^f^AKED on parents' knees a new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled ; So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, Thou then may'st smile while all around thee weep. — From, the Sanscrit of Calidasa by Sir William Jones. THE "SWEETEST SPOT" Wltfll? 8IP(B)?« jHE sweetest spot in the house to me Is the spot which holds my treasure wee. What is my treasure ? Come and see — Only a blue-eyed baby. Only a bundle of dimples and love Dropped in my arms from somewhere above ; A white-winged, cooing, and nestling dove, Or — a bundle of mischief, maybe. Now creeping here, now creeping there, Calling me hither and everywhere ; Playing with sunbeams on the floor, Cooing-" a-gooing" over and o'er; Climbing up and clambering down, Bumping and bruising his tiny crown; Sticking his toes through the dainty socks, Soiling and tearing his dainty frocks ; Falling and crying and catching his breath, Till mamma is frightened almost to death ; Laughing and shouting in frolic and play, Having a world of his nonsense to say ; Showing the dimples in cheek and in chin, Where frolic and mischief peep out and in ; Asking for kisses and getting them, too, On cheek and on chin and on eyes so blue ; Ready for play when the sunbeams rise, Ready for sleep with the twilight skies ; And the sweetest spot in the house, you see, Is the spot which holds my treasure wee — My blue-eyed baby, my bundle of love, My white-winged, cooing, and nestling dove ; And long may he find his haven of rest In his mother's arms, his mother's breast. Mary D. Brine. Nor the haze on the hill in noon-day hours, Blue as the eyes of this baby of ours. There's not a murmur of wakening bird, The clearest, sweetest, that ever was heard In the tender hush of the dawn's still hours, Sweet as the voice of this baby of ours. There is no gossamer silk of tasseled corn, No flimsiest thread of the shy wood-fern, Not even the cobweb spread over the flowers, Fine as the hair of this baby of ours. There is no fairy shell by the sounding sea No wild-rose that nods on the windy lea, No blush of the sun through April's soft showers Pink as the palms of this baby of ours. May the dear Lord spare her to us, we pray, For many a long and sunshiny day, Ere he takes to bloom in Paradise bowers This wee bit darling — this baby of ours. ^=3«<-< ei^DLE SONG. •LEEP, baby, sleep ! for the night draweth nigh ; The daylight is fading from earth and from sky; Through rifts in the azure the stars will soon peep, While the breeze whispers softly, oh, sleep, baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep ! mother sits by thy side, And rocks thee so gently, her joy and her pride. 'Tis time you were shutting your bonnie blue eye, There's nothing to fear, darling, sleep and by-bye. May angels watch o'er thee, through dark and through light ; God's tender care keep thee, we live in His sight; HERE is not a blossom of beautiful We'll trust Him, my darling, by night and by -<$®s>- «=3°g£^ THIS 1JLBY @F 0013. May, } Silver of daisy or daffodil gay, Nor the rosy bloom of apple-tree flowers, Fair as the face of this baby of ours. You can never find on a bright June day A bit of fair sky so cheery and gay. day; The hand that has made us, will guard us alway. Sleep, baby, sleep ! now the sand-man is here ; He stole in quite softly, his purpose is clear ; Through the ivory gate into dream-land she goes — Now rest thee, my darling, sweet be thy repose. 8 A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger ot peace and love A resting-place for innocence on earth ; a link between angels and men ; Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back with interest ; A delight, but redolent of care ; honey sweet, but lacking not the bitter ; 9 INFLUENCE OF EARLY TRAINING. For character groweth day by day, and all things aid it in unfolding, And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy. Scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it in the soil, The seared and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries to come ; Even so mayest thou guide the mind to good, or lead it to the marrings of evil, For disposition is budded up by the fashioning of first impressions ; Wherefore, though the voice of Instruction waiteth for the ear of Reason, Yet with his mother's milk the young child drinketh Education. Patience is the first great lesson ; he may learn it at the breast ; And the habit of obedience and trust may be grafted on his mind in the cradle : Hold the little hands in prayer, teach the weak knees their kneeling ; Let him see thee speaking to thy God ; he will not forget it afterwards ; When old and gray will he feelingly remember a mother's tender piety, And the touching recollection of her prayers shall arrest the strong man in his sin. M. F. Tupper. CHILDREN. HE smallest are near to God, as the smallest planets are nearest the sun. Were I only for a time almighty and powerful, I would create a little world especially for my- self, and suspend it under the mild- est sun, a world where I would have nothing but lovely little children, and these little things I would never suffer to grow up, but only to play eternally. If a seraph were worthy of heaven, or his golden pinions drooped, I would send him to dwell for a while in my infant world, and no angel, so long as he saw their inno- cence, could lose his own. Jean Paul Richtee. THE CH1LB-P0EI, OU have watched a child playing, in those wondrous years when belief is not bound to the eyes and ears, and vision divine is so clear and unmarred, that each baker of pies in the dirt is a bard ! Give a knife and a shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mud- puddle over the street, his invention, in purest good faith, will make sail round the globe with a puff of his breath for a gale, will visit, in barely ten minutes, all climes, and find North-western passages hundreds of times. Or, suppose the young poet fresh stored with delights from that Bible of childhood, the Arabian Nights, he will turn to a crony and ciy, " Jack, let's play that I am a Genius !" Jacky straightway makes Aladdin's lamp out of a stone, and for hours they enjoy each his own supernatural powers. James Russell Lo\tell. ¥0MM'S CROWN. *\£5^? E is sleeping — brown and silken Lie the lashes long and meek, .• Like caressing clinging shadows On his plump and peachy cheek ; 4— *• And I bend above him weeping Thankful tears — oh, undefiled ! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessing of a child ! 10 ®t 5) ;A FJiTHER S WISHa Wm® |ITTLE sportive beauty, say, Must thy childish joys decay? Every thought where life is new, Is as fresh as morning dew ; Fancy on its buoyant wing, Seeks the breast of laughing Spring ; And the voung- heart takes delight In each natural sound and sight. Might thy childhood almost past Blissful age ! forever last, Mingling with expanded sense Spotless truth and innocence; Like the painted bow above, Full of promise, peace, and love ! Like a bark upon the sea, — Such is Childhood's memory, Leaving on the infant mind Xot a trace of grief behind ; Like a sky of summer blue, Such is childhood's onward view, All as vague and all as bright Beaming with unclouded light. Thy mind knows not an anxious doubt, It never heard of sin. 'Tis heedless of the world without, Wrapt in its world within. With flaxen hair and bright blue eyes A sprightlier fairy never smiled, And I would some spell devise To keep my favorite still a child. I know that soon a riper grace Will rest upon thy maiden face; But then thou wilt not be The same fair child to me, That came on winged feet My well-known steps to greet. With flaxen hair and bright blue eyes A sprightlier fairy never smiled, And I would fain some spell devise To keep my fairy still a child. LOED POBCHESTER ■fV §XOTHER little wave upon the sea of life; Another soul to save amid its toil and strife. Two more little feet to walk the dusty road ; To choose where two paths meet, the narrow and the broad. Two more little hands to work for good or ill ; Two more little eyes, another little will. Another heart to love, receiving love again ; And as the baby came, a thing of joy and pain. 11 i k -»#• A GBAPBIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. $$*>■ -41 f UBJRAH! Light upon the world again ! It's a glorious world ! magnificent! quite too beauti- ful to leave ; and, besides, I would rather stay, if only to thauk God a little longer for this glorious light, this pure air that can echo back my loudest hurrah. And then, my boy — but haven't I told you? Why, sir, I've got a boy. A BOY ! ha, ha ! I shout it out to you — A BOY ; fourteen pounds, and the mother a great deal better than could be expected ! And, I say, sir, it's mine ! Hurrah, and hallelujah forever ! O, sir, such legs, such arms, and such a head ! and O, good heavens ! he has his mother's lips ! I can kiss them forever ! and then, sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes, his everything in fact, so, " so perfectly O. K. !" Give me joy, sir ; no you needn't, either ! I am full now ; I run over ; and they say that I ran over a number of old women, half killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary shop in the corner ; and then, didn't I ring the tea-bell? Didn't I blow the horn? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry, altogether? The women they had to tie me up. I don't believe that; but who is going to shut his mouth when he has a live baby ? You should have heard his lungs, sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air ; such a burst ! A little tone in his voice, but not pain ; excess of joy, sir, from too great sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you know. Think of all this beautiful machinery starting off at once in full motion ; all his thousand outside feelers answering to the touch of cool air ; the flutter and crash at the ear, and that curious contrivance, the eje, looking out wonderingly and bewildered on the great world, so glorious to his un- worn perceptions. His network of nerves, his wheels and pulleys, his air pumps and valves, his engines and reservoirs; and within all, that beautiful fountain, with its jets and running streams, dashing and coursing through the whole length and breadth, without stint or pause, making altogether, sir, exactly fourteen. Did I ever talk brown to you, sir, or blue, or any other of the Devil's colors? You say I have. Beg your pardon, sir, but you are mistaken in the individual. I am this day, sir, multiplied by two ; I am duplicate ; I am number one of an indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you observe, sir, it is not a block, nor a blockhead, nor a painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of any- thing, however beautiful ; but a combination of all the arts and sciences in one ; painting, sculpture, music, (hear him cry !) mineralogy, chemistry, mechanics, (see him kick !) geo- graphy, and the use of the globes, (see him nurse !) and withal, he is a perpetual motion, a timepiece that will never run down. And who wound it up ? But words are but a mouthing and a mockery. * * * * * When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it is presumed he is unable to speak ; but he may bend over very care- fully for fear of falling, nod m a small way and say nothing, and then if he is of sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand upon his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees with a motion 12 A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. of the lips, muttered poetry, showing the wish and the inability, it will be (well done) very gracefully expressive. With my boy in his first integuments, I assume that position, make the nod aforesaid, and leave you the poetry unmut- tored. KNICKERBOCKER. ^iSGyP^^ " Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king ! Bound whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities : Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen hand-maiden, Philip, my king ! Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king ! "When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there Sittest, love-glorified ! — Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king ! Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years ! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king ! A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king ! Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; Eebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, " Philip, the king !" Dinah Mulock Craik. cjfe OUR BABES. ;£l\YH babes shall richest comforts bring If tutor'd right, and prove a spring Whence pleasures ever rise : But form their mind with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, They'll jcy our youth, support our age, And crown our hoary hairs ; They'll grow in virtue every day, And thus our fondest loves repay, And recompense our cares. Cotton. >=:-#-£<<— My BIRD, |hBE last year's moon had left the sky, c2^(j A birdling sought my Indian nest, s ^^> And folded, O, so lovingly ! ¥W$ Her tiny wings upon my breast. # * From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies ; Two rose leaves with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird, Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest. This beautiful mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, Come to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue from mine; This life, which I have dared invoke Henceforth is parallel with thine. A silent awe is in my room, I tremble with delicious fear ; The future, with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity are here. Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; Hear, 0, my God! one earnest prayer; Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel plumage there! Emily Judson (Fanny Forrester). 14 . THOUGHTS ¥H1LE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE. "HAT is the little one thinking about ? Very wonderful things, no doubt. Unwritten history ! Unfathomable mystery ! But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks 15 And curious riddles as any sphynx ! Warped by colic and wet by tears, Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years ; And he'll never know Where the summers go ! He need not laugh, for he'll find it so ! THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE. Who can tell what the baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way, Out from the shores of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day ? Out from the shores of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony ! Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls — Barks that launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! And what does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through tha air ? What does' he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. Seeking ever with fresh delight, Cup of his joy, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her gentle embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell? Though she murmur the words of all the birds — Words she has learned to murmur so well ! Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! I can see the shadows creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Out in his little finger tips, Softly sinking down he goes, Down he goes, down he goes, See ! he is hushed in sweet repose! josiah Gilbert Holland. -«*- LADY ANNIE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. ALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe : If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ful sad, Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred wordes to muve, His faynings fals, and flattering cheire To me that time did not appeire: But now I see, most cruell hee Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Ly stil, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! Bot yett I feirc, thou wilt gae neire Thy father's hart and face to beire. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil : Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him doth stil abyde : In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him lrae. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline ; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new : If gude or faire, of her have care, For women's banning's wondrous sair. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee v/eipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve : My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forgeit man's cruelty. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a woman's mouth ! I wish all maides be warn'd by mee Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. f ANGELS UNAWARES. H, each of these young human flowers God's own high message bears ; And we are walking all our hours With "Angels Unawares." E. Edmonstone. 16 OW, the bright Morning Star, day's harbinger, Conies dancing from the east and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from his green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, beauteous May ! thou dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire, Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale both boast thy blessing! Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton. MAY-DAY. tUEEN of fresh flowers, Whom vernal stars obey, Bring thy warm showers, Bring thy genial ray ; In Nature's greenest livery drest, Descend on Earth's expectant breast, To Earth and Heaven a welcome guest, Thou merry month of May ! Mark ! how we meet thee At dawn of dewy day ! Hark ! how we greet thee With our roundelay ! While all the goodly things that be, In earth, and air, and ample sea, Are waking up to welcome thee, Thou merry month of May ! Flocks on the mountains And birds upon their spray, Tree, turf, and fountains All hold holiday ; And Love, the Life of living things — Love waves his torch, and claps his wings And loud and wide thy praises sings, Thou merry month of May ! It. Hebeb. 17 IbmbmI^ ^HEN the morning, half in shadow, Ran along the hill and meadow, And with milk-white ringers parted Crimson roses, gold- en-hearted ; Opening over ruins hoary Every purple morn- ing-glory, And outshaking from the bushes Singing larks and pleasant thrushes ; That's the time our little baby, Strayed from Paradise, it may be, Came with eyes like heaven above her, Oh we could not choose but love her ! Not enough of earth for sinning, Always gentle, always winning, Never needing our reproving, Ever lively, ever loving ; Starry eyes and sunset tresses, White arms, made for light caresses, Lips, that knew no word of doubting, Often kissing, never pouting ; Beauty even in completeness, Overfull of childish sweetness : That's the way our little baby, Ear too pure for earth, it may be, Seemed to us, who while about her Deemed we could not do without her. When the morning, half in shadow, Ran along the hill and meadow, And with milk-white fingers parted Crimson roses, golden hearted ; Opening over ruins hoary Every purple morning-glory, And outshaking from the bushes Singing larks and pleasant thrushes ; That's the time our little baby, Pining here for heaven, it may be, Turning from our bitter weeping, Closed her eyes as when in sleeping, And her white hands on her bosom Folded like a summer blossom. Now the litter she doth lie on Strewed with roses, bear to Zion, Go, as past a pleasant meadow, Through the valley of the shadow ; Take her softly, holy angels, Past, the ranks of God's evangels ; Past the saints and martyrs holy To the Earth-born, meek and lowly, We would have our precious blossom Softly laid in Jesus' bosom. Phcebe Cary. TOS ©DOS^nrl RRAYED — a half-angelic sight — In vests of pure baptismal white, The mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless, nameless thing With hushes soft, and mild caressing, At once to get — a name and blessing Close by the babe the priest doth stand, The cleansing water at his hand Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin. The infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means ; And now he smiles, as if to say, "lama Christian made this day ;" Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. Strange words— The World, The Flesh, The Devil- Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore. Enough for him, in after-times, When he shall read these artless rhymes. If, looking back upon this day With quiet conscience, he can say, " I have in part redeemed the pledge Of my baptismal privilege ; And more and more will strive to flee All which my sponsors kind did then renounce for me." Charles Lamb. 18 Til iiFIf like a sailor by the tempest hurled Ashore, the babe is shipwrecked on the world ; Naked he lies, and ready to expire, Helpless of all that human wants require ; Exposed upon inhospitable earth From the first moment of his hapless birth. Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room, (Too sure presages of his future doom). But flocks, and herds, and ev'ry savage beast, By more indulgent Nature are increased. They want no rattle for their froward mood, No nurse to reconcile 'em to their food With broken words : nor winter blasts they fear, Nor change their habits with the changing year : Nor for their safety citadels prepare ; Nor forge the wicked instruments of War : Unlabored Earth her bounteous treasures grants, And Nature's lavish hand supplies their common wants. Johst Dkydest. SUFFER THEM TO COME, UFFER that little children come to Me, Forbid them not." Emboldened by His words, The mothers onward press ; but finding vain The attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes To stranger's hands ; the innocents alarmed Amid the throng of faces all unknown, Shrink trembling till their wandering eyes discern The countenance of Jesus, beaming love And pity ; eager then they stretch their arms And, cowering, lay their heads upon His breast. °* <&&> — <§ss= — « CHILDHOOD. NOW is the May of life. Careering round, .Toy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground, Pointing to such, well might Cornelia, say, When the rich casket shone in bright array, " These are my jewels !" AVell of such as he, When Jesus spake, well might His language be, " Suffer these little ones to come to Me !" 19 James Geahame. Samuel Rodgees. **" THESE * ARE * MY* JEWELS."^- SS^ORNELIA, the author of the tscvx wavnt .::^Smf words, " These are my jewels," whose portrait appears on an- other page, was the youngest daughter of Scipio Africanus the Elder and Amelia, his wife. She was born one hun- dred and eighty-nine years before Christ. No details have reached us of her early life. In her twentieth year she married Tiberius Gracchus. The union was a happy one, and they were blessed with many noble children. The public duties of Tiberius claimed his time, so that the care of the household and the education of the family devolved wholly upon Cornelia, and she acquitted herself of the duties in a manner which had elicited the admiration of the world. She main- tained in herself and transmitted to her sons the grand and severe virtues of her father. She had inherited from Scipio a love of the arts and for literature, and her letters which were extant in the time of Quintilian — two hundred years afterward — were often cited with praise by him and by Cicero. The reply of Cornelia to a wealthy lady of Campania who requested to see her jewels, is the most memorable incideut of her career. Adroitly turning the conversation upon subjects likely to interest and detain her visitor, till her boys came home from school, she said, as they entered the room, " These are my jewels !" Probably no character was ever so clearly drawn in so few words ; no delineation can possibly add to it ; if nothing were known of Cornelia but this one speech, the historian would still find it a sufficient basis upon which to construct the whole character. The three obscure lines in which Valerius Maximus narrates the anecdote, have pro- bably been as often translated, as widely repeated, and as deeply reflected upon, as any other three which have been left us by the writers of antiquity. ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN? fHE darkness falls, the wind is high, Dense black clouds fill the western sky ; The storm will soon begin. The thunders roar, the lightnings flash, I hear the great round rain-drops dash — Are all the children in ? They're coming softly to my side ; Their forms within my arms I hide — No other arms as sure. . The storm may rage with fury wild, With trusting faith each little child With mother feels secure. But future days are drawing near — They'll go from this warm shelter here, Out in the world's wild din. The rain will fall, the cold winds blow ; I'll sit alone and long to know, Are all the children in ? Will they have shelters then secure, Where hearts are waiting strong and sure, And love is true when tried? Or will they find a broken reed, When strength of heart they so much need To help them brave the tide ? God knows it all ; His will is best; I'll shield them now, and leave the rest In His most righteous hand. Sometimes the souls He loves are riven By tempests wild, and thus are driven Nearer the better land. If He should call me home before The children go, on that blest shore, Afar from care and sin, I know that I shall watch and wait Till He, the Keeper of the gate, Lets all the children in. Mes. S. T. Perbt. 20 iiiiM -McDE^Tfl*I]SMtp*CPDIiE.*-^ WEET flower ! no sooner blown than blighted — Sweet voice ! no sooner heard than lost — Young wanderer ! in thy morn benighted — Fair barque ! scarce launched ere tempest-tost I Oh ! who would wail thy brief career With lamentation's selfish tear '? Oh ! who would stay thy upward flight Unto thy native land of light "? "Who to this world of sin and pain Thy spotless spirit would enchain? ***** Sweet flower ! transplanted to a clime "Where never come the blights of Time — Sweet voice ! which now shall join the hymn Of the undying seraphim. Young wanderer ! who hast reached thy rest With everlasting glory blest. Fair barque ! that wrecked on life's dark sea, Hast anchored in eternity. To toils so long, so hard, as mine, Be such a recompense as thine ! Rev. W. B. Clarke. %-«— s e -*-V CHRIST BLESSING CHILDREN. (H^mus-ii ^^iD THIXK when I read that sweet story- of old, When Jesus was here among men, How He called little children as lambs to His fold, I should like to have been with them then. I wish that His hand had been placed on my head, That His arms had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen His kind look when He said, Let the little ones come unto me. Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go, And ask for a share in His love, And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, I shall see Him and hear Him above. In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare, For all who are washed and forgiven ; And many dear children are gathering there, For of such is the kingdom of heaven. Mp.s. J. LrK3. 21 OU are heartily welcome, my dear little cousin, into this unquiet world ; long may you continue in it in all the hap- piness it can give, and bestow enough on all your friends, to answer fully the impatience with which you have been expected. May you grow up to have every accomplishment that your good friend, the Bishop of Derry, can already imagine in you ; and in the meantime, may you have a nurse with a tuneable voice, who may not talk an immoderate deal of nonsense to you. You are at present, my dear, in a very philosophic disposition ; the gaities and follies of life have no attraction for you ; its sorrows you kindly commiserate ! but, however, do not suffer them to disturb your slumbers, and find charms in nothing but harmony and repose. You have as yet contracted no partialities, are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, and look with a perfect indifference on all human splendor. You have an absolute dislike to the vanities of dress ; and are likely for many months, to observe the Bishop of Bristol's first rule of conversa- tion, Silence, though tempted to transgress it by the novelty and strangeness of all objects around you. As you advance fur- ther in life this philosophic temper will, by degrees, wear off; the first object of your admiration will probably be the candle, and thence (as we all of us do) you will contract a taste for the gaudy and the glaring, with- out making one moral reflection upon the danger of such false admiration as leads people many a time to burn their fingers. You will then begin to show great partiality for some very good aunts, who will con- tribute all they can towards spoiling you ; but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma, who will teach you, by her exam- ple, all sorts of good qualities ; only let me warn you of one thing, my dear, that is not to learn of her to have such an immode- rate love of home as is quite contrary to all the privileges of this polite age, and to give up so entirely all those pretty graces of whim, flutter, and affection, which so many charitable poets have declared to be the prerogative of our sex. Oh ! my poor cousin, to what purpose will you boast this prerogative, when your nurse tells you, (with a pious care to sow the seeds of jealousy and emulation as early as possible,) that you have a fine little brother " come to put your nose out of joint ?" There will be nothing to be done then but to be mighty good ; and prove what, believe me, admits of very little dispute (though it has occa- sioned abundance) that we girls, however people give themselves airs of being dis- appointed, are by no means to be despised. The men unenvied shine in public ; but it is we must make their homes delightful to them; and, if they provoke us, no less uncomfortable. I do not expect you to answer this letter yet awhile ; but, as I dare say, you haye the greatest interest with your papa, will beg you to prevail upon him that we may know by a line (before his time is engrossed by another secret com- mittee) that you and your mamma are well. In the meantime, I will only assure you that all here rejoice in your existence extremely ; and that I am, my very young correspondent, most affectionately yours, &c. Catherine Talbot. As he came forth of his mother's womb, naked shall he return to go as he came, and shall take nothing of his labour, which he may carry away in his hand. Bible. 22 TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR. OSY child, with forehead fair, Coral lip, and shi- ning hair, In whose mirthful, clever eyes Such a world of gladness lies ; As thy loose curls idly straying O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing, Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine With the glittering light of thine — Who shall say, who gazes now, Which is fairest, she or thou ? In sweet contrast are ye met. Such as heart could ne'er forget ; Thou art brilliant as a flower, Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; Merry as a singing bird, In the green wood sweetly heard ; Restless as if fluttering wings Bore thee on thy wanderings ; Ignorant of all distress, Full of childhood's carelessness. She is gentle ; she hath known Something of the echoed tone Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, In this world of many woes. On her brow such shadows are As the faint cloud gives the star, Veiling its most holy light, Though it still be pure and bright; And the color in her cheek To the hue on thine is weak, Save when flushed with sweet surprise, Sudden welcomes light her eyes ; And her softly chiselled face (But for living, moving grace) Looks like one of those which beam In th' Italian painter's dream, — Some beloved Madonna, bending O'er the infant she is tending : Holy, bright, and undefiled Mother of the Heaven-born child ; Who, though painted strangely fair, Seems but made for holy prayer, Pity, tears, and sweet appeal, And fondness such as angels feel : Baffling earthly passion's sigh With serenest majesty ! Oh ! may those enshrouded years Whose fair dawn alone appears, — May that brightly budding life, Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — Bring its store of hoped-for joy, Mother, to thy laughing boy ! And the good thou dost impart Lie deep-treasured in his heart, That, when he at length shall strive In the bad world where we live, Thy sweet name may still be blest, As one who taught his soul true rest ! Caroline Norton. TO H. C. TWO YEARS OLD. THOU whose fancies from afar are brought ; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol, Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream — Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; blessed vision ! happy child ! Thou art so exquisitely wild, 1 think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover, never rest But when she sat within the touch of thee. too industrious folly ! vain and causeless melancholy ! Nature will either end thee quite ; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow ? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; A geni that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives, But, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife, Slips in a moment out of life. Wm. Wordsworth. 23 THE LITTLE CHILDREN. THE LITTLE CHILDREN. e LITTLE feet ; that such long years Must wander on through hopes and •;• fears ; Must ache and bleed beneath the load; I, nearer to the wayside inn, Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary thinking of your road. 0, little hands ! that weak or strong, Have still to .serve or rule so long, ^ Have still so long to give or ask ; i r " I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. 0, little hearts! that throb and beat With much impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires ; i^, Mine, that so long has glowed and ••* burned, With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires. 0, little souls ; as pure and white, As crystalline, as rays of light Direct from Heaven, their source divine ; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears ; How lurid looks this sun of mine ! Henry W. Longfellow. hh THI @GOI)M&EI€N AT WQRtif -ACH day when the glow of sunset Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open doorway Their faces fresh and fair. Alone in the dear old homestead That once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter, Echoing boyish strife, We two are waiting together ; And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me, " It is night ! are the children home?" " Yes, love !" I answer him gently, " They're all home long ago ;" And I sing, in my quivering treble, A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber, With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the number Home in a better land. Home, where never a sorrow Shall dim their eyes with tears ! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years ! I know ! — Yet my arms are empty That fondly folded seven, And the mother heart within me Is almost starved for heaven. Sometimes in the dusk of evening, I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about me, A vision from the skies ; The babes whose dimpled fingers Lost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels, Passed to the world of the blessed. With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows ; My boys that I gave to freedom — The red sword sealed their vows! In a tangled Southern forest, Twin brothers, bold and brave, They fell ; and the flag they died for, Thank God ! floats over their grave. A breath, and the vision is lifted Away on wings of light, And again we two are together, All alone in the night. They tell me his mind is failing, But I smile at idle fears ; He is only back with the children, In the dear and peaceful years. And still as the summer sunset Fades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go trooping home to rest, My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love! have the children come?" And I answer, with eyes uplifted, " Yes, dear ! they are all at home !" Mrs. M. E. Sakgsteb. 24 If |1N His moral tillage, God cultivates many flowers seemingly only for their exquisite beauty and fragrance. For when bathed in soft sunshine they have burst into blossom, then the Divine hand gathers them from the earthly fields to be kept in crystal vases in the deathless mansions above. Thus little children die — some in the sweet bud, some in the fuller blossom ; but never too early to make heaven fairer and sweeter with their immortal bloom. Verily, to the eye of Faith, nothing is fairer than the death of young children. Sight and sense, indeed, recoil from it. The flower that, like a breathing rose, filled heart and home with an exquisite delight, alas ! we are stricken with sore anguish to find its stem broken and the blossom gone. But unto Faith, eagle-eyed beyond mental vision, and winged to mount like a singing lark over the fading rainbow unto the blue heaven, even this is touchingly lovely. The child's earthly ministry was well done, for the rose does its work as grandly in blossom as the vine with its fruit. And having helped to sanctify and lift heaven- ward the very hearts that broke at its farewell, it has gone from this troublesome sphere, — ere the winds chilled or the rains stained it, leaving the world it blessed and the skies through which it passed still sweet with its lingering fragrance, — to its glory as an ever-unfolding flower in the blessed garden of God. Surely, prolonged life on earth hath no boon like this ! For such mortal loveliness to put on immortality — to rise from the carnal with so little memory of earth that the mother's cradle seemed to have been rocked in the house of many mansions — to have no experience of a wearied mind and chilled affections, but from a child's joyous heart growing up in the power of an archangelic intellect — to be raptured as a blessed babe through the gates of Paradise — ah ! this is better than to watch as an old prophet for the car of fire in the Valley of Jordan. Charles Wadswoeth, D. D. WOMAN'S RIGHTS. SE1S0NS OF PRMER. fVERY woman has a right to think CTT8HERE are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes her child the " prettiest little baby in For her new-born infant before her lies. the world," and it would be the greatest Oh, hour of bliss I when the heart o'erflows ~ ,, 3 ~ i ■ /. i With rapture a mother only knows ; lolly to deny her this right, for she would Let it gush forth iu words of fervent prayer . be sure to take it. Lrt it swell up to heaven for her precious care. Punch. Henry Ware. 25 1HRIST IJLESSING ilTTLE ^HILDREN. J HEN were there brought unto &?% him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray : and the disciples rebuked them. " But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me ; for of such is the kingdom of heaven." — Matthew xix. 13, 14. At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, say- ing, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? "And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, " And said, Verily, I say unto you, Except ye be con- verted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. " Whosoever, therefore, shall humble himself as this little child, the same is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." — Matthew xviii. 1-4. The errand upon earth was well nigh done. A little more, and that dread passer-on — Time, that not even at the Cross stood still — Must come, with Calvary's ninth hour. And Christ Turn'd tow'rd Jerusalem. Galilee was sweet With its fair Mount, that was the step of heaven — (Whereon He had but just now stood, and through The door flung open to the throne of God, Drank strength in thS transfiguring light) — and here Dwelt Mary, holy mother ; and 'twas here His childhood had been passed ; and here the life E'en Christ must learn to love, to be '' like us," Had been most sweet to him. But not where life So gently beautiful is known — oh, not Where Nature with her calm rebuke is heard — Could the Great Wrong be done ! in Mammon's mart — The crowded city, where the small, still voice Is, like the leaf's low whisper, overborne — Where the dark shadow, which before us falls When we are turning from the light away, Seems at another's feet and not our own — Where, 'mid the multitude's bewildering shout. Anguish may moan unheeded and even Lama sabacthani go up unheard — There, only, could the Son of God be slain ! And when to His disciples Jesus said " Behold, we go up to Jerusalem," Then turned His path from peaceful Galilee . Thence — to the scourge, the buffet, and the scorn. Gethsemane's last conflict, and the Cross — The meek first step to Calvary was there ! And Christ passed over Jordan, to the coast Of populous Judea; and there came Multitudes to Him, listening as He taught, And wondering at His miracles; for loJ His calm word healed all sicknesses ; the blind Rose up and gazed upon the luminous brow Whose glory had shone through their darkened lids ; The dumb spoke ; the leper became clean ; And devils were cast out which had defied The word of His disciples. With new awe, Touched with compassionating love, looked these Upon their Master now ; for, near at hand, They felt the shadow of His coming hour. And though His face shone, with the strength new given By the celestial sacrament of light Upon the Mount administered, they still Trembled, as men, for One who, as a man, Must pass through death — death of such agony As for a world's transgressions might atone — Whose bitter cup even the Son of God Must shrink from with a prayer that it might pass ! Christ had told o'er His sorrows, to the end. They knew what must befall. In silence sad, Listened the Twelve, while jeered the Pharisee, And tempted Him the Scribe — for so must He To His last victory come ; but eager still, Looked they where they might minister to Him, Or, watchfully, from that dark path of woe, Pluck out the needless thorn. The eventide Found Him among His questioners — the same ; Patient and meek as in the morning hour — And while the Scribes, with His mild answers foiled, Sat by and reasoned in their hearts, behold There was a stir in the close multitude, And voices pleaded to come nigh; and, straight, The crowd divided, and a mother came, Hplding her babe before her, and on Christ Fixing her moist eyes steadfastly. He turned, Benignant, as she tremblingly came near ; And the sad earnestness His face had worn While He disputed with the crafty scribes, Was touched with the foreshadowing of a smile. And, lo! another, and another still, Led by this sweet encouragement to come, Pressed where the first had made her trusting way ; And soon, a fair young company they stood — 26 CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. A band, who (by a lamp of love, new lit, And fed by oil of tenderness from Heaven — By recognition, instinct as the eye To know, 'mid clouds, the twinkle of a star — By mother's love) knew what most holiest be, And where to bring their children to be blest. And as Christ looked upon them, where they stood, And each would lay her infant in His arms, To see it there, and know that He had borne Her burden on His bosom, there rose up Some of the Twelve ; and, mindful of the night, And of the trials of the weary day, They came between, and bade them to depart, And trouble not the Master. Then did Christ Reproving His disciples, call again The mothers they had turned from Him away, And, leaning gently tow'rd them as they came, Tenderly took the babes into His arms, And laid His hand upon their foreheads fair, And blest them, saying : Suffer them to come ; For, in my Father's kingdom, such are they. Whoso is humble as a little child, The same is greatest in the courts of heaven. Spotless is infancy, we fondly feel. Angels in heaven are like it, He hath said. Mothers have dreamed the smile upon the lips Of slumbering babes to be the memory Of a bright world they come from ; and that, here, 'Mid the temptations of this fallen star, They bide the trial for a loftier sphere — Ever progressing. Fearfully, if so, Give we, to childhood, guidance for high heaven I But, be this lofty vision as it may, Christ blest them, here. And, oh ! if in the hour Of His first steps to Calvary, and 'mid The tempters, who, He knew, had just begun The wrongs that were to lead Him to the cross ; If here, 'mid weariness and gathering woe, The heart of Christ turned meltingly to them, And, for a harsh word to these little ones, Though uttered but with sheltering care for Him, He spoke rebukingly to those He loved — If babes thus pure and priceless were to Christ — Holy, indeed, the trust to whom they're given ! Sacred are they ! N.'P. Willis. ►HEEKS as soft as July peaches ; Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; large round eyes Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness : Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; Happy smiles and wailing cries ; Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; Lights and shadows, swifter born Than on wind-swept autumn corn ; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion ; Catchings up of legs and arms ; Throwings back and small alarms ; Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; Twining feet whose each toe works ; Kickings up and straining risings; Mother's ever new surprisings ; Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of mild reprovings That have more of love than lovings ; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning; Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; Graspings small at all that passes ; Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences — small meditations Deep as thoughts of cares for nations Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches ; All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing ; Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings That we'd ever have such dreamings; Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure ; Pleasure high above all pleasure ; Gladness brimming over gladness ; Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; Loveliness beyond completeness ; Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; Beauty all that beauty may be ; — That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. William C. Bekn"ET5 rBO-srxazoom. ffi H, then how sweetly closed those crowded Wk days ! tJI~ The minutes parting one by one like rays, That fade upon a summer's eve. But, oh ! what charm or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. Washington Alls-ton. 27 OOM, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven ! Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, O watchful usher at Death's nar- row door ! But lo! while you delay to let her forth, Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life , Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! But not that from this cup of bitterness A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. One look upon thy face ere thou depart I My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring I knew not of— filling my heart with tears, And turning with strange tenderness to thee — A love — oh God ! it seems so — that must flow Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain Drawing me after thee I And so, farewell ! 'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast sleeping Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving But it was sent thee with some tender thought. How can I leave thee — here I Alas for man ! The herb in its humility may fall And waste into the bright and genial air, While we — by hands that minister'd in life Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours, And thought how little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters. The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, And far below, seen under arching leaves, Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointing the living after thee. And this Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now The flowers that have made room for thee, I go To whisper the same peace to her who lies — Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, To bring the heart back from an infant gone. Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot The images from all the silent rooms, And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest link — and so at last The fountain — that, once struck, must flow for- ever — Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring Wakens the birds above thee, we will come, And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — A child that we have loved has gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowers she pass' 'd away ! N. P. Willis. • » !■■,■ '» o OJTLY fi SOY. J/MNLY a boy, with his noise and fun, 4ffc| The veriest mystery under the sua ; xfcf As brimful of mischief and wit and glee £!? As ever a human frame can be, And as hard to manage as — ah ! ah me ! 'Tis hard to tell ; Yet we love him well. Only a boy, with his fearful tread, Who can not be driven, but must be led ; Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats, Loses more tops and kites and bats, Than would stock a store For a year or more. Only a boy, with his wild, strange ways ; With his idle hours on busy days ; With his queer remarks and odd replies, Sometimes foolish, and sometimes wise ; Often brilliant, for one of his size, As a meteor hurled From a pleasant world. Only a boy, who will be a man, If nature goes on with her first great plan ; If fire or water, or some fatal snare, Conspire not to rob us of this our heir, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, Our torment, our joy — " Only a boy." 28 TBI BIGHTS OF ilMffl, tions and to be fairly answered ; not to be snub- bed as if he were guilty of an im- pertinence, nor ignored as though his desire for information were of no consequence, nor misled as if it did not signify whether true or false impressions were made upon his mind. The child has a right to his individuality, to be himself and no other; to maintain against the world the divine fact for which he stands. And before this fact father, mother, instructor should stand reverently ; seeking rather to understand and interpret its significance than to wrest it from its original purpose. It is not necessarily to be inscribed with the family name, nor written over with family traditions. Nature delights in surprise and will not guarantee that the children of her poets shall sing, nor that every Quaker baby shall take kindly to drab color, or have an inherent longing for a scoop bonnet or a broad- brimmed hat. In the very naming of a child his indi- viduality should be recognized. He should not be invested with the cast-off cognomen of some dead ancestor or historical celebrity, a name musty as the grave-clothes of the original wearer — dolefully redolent of old associations — a ghostly index-finger forever pointing to the past. Let it be something fresh ; a new name standing for a new fact, the suggestion of a history yet to be written, a prophecy to be fulfilled. The ass was well enough clothed in his own russet ; but when he would put on the skin of the lion, every attribute became contemptible. Com- monplace people slip easily through the HE child has a , world ; but when we would find them .right to ask ques- heralded by great names, we resent the incongruity, and insist upon making them less than they are. George Washington selling peanuts, Julius Caesar as a bootblack, and Virgil a vender of old clothes, make but a sorry figure. We are indebted to our children for con- stant incentives to noble living ; for the per- petual reminder that we do not live to our- selves alone ; for their sakes we are admon- ished to put from us the debasing appetite, the unworthy impulse ; to gather into our lives every noble and heroic quality, every tender and attractive grace. We owe them gratitude for the dark hours which their presence has brightened, for the helplessness and dependence which have won us from ourselves ; for the faith and trust which it is evermore their mission to renew ; for their kisses on cheeks wet Avith tears, and on brows that but for that caressing had furrowed into frowns. — Lit- tell's Living Age. PAYING HER WAY. HAT has my darling been doing to-day, To pay for her washing and mending ? How can she manage to keep out of debt For so much caressing and tending ? How can I wait till the years shall have flown, And the hands have grown larger and stronger ? Who will be able the interest to pay If the debt runs many years longer ? Dear little feet ! how they fly to my side ! White arms my neck are caressing, Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek, Fair head my shoulder is pressing. Nothing at all from my darling is due, From evil may angels defend her — The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, For love is a legal tender I Kate Woodland, 29 THE BAREFOOT BOY. LESSINGSonthee, little man, | Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! fJiif$3 With thy turned up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lips, redder still, Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy — I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art — the grown up man Only a republican ; Let the million-dollared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye ; Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 0, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodehuck digs his cell, And the ground mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy ! O, for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slope beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 0, for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone gray and rude ; O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch ; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil ; Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know the joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! J. G. Whittiee. 30 -F+- AN APRIL DAY. -Hr ErTEy^ HEN the warm sun, that brings flkwJvJ/) Seed-time and harvest, has re- turned again, "lis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, "When forest glades are bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming on of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April ! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed : Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed. H. W. LONGFELLOW. 31 KITTIK IS GONE ITTIE is gone. Where? To hea- ven. An angel came, and took her away. She was a lovely child, gentle as gi j Hjj a lamb ; the pet of 6 the whole family; S= the youngest of them all. Butshe could not stay with us any longer. * * * * If a little voice sweeter and more musical than others were heard, I knew Kittie was near. If my study door opened so gently and slily that no sound could be heard, I knew Kittie was coming. If after an hour's quiet play, a little shadow passed me, and the door opened and shut as no one else could open and shut it, " so as not to disturb papa," I knew Kittie was going, in the midst of my composing, I When, heard a gentle voice saying, " Papa, may I stay with you a little while? I will be very still ;" I did not need to look off my work to assure me that it was my little lamb. You staid with me too long, Kittie dear, to leave me so suddenly, and you are too still now. You became my little assist- ant, my home angel, my youngest and sweetest singing bird, and I miss the little voice that I have heard in an adjoining room, catching up and echoing little snatches of melody as they were being composed. I miss those soft and sweet kisses. I miss When the question was asked, how little did I think the angel was so near ! But he did truly come, and the sweetest flower was transplanted to a more genial clime. " I do wish papa would come." Wait a little while, Kittie, and papa will come. The journey is not long. He will soon be Home. William B. Bradbury. BENEFIT OF CHILDREN. AM fond of children. I think them the poetry of the world, the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes ; little con- jurors with their " natural magic," evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the differ- ent classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think, if there was never anything anywhere to be seen, but great grown-up men and women ! How we should long for the sight of a little child ! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is " to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw " the dis- obedient to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart, warm- ing and melting it by its gentle presence ; it enriches the soul by new feeling, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few can resist. In- fants recall us from much that engenders the little hand that was always first to be and encourages selfishness, that freezes the placed on my forehead to "drive away the affec tions, roughens the manners, indurates pain." I miss the sound of those little feet +i 1Q i, MTf . «,„ i m -„i, + ~, +i,„ hnmo Aemm pain upon the stairs. the heart : they brighten the home, deepen I miss you \ 0VQj invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and in the garden. I miss you everywhere, but vivify and sustain the cha rities of life. It I will try not to miss you in heaven. wouM be a terrible wldj j do tUnk> if it " Papa, if we are good, will an angel truly was not embellished by little children ! -come and take us to heaven when we die ?" Thomas Binney. 32 AGAINST BOYS. lERTAIX feeble poetasters are always mourning that they are no longer in the Classical or Commercial Seminary of their younger days, but I believe that there are few honest men who do not look back upon their school-days with a shudder. I was not a very bad boy myself, I believe, but the comparison of my Xow with my Then is certainly not odious. I can now meet a cat without wishing to kill it ; I can behold two dogs without yearning to set them by the ears ; I can listen to the twitter of a hedge-sparrow without longing for a horse-pistol ; I can pass in the street an individual smaller than myself without experiencing an uncontrollable desire to snatch off his cap, and throw it over the wall. When I go to church, I take a church-service in my hand, and not a novel of similar external appearance ; I do not distend my pockets with filberts purloined from my host's dinner-table ; I do not smoke bits of cane until I am sick ; I do not think it ungentlemanly to ride in a 'bus ; I am no longer irresistibly attracted to any barrow full of strange delicacies, such as Albert rock or Alicam-pane, and if I were, the fruit of all others I should leave untouched would be exposed slices of cocoa- nut. Upon the whole, in short, I flatter myself that my relations with society are improved since I was that dreadful being — a boy. If all the grown-up people in the world should suddenly fail, what a frightful thing would society become reconstructed by boys ! — Chambers' Journal. A QUESTIOH. Sgv*HEX yet was ever found a mother Who'd give her booby for another ? John Gat. 3 All aboard ! A traveler Sets sail for babyland ! ^^ Before my eyes there comes a blur ; But still I kiss my hand, And try to smile as off he goes, My bonny, winsome boy ! Yes, bon voyage ! God only knows How much I wish thee joy. Oh ! tell me, have you heard of him ? He wore a sailor's hat All silver-corded round the brim, And — stranger e'en than that — A wondrous suit of navy blue, With pocket deep and wide ; Oh ! tell me, sailor, tell me true, How fares he on the tide ? We've now no baby in the house ; 'Twas but this very morn He doffed his dainty, 'broidered blouse, With skirts of snowy lawn ; And shook a mass of silken curls From off his sunny brow ; They fretted him — " so like a girl's," Mamma can have them now. He owned a brand-new pocket-book, But that he could not find ; A knife and string was all he took, What did he leave behind ? A heap of blocks with letters gay, And here and there a toy ; I cannot pick them up to-day, My heart is with my boy. Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood's town Cast anchor strong and deep, What tears upon this little gown, Left for mamma to keep ? Weep not, but smile ; for through the air A merry message rings — " Just sell it to the rag man there ; I've done with baby things !" :o: A BETTER "WAY. ^E should gain our object better in the discipline of children, if, instead of finding fault with an action, we set our- selves to produce a better state of feeling without noticing the action. Mary P. Wabe. 33 WHAT'S A BOY LIKE? af $ h Hmj ^ptiJcis ? IKE a wasp, like a sprite, -*— ' Like a goose, like an eel, Like a top, like a kite, Like an owl, like a wheel, Like the wind, like a snail, Like a knife, like a crow, Like a thorn, like a flail, Like a hawk, like a doe. Like the sea, like a weed, Like a watch, like the sun, Like a cloud, like a seed, Like a book, like a gun, Like a smile, like a tree, Like a lamb, like the moon, Like a bud, like a bee, Like a burr, like a tune. Like a colt, like a whip, Like a mouse, like a mill, Like a bell, like a ship, Like a jay, like a rill, Like a shower, like a cat, Like a frog, like a toy, Like a ball, like a bat, Most of all — like a boy. George Cooper. J*ragtag m u §wds law, SWINGING on a birch tree To a sleepy tune, Hummed by all the breezes In the month of June! Little leaves a-flutter Sound like dancing drops Of a brook on pebbles — Song that never stops. Up and down we see-saw; Up into the sky ; How it opens on us, Like a wide blue eye! You and I are sailors Rocking on a mast ; And the world's our vessel : Ho ! she sails so fast ! Blue, blue sea around us ; . Not a ship in sight ; They will hang out lanterns When they pass to-night. We with ours will follow Through the midnight deep; Not a thought of danger, Though the crew's asleep. Oh, how still the air is ! There an oriole flew; What a jolly whistle ! He's a sailor, too. Yonder is his hammock In the elm-top high ; One more ballad, messmate; Sing it as you fly ! Up and down we see-saw: Down into the grass, Scented fern and rose-buds, All a woven mass. That's the sort of carpet Fitted for our feet; Tapestry nor velvet Is so rich and neat. Swinging on a birch tree! This is summer joy, Fun for all vacation — Don't you think so, boy? Up and down to see-saw, Merry and at ease, Careless as a brook is, Idle as the breeze. Lucy Larcom. 34 HOW MAMMA PLAYS. J UST the sweetest thing that the children do Is to play with mamma, a-playing too ; And " Baby is lost," they think is the best, For mamma plays that with a merry zest. " My baby's lost!" up and down mamma goes, A-peering about and following her nose, Inside the papers, and under the books, And all in between the covers she looks, "Baby! Baby!" calling. But though in her way is papa's tall hat, She never once thinks to look under that. She listens, she stops, she hears the wee laugh, And around she flies, the faster by half, " Why, where can he be ?" and she opens the clock, She tumbles her basket, she shakes papa's sock, " Baby ! Baby !" calling. While the children all smile at papa's tall hat, Though none of them go and look under that. A sweet coo calls. Mamma darts everywhere, She feels in her pockets to see if he's there, In every vase on the mantel shelf, She searches sharp for the little elf, ''Baby! Baby!" calling. Another coo comes from papa's tall hat, Yet none of them.stir an inch toward that. Somewhere he certainly must be, she knows, So up to the China cupboard she goes; The covers she lifts from the sugar-bowls, The sweet, white lumps she rattles and rolls, " Baby ! Baby !" calling. But though there's a stir near papa's tall hat, They will not so much as look toward that. She moves the dishes, but baby is not In the cream-pitcher nor in the tea-pot ; And she wrings her hands and stamps on the floor. She shakes the rugs, and she opens the door, " Baby ! Baby !" calling. They stand with their backs to papa's tall hat, Though the sweetest murmurs come from that. The children join in the funny distress, Till mamma, all sudden, with swift caress, Makes a pounce right down on the old, tall black hat And brings out the baby from under that, "Baby! Baby!" calling. And this is the end of the little play, The children would like to try every day. Ella Faemajt. 35 OUR UM3S. I loved them so That when the Elder Shepherd of the fold Came covered with the storm, and pale and cold- And begged for one of my sweet lamhs to hold, I bade Him go. He claimed the pet — A little fondling thing that to my breast Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, And yet — and yet — I laid him down In those white shrouded arms, with bitter tears ; For some voice told me that in after years, He should know naught of passion, grief or fears As I had known. And yet again That Elder Shepherd came. My heart grew faint. He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint. Another ! She who, gentle as a saint, Ne'er gave me pain. Aghast, I turned away. There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam. I knelt to pray, "Is it Thy will? My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given ? Oh ! Thou hast many such in heaven." And a soft voice said : " Nobly hast thou striven, But — peace, be still." Oh ! how I wept, And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild And yearning love — my lamb, my pleasant child. Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, And slept. "Go! go!" I cried: For once again that Shepherd laid His hand Upon the noblest of our household band. Like a pale spectre, there He took His stand, Close to his side. And yet how wondrous sweet The look with which He heard my passionate cry: * Touch not my lamb ; for him, oh ! let me die !' " A little while," He said, with smile and sigh, " Again to meet." Hopeless I fell ; And when I rose, the light had burned so low, So faint, I could not see my darling go : He had not bidden me farewell, but, oh ! I felt farewell. More deeply far Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame, Though could I but have heard him call my name — " Dear Mother !" — but in heaven 'twill be the same. There burns my star ! He will not take Another lamb, I thought, for only one Of the dear fold is spared, to be my sun, My guide, my mourner when this life is done. My heart would break. Oh ! with what thrill I heard Him enter ; but I did not know (For it was dark) that He had robbed me so, The idol of my soul — he could not go — O heart ! be still ! Came morning, can I tell How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept? For waking, tears were mine ; I, sleeping, wept, And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept. Alas! "Farewell." How often it is said ! I sit and think, and wonder, too, sometime, How it will seem, when, in that happier clime It never will ring out like funeral chime Over the dead. No tears ! no tears ! Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? For I bedew my pillow in my sleep, Yes, yes ; thank God ! no grief that clime shall keep, No weary years. 36 OUR LAMBS. Ay, it is well ; Well with my lambs, and with their earthly guide, There, pleasant rivers wander they beside, Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide — Ay ! it is well. Through the dreary day, They often come from glorious light to me; I cannot feel their touch, their faces see, Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me. Heaven is not far away. — 1-0+- (thz Child and the (Mourners. LITTLE child beneath a tree, Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a pleasant song, Which was — she sang it all day long — "When the wind blows the blossoms fall : But a good God reigns over all." There pass'd a lady by the way, Moaning in the face of day : There were tears upon her cheek, Grief in her heart too great to speak ; Her husband died but yester-morn, And left her in the world forlorn. She stopp'd and listen'd to the child That look'd to heaven, and, singing, smiled ; And saw not, for her own despair, Another lady, young and fair, Who also passing, stopp'd to hear The infant's anthem ringing clear. For she but few sad days before Had lost the little babe she bore ; And grief was heavy at her soul As that sweet memory o'er her stole, And show'd how bright had been the past, The present drear and overcast. And as they stood beneath the tree Listening, soothed and placidly, A youth came by, whose sunken eyes Spake of a load of miseries ; And he, arrested like the twain, Stopp'd to listen to the strain. Death had bow'd the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : Her marriage robes were fitted on, Her fair young face with blushes shone, When the destroyer smote her low, And changed the lover's bliss to woe. And these three listen'd to the song, Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, Which that child, the livelong day, Chanted to itself in play: " When the wind blows the blossoms fall : But a good God reigns over all." The widow's lips impulsive moved ; The mother's grief, though unreproved, Soften'd, as her trembling tongue Repeated what the infant sung ; And the sad lover, with a start, Conn'd it over to his heart. And though the child — if child it were, And not a seraph sitting there — Was seen no more, the sorrowing three Went on their way resignedly, The song still ringing in their ears — Was it the music of the spheres ? Who shall tell ? They did not know, But in the midst of deepest woe The strain recurr'd, when sorrow grew, To warn them, and console them too : " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; But a good God reigns over all." Charles Mackay. <*--«-¥•-! ~h+- Devotion in Childhood. §T is of the last importance to season the passions of a child with devotion, which seldom dies in a mind that has received an early tincture of it. Though it may seem extinguished for a while by the cares of the world, the heats of youth, or the allurements of vice, it generally breaks out and discovers itself again as soon as discretion, consideration, age, or misfor- tunes have brought the man to himself. The fire may be covered and overlaid, but cannot be entirely quenched and smothered. Joseph Addison. 37 MY BABY. UCH a little break in the sod ! So tiny to be a grave ! Oh ! how can I ren- der so soon to God The beautiful gift he gave ! Must I put you away, my pet — My tender bud unblown — With the dew of the morning upon you, yet, And your blossom all unshown ? My heart is near to break, For the voice I shall not hear, For the clinging arms around my neck, And the footsteps drawing near. The tiny, tottering feet, Striving for mother's knee, For the lisping tones so sweet, And the baby's kiss to me. For the precious mother-name, And the touch of the little hand, O ! am I so very much to blame If I shrink frcm the sore demand? How shall I know her voice, Or the greeting of her eyes, 'Mid the countless cherubs that rejoice, In the gardens of Paradise ? How shall I know my own, Where the air is white with wings — My babe, so soon from my bosom flown, To the angels' ministerings ? And this is the end of it all ! Of my waiting and my pa*i — Only a little funeral pall, And empty arms again. O, baby ! my heart is sore For the love that was to be, For the untried dream of love, now o'er, 'Twixt thee, my child, and me. Yet over this little head, Lying so still on ny knee, I thank my God for the bliss of the dead, For the joy of the soul set free. 'Tis a weary world at best, This world that she will not know ; Would I waken her out of such perfect rest, For its sorrow and strife ? Ah, no ! Escaped are its thorns and harms ; The only path she hath trod Is that which leads from the mother's arms Into the arms of God. — The Evangelist. •— ♦ — ♦ DOMESTIC BLISS. I am " A married lady of thirty odd." Every morning I see in their beds A " baker's dozen " of curly heads ; Every morning my slumbers greet The patter, patter, of twenty-six feet. Thirteen little hearts are always in a nutter, Till thirteen little mouths are filled with breau and butter. Thirteen little tongues are busy all day long, And thirteen little hands with doing something wrong. Till I fain am to do With an energy too, As did the old woman who lived in a shoe. And when my poor husband comes home from his work, Tired and hungry, and fierce as a Turk, What do you think is the picture he sees ? A legion of babies, all in a breeze. Johnny a crying, And Lucy a sighing, And worn-out mamma, with her hair all a flying, Strong and angry Stephen Beating little Nelly ; Willie in the pantry Eating currant jelly ; Charlie strutting round in papa's Sunday coat; Harry at the glass, with a razor at his throat ; Robert gets his fingers crushed when Susy shuts the door, Mitigates their aching with a forty pounder roar ; Baby at the coal-hod hurries to begin Throwing in his mite to the universal din. Alas! my lord and master, being rather weak of nerve, he Begins to lose his patience in the stunning topsy- turvy, And then the frightened little ones all fly to me for shelter, And so the drama closes 'mid a general helter- skelter. I'll give you my name, Lest you think me a myth. Yours, very respectfully, Mes. John Smith. 38 HO took him on mother could possibly be." "I am so the other side?" A pair of soft blue eyes, full of ten- derness and tears, looked up into mine. " On the other side ! What do you mean, my darling ?" and I looked wondering at the child. " Baby, I mean. He was so small and weak, and had to go all aloue. Who took him on the other side?" "Angels," I answered, as steadily as I could speak, for the child's question moved me deeply, — " loving angels, who took him up tenderly and laid his head softly on their bosoms, and sang to him sweeter songs than he had ever heard in this world." " But every one will be strange to him. I'm afraid he'll be grieved for mother and nurse and me." " No, dear. The Saviour, who was once a baby in this world, is there ; and the angels who are nearest to him take all the little children who leave our side, and love and care for them just as if they were their own. When baby passed through to the other side, one of these angels held him by the hand all the way, and he was not in the least afraid ; and when the light of heaven broke upon his eyes, and he saw the new beauty of the new world into which he had entered, his little heart was full of gladness." " You are sure of that ?" The grief had almost faded out of the child's countenance. " Yes, dear, very sure. The Lord, who so tenderly loves little children, who took them in his arms and blessed them when he was on earth, who said that ' their angels do always behold the face of my Father,' is more careful of the babes who go to him than the tenderest glad !" said the child ; " and it makes me feel so much better ! Dear baby ! I didn't know who would take him on the other side." — Children's Hour. TO ABTHUB, ASLEEP. STILLY, oh, very stilly, with clasp'd hands, That would hush down the beating of my heart, .1 stand and watch thy slumbers. Round thee now, Like silver clouds flung on a summer sky, The snowy curtains tremble, and betwixt Their loopings — a baptismal scent of heaven — Plashes the sunshine on thy face and hair. bud of one brief summer, by that smile, Like light on opening roses, do I know The angels are with thee, — that those blue eyes Which break up to me in their sudden joy, (As I have pray'd God's seraphs might some day,) Still watch the radiance of those sapphire hills, From which so late thou'st wandered. One white hand, Like an unfolding lily, is crush'd up Amid the clustering curls, whose golden hues Were caught among thy mother's. Oh, most fair And heaven-like picture that the world can throw Along its changeful canvas, — child asleep ! Through my dim tears, I stand to-day and watch Mournful above thy rest ; I who have walk'd Out from the gates of childhood, and who wear The " burden and the weariness of life " On heart and forehead. What of joy or good (Stringing along this hush the future's pearls) Shall shape my prayer for thee, that life may lay Her gold, her myrrh, and incense at thy feet, — Her jewels round thy brow? Not these — not these — Be my heart's asking. May our Father lead Thy young feet tenderly across the hills To the "far country," and it shall be well,— Well with thee, sweetest, even if thy life Take but the key-note here, and sing the song Upon the purple mountains ! So sleep on, Thy smile the loving chorus of my prayer: — " In life or death may God be with the child /" VlKGINIA F. T0W> T SEND. 39 DELICATE child, pale and prematurely wise, was com- plaining, on a hot morning, that the dew-drops had been too hastily snatched away, and not allowed to glitter on the flowers, like other happier dew-drops that live the whole night through, and sparkle in the moon- light, and through the morning, onwards to noonday. " The sun," said the child, " has chased them away with his heat, or swallowed them in his wrath." Soon after came rain and a rainbow ; whereupon his father pointed upwards. " See !" said he, " there stands thy dew-drops, gloriously reset, a glittering jewelry in the heavens; and the clownish foot tramples on them no more. By this, my child, thou art taught that what withers on earth blooms again in heaven." Thus the father spoke, and knew not that he spoke pre- figuring words ; for, soon after, the delicate child with the moruing brightness of his earthly wisdom, was exhaled, like a dew-drop, into heaven. Jean Paul Eichtee. IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND? These lines were written after hearing the following touching incident related by a minister : A mother, who was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for a moment, when little Mary, with childish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to the floor, spilling the contents. The mother struck the child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sick- ened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. " I was always in your way, mother ; you had no room for little Mary ! And will I be in the angels' way? Will they have room for me?" The broken-hearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be too great, could she have saved her child. Is there room among the angels For the spirit of your child? Will they take your little Mary In their loving arms so mild? Will they ever love me fondly, As my story-books have said? Will they find a home for Mary — Mary, numbered with the dead ? Tell me truly, darling mother ! Is there room for such as me? Will I gain the home of spirits, And the shining angels see ? I have sorely tried you, mother, Been to you a constant care, And you will not miss me, mother, When I dwell among the fair; For you have no room for Mary ; She was ever in your way ; And she fears the good will shun her ! Will they, darling mother, say? Tell me — tell me truly — mother, Ere life's closing hour doth come, Do you think that they will keep me, In the shining angels' home ? I was not so wayward, mother, Not so very — very bad, But that tender love would nourish, And make Mary's heart so glad! Oh ! I yearned for pure affection, In this world of bitter woe ; And I yearn for bliss immortal, In the land where I must go ! Tell me once again, dear mother, Ere you take the parting kiss, Will the angels bid me welcome, To that land of perfect bliss ? 40 Ill 1,9(^1 m i"io WISH you wouldn't call me Dot, John. I don't like it," said Mrs. Peery- bingle, pouting in a way that clearly showed she did like it, very much. " Why, what else are you," returned John, looking down upon her with a smile, and giving her waist as light a squeeze as his huge hand and arm could give. " A dot and — " here he glanced at the baby, " a dot and carry — I won't say it, for fear I should spoil it ; but I was very near a joke. I don't know as ever I was nearer." He was often near to something or other very clever, by his own account; this lumbering, slow, honest John ; this John so heavy, but so light of spirit ; so rough upon the surface, but so gentle at the core ; so dull without, so quick within ; so stolid, but so good ! Oh, Mother Nature, give thy children the true poetry of heart that hid itself in this poor Carrier's breast — he was but a Carrier, by the way — and we can bear to have them talking prose, and lead- ing lives of prose ; and bear to bless thee for their company. It was pleasant to see Dot, with her little figure, and her baby in her arms — a very doll of a baby — glancing with a coquettish thoughtfulness at the fire, and inclining her delicate little head just enough on one side to let it rest in an odd, half-natural, half- affected, wholly nestling and agreeable manner, on the great rugged figure of the Carrier. It was pleasant to see him, with his tender awkwardness, endeavoring to adapt his rude support to her slight need, and make his burlv middle-age a leaning- staff not inappropriate to her blooming youth. It was pleasant to observe how Tilly Slowboy, waiting in the back-ground for the baby, took special cognizance (though in her earliest teens) of this group- ing ; and stood with her mouth and eyes wide open, and her head thrust forward, taking it in as if it were air. Nor was it less agreeable to observe how John the Carrier, reference being made by Dot to the aforesaid baby, checked his hand when on the point of touching the infant, as if he thought he might crush it ; and bending; down, surveyed it from a safe distance with a kind of puzzled pride, such as an amiable mastiff might be supposed to show, if he found himself, one day, the father of a young canary. Charles Dickens. ILLUSIONS. WHEN the boys come into my yard for leave to gather horse-chestnuts, I own I enter into Nature's game, and affect to grant the permission reluctantly, feeling that any moment they will find out the imposture of that showy chaff. But this tenderness is quite unnecessary ; the enchantments are laid on very thick. Their young life is thatched with them. Bare and grim to tears is the lot of the children in the hovel I saw yesterday ; yet not the less they hang it round with frippery romance, like the children of the happiest fortune. R. W. Emerson. 41 ADVANTAGE OF CHILDREN. ADVANTAGE OF CHILDREN. HAT would an engine be to a ship if it were lying loose in the hull? It must be fastened to it with bolts and screws before it can propel the vessel. Now a childless man is like a loose engine. A man must be bolted and screwed to the community before he can work well for its advancement ; and there are no such screws and bolts as children. Henry Ward Beecher. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHitf). EEHOLD a seraph soaring From out our weary world ; In robes of white, One starlit night, With spirit-wings unfurled, He took his flight To the gates of light, To make his dwelling there, Seraphic songs outpouring Upon the silent air. Oh, how he loved thee, mother, Thy bosom was his bed ; 'Twas sweet to rest On thy soft breast The little weary head ; To feel thee press With fond caress The bright and radiant brow, But the blessed " Elder Brother" Will cherish " baby " now. Life lay, untrod, before him, The future all unknown ; How might the years Have flowed with tears, Till laughter changed to moan ! How might the strife Of human life Have brought his soul to harm ! But now a shield is o'er him — The Everlasting Arm ! The paths of bliss unbounded His feet already tread — The heavenly fields Whose harvest yields The true and living bread. On fruitful hills By placid rills The lambs of Jesus feed ; By heaven's wealth surrounded, What can he ever need ? Dear weeping father, mother, How could he longer wait When Jesus calls ? From jasper walls Swung wide the golden gate. But he will stand At God's right hand, To wait and watch for you ; And there will be another To bid you " welcome " too. And so he left you, winging His upward flight afar, Till, through the night, There shone the light Of one more radiant star ! Through countless years No bitter tears Shall dim those lustrous eyes ; No sighs shall mar the singing Beneath those cloudless skies ! THE POOR MAN'S RICHES. I remember a great man coming into my house at Waltham, and, seeing all my chil- dren standing in the order of their age and stature, he said, " These are they that make rich men poor." But he straight received this answer, " Nay, my lord, these are they that make a poor man rich ; for there is not one of these whom we would part with for all your wealth." Bishop Hall. 42 gg oooo <; EARLY SPRING. ROM the sod no crocus peeps, And the snow-drop scarce is seen, And the daffodil yet sleeps In its shelt'ring sheath of green ; Yet the naked groves among Is an homeless music heard, And a welcoming is sung, Till the leafless boughs are stirred With a spirit and a life Which is floating all around ; And the covert glades are rife With the new awakened sound Of the birds, whose voices pour In an interrupted strain, As they scarcely were secure That the Spring was come again. Soon the seasonable flowers Will a glad assurance bring, To their fresh and leafy bowers Of the presence of the Spring ; And these snatches of delight Are the prelude of a song That will daily gather might, And endure the Summer long. R. C. Teench pf^ELCOME, pale Primrose ! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; How much thy presence beautifies the ground ! How sweet thy modest unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side ! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, Plucking the fairest with a rude delight : While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning Spring. 43 JOHK CLAKE. ► -V4-3. H, thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God ; The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed By the unceasing music of thy being ! Nearer I seem to God when looking on thee. 'Tis ages since He made His youngest star, His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday, Thou later revelation ! Silver stream, Breaking with laughter from the lake divine Whence all things flow. O bright and singing babe, What wilt thou be hereafter ? Alexander Smith. -V»— a ilKK 4111 111 llffi tmt HE Master has come over Jordan," Said Hannah, the mother, one day, " He is healing the people who throng him With a touch of his finger, they say. " And now I shall carry the children — Little Kachel, and Samuel, and John, I shall carry the baby, Esther, For the Lord to look upon." The father looked at her kindly, But he shook his head and smiled ; " Now, who but a doting mother Would think of a thing so wild ? " If the children were tortured by demons, Or dying of fever, 'twere well, Or had they the taint of the leper, Like many in Israel." " Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan — I feel such a burden of care ; If I carry it to the Master, Perhaps I shall leave it there. " If he lay his hand on the children, My heart will be lighter, I know, For a blessing forever and ever Will follow them as they go." So over the hills to Judah, Along by the vine-rows green, With Esther asleep on her bosom, And Eachel her brothers between, 'Mong the people who hung on his teaching, Or waited his touch and his word, Through the row of proud Pharisees listening, She pressed to the foot of the Lord. " Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master,' Said Peter, " with children like these ? Seest not how, from morning till evening, He teacheth, and healeth disease?" Then Christ said, " Forbid not the children — Permit them to come unto me." And he took in his arms little Esther, And Rachel he set on his knee ; And the heavy heart of the mother Was lifted all earth-care above, And he laid his hands on the brothers, And blest them with tenderest love ; As he said of the babes in his bosom, " Of such is the kingdom of heaven ;" And strength for all duty and trial That hour to her spirit was given. Julia Gill. 44 HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his years old, brother's, keen, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his mind of gentle mould. hath ever been ; They tell me that unusual grace in all his But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and ways appears, tender feeling, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths his childish years. of love revealing. I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is When he walks with me, the country folk, who fair — pass us in the street, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so serious air ; mild and sweet. I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful loveth me, tone, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful Will sing his little song of love when left to sport fervency. alone. But that which others most admire is the thought His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden that fills his mind — home and hearth, The food for grave, inquiring speech he every- To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all where doth find. our mirth. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his together walk ; heart may prove He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for children talk ; earthly love ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes on bat or ball, must dim, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and God comfort us for all the love that we shall lose aptly mimics all. in him. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- ,_. , , , , , . , , „ I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot With thoughts about this world of ours, and t i. _ , ; • -i 1,1 i i For they reckon not by years and months where He kneels at his dear mother s knee ; she teacheth , • . ■, ■,-, he is gone to dwell. , To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant And strange and sweet and solemn then are the -i & smiles were given, „, , , : ■ \ , And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to Oh, should my gentle child be spared to man- v . , ' 1-1 " ve in heaven. . , ,. i '. ', , I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; ,i_ . , , _ . , . J , . , , . ' weareth now, And when I look into his eves and stroke his xr i. i. • n i i • u- • , „ , , - .Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining thoughtful brow, u x. TJ :,!•, , T , in-, -r ■. seraph brow. 1 dare not think what I should feel were I to lose m. 4,-u 11 ^ ± ^n u- • i i j-u uv The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel. Are number'd with the sacred things which God I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; will not reveal. I'll not declare how bright and fair his little fea- But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is tures be, now at rest, How silver sweet those tones of his when he Where other blessed infants be — on their Saviour's prattles on my knee ; loving breast. 45 THE THREE SONS. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings. And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever ; But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain — Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than have him here again ! John Moultrie. Jpsoaoraejgj sooooc^ N tip-toe I entered the bed-room of baby ; And trembling I parted the gossamer curtains Where baby lay, fair as a fresh morning glory. Like petals of purest and pinkest petunias. Four delicate fingers crept out of their nestling, Transparent and chubby, they rest on the crib's edge, And draping the fingers, a fringe of crochet-work, As flossy and light as a net-web of snow lace, Lay, kissing them daintily — ever so daintily ! Nails soft and so tiny, and tinted like pink-buds, Looked up to me temptingly— "ever so cunning;" And asked me to kiss them, and oh ! how I longed to, But dare not, for baby was smiling so sweetly I knew he beheld then an angel-face near him. Loose ringed, on his temples of pure alabaster, Lay curls of the softest and lightest of texture, As sketched by a crayon of delicate gold-tint ; Such curls as the gods gave to Cupid and Psyche ! Those kissable curls, with their live, springing tendrils, Came up to my lips, and went down to my heart- strings. Those eyelids so filmy, translucent as amber, Were colored and toned by the blue eyes beneath them, To softest of purple. marvellous eyelids ! Ah! what is this clinging so close to my heart- string, 'Tis fear — that I know by the thrill in my bosom? 'Tis born of these ringlets and fingers and eyelids : Born of this beauty too precious for mortals ; It tells me I look on the face of an angel That lies there deceiving my soul by concealing Its pinions beneath the blue waves of the velvet. I'll wake him ! the darling ! with kisses I'll wake him. There ! there ! I have reddened the white brow of baby, Between those two limnings of delicate lace work — The rarest of eyebrows ; his laugh reassures me ! I'll crush him down hard, wings and all, on my bosom. Knickerbocker. eooooo g oooo o o "LITTLE CHILDREN." EEP a guard on your words, my darlings, For words are wonderful things, They are sweet, like the bees' fresh honey, Like the bees, they have terrible stings. They can bless, like the warm, glad sunshine, And brighten a lonely life, They can cut, in the strife of anger, Like an open, two-edged knife. Let them pass through your lips unchallenged, If their errand is true and kind ; If they come to support the weary, To comfort and help the blind. If a bitter, revengeful spirit Prompts the words, let them be unsaid ; They may flash through a brain like lightning, Or fall on a heart like lead. Keep them back if they're cold and cruel, Under bar, and lock, and seal ; The wounds they make, my darlings, Are always slow to heal. May peace guard your lives, and ever, From this time of your early youth, May the words that you daily utter Be the beautiful words of truth. 46 S any weak soul fright- ened that I should write of the Religion of the boy ? How, indeed, could I cover the field of his moral or intellectual growth, if I left unnoticed those dream of futurity and of goodness, which come sometimes to his quieter moments, and oftener to his hours of vexation and trouble ? It would be as wise to describe the season of Spring with no note of the silent influences of that burning Day-god which is melting day by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter — which is filling every bud with succulence, and painting one flower with crimson, and another with white. I know there is a feeling — by much too general, as it seems to me — that the subject may not be approached except through the dicta of certain ecclesiastical bodies, and that the language which touches it must not be that every-day language which mirrors the vitality of our thought, but should have some twist of that theologic manner- ism, which is as cold to the boy as to the busy man of the world. I know very well that a great many good souls will call levity what I call honesty, and will abjure that familiar handling of the boy's lien upon Eternity which my story will show. But I shall feel sure, that, in keeping true to Nature with word and with thought, I shall in no way offend against those highest truths to which all truthfulness is kindred. You have Christian teachers, who speak always reverently of the Bible ; you grow up in the hearing of daily prayers ; nay, you are perhaps taught to say them. Sometimes they have a meaning, and sometimes they have none. They have a meaning when your heart is troubled, when a grief or a wrong weighs upon you : then the keeping of the Father, which you implore, seems to come from the bottom of your soul ; and your eye suffuses with such tears of feeling as you count holy, and as you love to cherish in your memory. But they have no meaning when some trifling vexation angers you, and a distaste for all about you breeds a distaste for all above you. In the long hours of toilsome days little thought comes over you of the morning prayer; and only when evening deepens its shadows, and your boyish vexa- tions fatigue you to thoughtfulness, do you dream of that coming and endless night, to which — they tell you — prayer softens the way. Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when you are wakeful upon your seat in church, with some strong worded preacher who says things that half fright you, it occurs to you to consider how much goodness you are made of; and whether there be enough of it after all to carry you safely away from the clutch of Evil ? And straightway you reckon up those friendships where your heart lies ; you know you are a true and honest friend to Frank ; and you love your mother, and your father, as for Nelly, Heaven knows, you could not contrive a way to love her better than you do. You dare not take much credit to your- self for the love of little Madge — partly because you have sometimes caught yourself trying — not to love her ; and partly because 47 BOY RELIGION. the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. life — whatever may be the ill-advised ex- Yet you can find no command in the Cate- pressions of human teachers — will you ever chism to love one girl to the exclusion of all find that Duty performed, and generous other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you endeavor will stand one whit in the way ever do find it. But as for loving some either of Faith or of Love. Striving to half-dozen you could name, whose images be good is a very direct road toward Good- drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon- ness, and if life be so tempered by high colored frocks, and slovenly shoes, it is motive as to make actions always good, quite impossible ; and suddenly this thought, Faith is unconsciously won. coupled with a lingering remembrance of Another notion that disturbs you very the pea-green pantaloons, utterly breaks much, is your positive dislike of long ser- down your hopes. mons, and of such singing as they have Yet you muse again, — there are plenty when the organist is away. You cannot of good people, as the times go, who have get the force of that verse of Dr. Watts their dislikes, and who speak them too. which likens heaven to a never-ending Sab- Even the sharp-talking clergyman you have bath ; you do hope — though it seems a half heard say some very sour things about his wicked hope — that old Dr. will not landlord, who raised his rent the last year, be the preacher. You think that your heart And you know that he did not talk as in its best moments craves for something mildly as he does in the church, when he more lovable. You suggest this perhaps to found Frank and yourself quietly filching some Sunday teacher, who only shakes his a few of his peaches through the orchard head sourly, and tells you it is a thought fence. that the Devil is putting in your brain. It But your clergyman will say perhaps, strikes you oddly that the Devil should be with what seems to you quite unnecessary using a verse of Dr. Watts to puzzle you ! coldness, that goodness is not to be reckoned But if it be so, he keeps it sticking by your in your chances of safety ; that there is a thought very pertinaciously, until some Higher Goodness, whose merit is All- simple utterance of your mother about the Sufficient. This puzzles you sadly ; nor Love that reigns in the other world seems will you escape the puzzle, until, in the on a sudden to widen Heaven, and to waft presence of the Home altar, which seems away your doubts like a cloud, to guard you, as the Lares guarded Roman It exeites your wonder not a little to find children, you feel — you cannot tell how — people, who talk gravely and heartily that good actions must spring from good of the excellence of sermons and of church- sources ; and that those sources must lie in going, sometimes fall asleep under it all. that Heaven toward which your boyish And you wonder — if they really like preach- spirit yearns, as you kneel at your mother's ing so well — why they do not buy some side. of the minister's old manuscripts, and read Conscience too is all the while approving them over on week-days, or invite the you for deeds well done ; and — wicked as clergyman to preach to them in a quiet way you fear the preacher might judge it — you in private. cannot but found on those deeds a hope that Ah, Clarence, you do not yet know your prayer at night flows more easily, the poor weakness of even maturest man- more freely, and more holily toward " Our hood, and the feeble gropings of the soul Father in Heaven." Nor indeed later in toward a soul's paradise in the best of the 48 BOY RELIGION. world ! You do not yet know either, that ignorance and fear will be thrusting their untruth and false show into the very essen- tials of Religion. Again you wonder, if the clergymen are all such very good men as you are taught to believe, why it is that every little while people will be trying to send them off, and very anxious to prove that, instead of being so good, they are in fact very stupid and bad men. At that day you have no clear conceptions of the distinction between stu- pidity and vice, and think that a good man must necessarily say very eloquent things. You will find yourself sadly mistaken on this point, before you get on very far in life. Heaven, when your mother peoples it with friends gone, and little Charlie, and that better Friend who, she says, took Charlie in his arms, and is now his Father above the skies, seems a place to be loved and longed for. But to think that Mr. Such-an-one, who is only good on Sundays, will be there too, — and to think of his talking as he does of a place which you are sure he would spoil if he were there, — puzzles you again ; and you relapse into wonder, doubt, and yearning. And there, Clarence, for the pres- ent, I shall leave you. A wide, rich heaven hangs above you, but it hangs very high. A wide, rough world is around you, and it lies very low ! I am assuming in these sketches no office of a teacher. I am seeking only to make a truthful analysis of the boyish thought and feeling. But having ventured thus far into what may seem sacred ground, I shall venture still farther, and clinch my matter with a moral. There is very much religious teaching, even in so good a country as New England, which is far too harsh, too dry, too cold for the heart of a boy. Long sermons, doc- trinal precepts, and such tediously-worded dogmas as were uttered by those honest but hard-spoken men, the Westminster Divines, fatigue, and puzzle, and dispirit him. They may be well enough for those souls which strengthen by task-work, or for those mature people whose iron habit of self-denial has made patience a cardinal virtue ; but they fall (experto crede) upon the unfledged faculties of the boy like a winter's rain upon spring flowers, — like hammers of iron upon lithe timber. They may make deep impression upon his moral nature, but there is great danger of a sad rebound. Is it absurd to suppose that some adapta- tion is desirable? And might not the teachings of that Religion, which is the aegis of our moral being, be inwrought with some of those finer harmonies of speech and form which were given to wise ends, — and lure the boyish soul by something akin to that gentleness which belonged to the Naza- rene Teacher, and which provided not only meat for men, " but milk for babes " ? Donald G. Mitchell. THE DEAD BOY. E crossed the sill ; she pointed to the bed >' There lay her boy, his innocent curly head Nestled upon the pillow, and his face Lit with the solemn and unearthly grace That crowns but once the children of our race ; God gives it when he takes them — he was dead! A broken toy, a bunch of withered flowers, In his thin hands were clasped, his breast above The last frail ties that to this world of ours Had linked the sufferers — save a mother's love. W~m. Allen Butler. 49 Tlxe Bsblo37" I Love. HIS is the baby I love The baby that can not talk ; The baby that can not walk The baby that just begins to creep ; The baby that's cuddled and rock'd to sleep ; Oh, this is the baby I love ! This is the baby I love ! The baby that's never cross ; The baby that papa can toss ; The baby that crows when held aloft ; The baby that's rosy and round and soft; Oh, this is the baby I love! This is the baby I love ! The baby that laughs when I peep To see is it still asleep ; The baby that coos and frowns and blinks When left alone — as it sometimes thinks ; Oh, this is the baby I lore ! This is the baby I love ! The baby that lies on my knee, And dimples and smiles on me While I strip it and bathe it and kiss it — Oh ! Till with bathing and kissing 'tis all aglow ; Yes, this is the baby I love ! This is the baby I love ! The baby all freshly dressed ; That, waking, is never at rest ; That plucks at my collar and pulls my hair Till I look like a witch — but I do not care ; Oh, this is the baby I love I This is the baby I love ! The baby that understands And dances with feet and hands, And a sweet, little, whinnying, eager cry, For the nice warm breakfast that waits it close by; Oh, this is the baby I love ! This is the baby I love! The baby that tries to talk ; The baby that longs to walk ; And oh, its mamma will wake some day To find that her baby has — run aicay ! My baby ! — the baby I love ! Habeiet M. Kimball. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in Its sleep, it is " talking with angels." A baby was sleeping ; It's mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!'' Her beads while she number'd, The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : "Oh, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee! " And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly my baby with me ! And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see, And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering to thee." Samuel Lovee. 50 -» " »v BABY'S TOES. H, the tiny, curled-up treasure, Just as cute as cute can be ! Come and help rne count them, Madgie, While the baby bends to see ; Peeps demurely over dainty Skirts, drawn up to dimpled knees. Hey, my lady Lily ! whose two Roly-poly feet are these ? See the darling's round-eyed wonder — Does she really know they're hers ? Now she reaches down to feel them, While new triumph in her stirs. Crow your fill, my little lady ! Those are your own cunning toes, Round, and soft, and fat, and funny, And — how many? Madgie knows ! Call them lily-buds to please her? Madgie says they are too pink, Say ten roses and two posies ! Rather rose-buds, don't you think ? Come, wee toes, lie still ; be covered ; You've cut capers quite enough : If you don't, we'll kiss and put you Each one in a paper puff. w HERE did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a Avarm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at, once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear ? God spoke and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into bonds and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherub's wings. How did they all just come to be you ? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought about you, and so I am here. George Macdoxald. Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Jesus Christ. 51 HE bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking in the ash, Glowering in the fire with his wee round face; Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there? Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow, Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towering to the moon ! He sees little sogers pu'ing them a' doun ! Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing wi' a flare, See how he loups ! as they glimmer in the air. For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken ? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing maks us think, a sma' thing maks us stare, There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld : His chin upon his bufly hand will soon mak him auld ; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that daddy Care Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He'll glower at the fire ! and he'll keek at the light ! But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' castles in the air. James Ballantyne. JV/t UTTERING, the winds at eve, with blunted point, iVi Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued, The frost resolves into a trickling thaw. Spotted, the mountains* shine ; loose sleet descends, And floods the country round. The rivers swell, Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills, O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts, A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once ; And where they rush, the wide resounding plain Is left one slimy waste. 52 Thomson o<><>< I Our First-Born, f <><><><<><><>^<><>^<><><><><><><><^^ HAPPY husband ! happy wife ! The rarest blessing Heaven drops down, The sweetest blossom in Spring's crown, Starts in the furrows of your life ! God! what a towering height ye Who cry, " Lo, my beloved child !" And, life on life sublimely piled, Ye touch the heavens and peep within ! Look how a star of glory swims Down aching silences of space, Flushing the darkness till its face With beating heart of light o'erbrims ! So brightening came Babe Christabel, To touch the earth with fresh romance, And light a mother's countenance With looking on her miracle. With hands so fiower-like, soft, and fair, She caught at life, with words as sweet As first spring violets, and feet As faery-light as feet of air. The father, down in Toil's murk mine, Turns to his wealthy world above, Its radiance, and its home of love ; And lights his life like sun-struck wine. The mother moves with queenlier tread; Proud swell the globe? of ripe delight Above her heart, so warm and white, A pillow for the baby -head ! Their natures deepen, well-like, clear, Till God's eternal stars are seen, For ever shining and serene, By eyes anointed Beauty's seer. A sense of glory all things took, — The red rose-heart of Dawn would blow, And Sundown's sumptuous pictures show Babe-cherubs wearing their babe's look ! And round their peerless one they clung, Like bees about a flower's wine-cup ; New thoughts and feelings blossom'd up, And hearts for very fulness sung Of what their budding babe shall grow, When the maid crimsons into wife, And crowns the summit of some life, Like Phosphor, with morn on its brow ! And they should bless her for a bride. Who, like a splendid saint alit In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit, As now in theirs, all glorified ! But ! 'twas all too white a brow To flush with passion that doth fire With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre, — So pure her heart was beating now ! And thus they built their castles brave In faery lands of gorgeous cloud ; They never saw a little white shroud, Nor guess'd how flowers may mask the grave. Gerald Masset. ►OTHER'S baby, rock and rest, Little birds are fast asleep. Close beneath her mother-breast, Safe the bird her brood will keep. Oh ! my nestling, mother sings, Close within the mother-arms, Fold thy little, unfledged wings, Safe from any rude alarms. Sweet, my baby, on my breast. Dream your happy dreams and rest. Rest, oh! resf. Ah! my baby, from the nest Little birds will some day fly To the east and to the west, Wild their pretty wings to try. But, fly they fast, my bird, or far, Never can they find the spot, Under sun or any star, Where the mother-love is not. Sweet, my baby, on my breast Dream your happy dreams and rest. Rest, oh ! rest. Oh ! my baby, mother prays, As she clasps you closer still, All sweet things for coming days, And not any earthly ill. Always, child, remember this ; Mother's heart is warm and true, And she tells you, with a kiss, There'll be always room for yon. Sweet, my baby, on my breast, Dream your happy dreams and rest. Rest, oh ! rest. Eben E. Rexford. 53 little Ward's Secret larks sing out to the thrushes, And thrushes sing to the sky; Sing from your nest in the bushes, And sing wherever you fly ; For I'm sure that never an- other Such secret was told unto you — I've just got a baby brother ! And I wish that the whole world knew. I have told the buttercups, truly, And the clover that grows by the way; And it pleases me each time, newly, When I think of it during the day. And I said to myself: " Little Mary, You ought to be good as you can, For the sake of the beautiful fairy That brought you the wee little man." I'm five years old in the summer, And I'm getting quite large and tall ; But I thought till I saw the new-comer, When I looked in the glass, I was small. And I rise iu the morning quite early, To be sure that the baby is here, For his hair is so soft and curly, And his hands so tiny and dear! I stop in the midst of my pleasure — I'm so happy I can not play — And keep peeping in at my treasure, To see how much he gains in a day. But he doesn't look much like growing, Yet I think that he will in a year, And I wish that the days would be going, And the time when he walks would be here ! Oh, larks ! sing out to the thrushes, And thrushes, sing as you soar ; For I think, when another spring blushes, I can tell you a great deal more : I shall look from one to the other, And say: " Guess who I'm bringing to you?" And you'll look — and see — he's my brother! And you'll sing, " Little Mary was true." Mrs. L. C. Whiton. MOTHER GOOSE. i jnELL me a story, mamma, J One that is not very long, I am getting so tired and sleepy, Or sing me a little song — Something about the boy in blue That watched the cows and sheep, Who ought to get up and blow the horn, But he lies in the hay asleep." And I answered with quick impatience, While he hung his sleepy head, " No, not a story or song to-night, Bertie must go to bed." But after the room was silent, And the weary boy asleep, And never a sound came on my ears Save the lonely cricket's peep. The voice with the tone of pleading Kept coming again and again, " Tell me a story or sing me a song," Till I could not bear the pain ; So I went with stealthy footstep To see how my darling slept ; Weak and foolish though it may seem, I knelt by the bed and wept, To think that I had refused him The song that he loved so well, And refused the simple story That none but a mother could tell, And I said, " Sleep on, sweet dreamer; Fear not the cows and the sheep ; Dream that you lie in the meadow, Under the hay asleep. All too soon you will waken. To watch o'er the field of corn ; All too soon will the sheep get in, Though you bravely blow your horn." Mrs. D. M. Jordan. 54 A- SPRING SNOW STORM. BY MARY A. LATHBURY ~*~ S|ppHERE'S a flutter of wings in the cherry They toss the blossomy boughs in air; gg trees, And a merrier sound than the hum of bees — The winds are awake — the winds of May — And this is the hour and this is the way The four winds play : They sift the snow of the petals fair Into the sunshine ; and then away On the topmost branches they perch and say. " Isn't this gay ? " 55 {) THE rOP.M KAT * * * * * "A leaf Fresh flung upon a river that will dance Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, Then sink of its own heaviness." Philip Slingsby. WHERE'S something in a noble boy, m A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With bis uncheck'd, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepress'd by sadness — Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I unheeding hear it all- Tor, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now — But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music beard, And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird, Stands gazing on the empty air As if some dream were passing there — 'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face, And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, familiar meaning trace — - Remembering a thousand things Which pass'd me on those golden wings, Which time has fetter'd now — Things that came o'er me with a thrill, And left me silent, sad, and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thought upon a child Will, like a presence, sometimes press — And when his pulse is beating wild, And life itself is in excess — When foot and hand, and ear and eye, Are all with ardor straining high — How in his heart will spring A feeling, whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; And, on its silent wing, How with the clouds he'll float away, As wandering and as lost as they! N. P. Willis. A WEE SANG ON A WEE SUBJECT. iH, my bonnie Mary, Winsome little fairy, Ever licht and airy — Singin' a' the day ; Lauchin' aye sae sweetly, Actin' sae discreetly, Winnin' hearts completely, Witchin' Mary May. Cheekies red as roses, Lippies sweet as posies, Ilka charm discloses, Quite a lurin' fay ; Eenie ever glancin', Leggies ever dancin', Life an' love enchantin' — Bonnie Mary May. Hoo I lo'e thee, Mary ! Witchin' little fairy, A palace were a prairie, Wantin' sic a stay; Sic gladness floats aboot thee, Princes wadna flout thee, Life were cauld without thee, Little Mary May. 56 mm im HEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night and be kissed ; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last ; Of love that my heart will remember, When it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin ; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. Oh ! my heart grows weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sins hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ! Oh ! there is nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart; of a child. They are idols of hearts and of households ; They are angels of God in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes ; Oh ! these truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun ; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would come back to myself; Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so eagerly bended, I have banished the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God ; My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule My frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones, That meet me each morn at the door, T shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and evening, Their song in the school and the street ; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. When the lessons and the tasks are all ended, And death says : " The school is dismissed," May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night and be kissed. Charles M. Dickinson. -»3kh1H=S«- THE LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 'HAT do the birds say, I wonder, I wonder, With their chitter and chatter? It isn't all play, Do they scold, do they fret at some boggle or blunder, As we fret, as we scold day after day ? Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I wonder, At anything else than the danger that comes When some enemy threatens them over or under The great, leafy boughs of their great leafy homes? Do they vow to be friends, I winder, I wonder, With promises fair and promises sweet, Then, quick as a wink, at a word fall asunder, As human friends do, in a moment of heat. But day after day I may wonder and wonder, And ask them no end of such questions as these — With chitter and chatter, now over, now under, The big, leafy boughs of the big, leafy trees They dart and they skim, with their bills full of plunder, But never a word of an answer they give, And never a word shall I get, though I wonder From morning till night, as long as I live. HgW^:^ E measured the riot- ous baby Against the cottage wall — A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall ; A royal tiger-lily, With spots of j>ur- ple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold. Without, the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees ; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill. His eyes were wide as bluebells — His mouth like a flower unblown — Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown ; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again. Ah me ! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day ; And the little bare feet, that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose] Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of heaven thereon ; And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill ! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below ; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan — To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. Emma Alice Browx -&■■&-- THE PLAY-HOUSE. TfTjfNDEB a fir in the garden ground ]|_J| A strange habitation to-day I found, Built of bushes, and bark, and boards, And holding hidden the queerest hoards. There were bits of crockery, sticks, and stones, Shreds of pink calico, strings of cones, Crumbs of candle, a picture-book, And, strangest of all, in a cosy nook Was an idol made in the image of man, With charcoal eyes, and stuffed with bran. " Were they heathens who dwelt there ?" Oh, no, indeed, "Were they animals?" Yes, of the kind that can read, And laugh and cry, or be wicked and pray, And when they are old their hair grows gray. Their names are Margery, Ned, and Sue ; Their curls are brown, and their eyes are blue ; And they builded there in the summer heat, As glad as the birds, and sang as sweet. The birds that built in the tree-tops high Are singing under a summer sky ; But the dear little builders who toiled below Are singing here in the firelight glow. THE BOY'S APPEAL Oh, why must my face be washed so clean, And rubbed and scrubbed for Sunday ? When you very well know, as you often have seen, 'Twill be dirty again on Monday. You rub as hard as ever you can, And your hands are rough, to my sorrow ; No woman shall wash me when I'm a man ; And I wish I was one to-morrow ! L)iiJXLiij x iiiili DuX!d I oiJuli * N a little brown house With scarce room for a mouse, Came with morniug's first ray, One remarkable day, (Though who told her the way I am sure I can't say) A young lady so wee That you scarcely could see Her small speck of a nose ; And, to speak of her toes, — Though it seems hardly fair, Since they surely were there, Keep them covered we must ; You must take them on trust. Now this little brown house, With scarce room for a mouse, Was quite full of small boys, With their books and their toys, Their wild bustle and noise. " My dear lads," quoth papa, " We've too many by far ; Tell us, what can we do With this damsel so new? We've no room for her here, So to me 'tis quite clear, Though it gives me great pain, I must hang- her again On the tree whence she came, (Do not cry, there's no blame) With her white blanket round her, Just as Nurse Eussell found her." Said stout little Ned, " I'll stay all day in bed, Squeezed up nice and small, Veiy close to the wall." Then spoke Tommy, " I'll go To the cellar below ; I'll just travel about, But not try to get out ; Till you're all fast asleep ; And so quiet I'll be You'll not dream it is me." Then flaxen-haired Will, " I'll be dreadfully still ; On the back stairs I'll stay, Way off, out of the way." Quoth the father, " Well done My brave darlings, come on ! Here's a shoulder for Will, Pray sit still, sir, sit still ! Valiant Thomas, for thee, A good seat on my knee, And Edward, thy brother, Can perch on the other ; Baby John, take my back ; Now, who says we can't pack ? " So love gives us room, And our birdie shall stay. We'll keep her, my boys, Till God takes her away." THE CHILDREN. H ! what would the world be to us If the children were no more ? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood — That, to the world, are children ; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than rpaohes the trunk below. H. W. LOXGFELLOW. 59 -»■§£ GOOD-WIGHT AND GOOH-MOMNIWG. fe§h«- FAIR little girl Sat under a tree, Sewing as long as Her eyes could see; She smoothed her work, And folded it right, And said, " Dear work, Good-night, good- night." Such a number of rooks Went over her head, Crying, " Caw, caw," On their way to bed. She said, as she watched Their curious flight, "Little black things, Good-night, good-night." The horses neighed, And the oxen lowed, And the sheep's "bleat, bleat,' Came over the road ; All seeming to say, With a quiet delight, " Good little girl, Good-night, good-night." She did not say To the sun, "Good-night," Though she saw him there, Like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world, And never could sleep. The tall, pink fox-glove Bowed his head ; The violets curtsied And went to bed ; And good little Lucy Tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, Her favorite prayer. And when on her pillow, She softly lay, She heard nothing more Till again it was day. And all things said To the beautiful sun, " Good-morning, good-morning, Our work has begun. LOED HOTJGHIOU. -js38~B*=±- A HINT. J\,UR Daisy lay down In her little night gown, And kissed me again and again, On forehead and cheek, On lips that woidd speak, But found themselves shut, to their gain. Then, foolish, absurd, To utter a word, I asked her the question so old That wife and that lover Ask over and over, As if they were surer when told ! There, close at her side, " Do you love me ?" I cried ; She lifted her golden-crowned head ; A puzzled surprise Shone in her gray eyes — " Why, that's why I kiss you !" she said. Auna C. Beaoeett. 60 ^iN' BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN- LESSIXGS on the blessed children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth, Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom Which the bliss forever gladdens, of the regions whence they come ; Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care, And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair ; iSbt a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh, And a hope that in existence finds each hour a luxury ; Going singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as they go, That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe ; In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies, Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies ; Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store, All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before ; All the future but a region where the happy serving thought, Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged hunter caught ; Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight, Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers ; Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare, Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care. How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove, Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the load of years, Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts, and agonies, and tears ; We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts, Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts; What an image of the vigor and the glorious grace we knew, When .to eager youth from boyhood at a single bound we grew ! Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow, In our eyes the life of gladness — of our blood the overflow, Bless the mother of the urchin ! in his form we see her truth : He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; Xever can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, Xor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair ; Bless the mother of the young one ; he hath blended in his grace, All the hope, and joy, and beauty, kindling once in either face ! Oh ! the happy faith of children, that is glad in all it sees, And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries ! 61 BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance bless'd, Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest ; Lacking every creed, yet having faith so large in all they see, That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. What trim fancies bring them flowers ; what rare spirits walk their wood, What a wondrous world the moonlight harbors of the gay and good ! Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill : 'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, Broods beside the shutter'd windows, and with gentle love complains ; And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness of her dyes, Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch along the skies, With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight, How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light ! Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream, That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth, Joy is born of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth. -- C§o£=- W. G. SIMMS. GOING UP. -i P and up the baby goes, [j j Up to papa's shoulder. Now she clings to papa's nose — Now, becoming bolder, How she flings her arms and crows ! Do you think the darling knows How strong the arms that hold her? Up and up the baby goes, Taller, wiser, older ; As the calyx holds the rose, Childish years enfold her ; By and by they shall enclose From the woman and the rose ; Then, O Father, hold her ! On the heights of womanhood, Hold her, Heavenly Father ; Lest, forgetting what is good, She be carried rather Down with folly's multitude Into error's mazy wood Where the shadows gather. Up and up the baby goes ; Heavenly Father, give her Heart to feel for others' woes, Hands of helping ever ; Let her bloom, when life shall close, Like a white immortal rose By the crystal river. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. HOST of angels flying, Through cloudless skies impelled, Upon the earth beheld A pearl of beauty lying, Worthy to glitter bright In heaven's vast hall of light, They saw with glances tender, An infant newly born, O'er whom life's earliest morn Just cast its opening splendor ; Virtue it could not know, Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. The blest angel-ic legion Greeted its birth above, And came, with looks of love, From heaven's enchanting region ; Bending their winged way To where the infant lay. They spread their pinions o'er it, — That little pearl which shone With lustre all its own, — And then on high they bore it, Where glory has its birth ; — But left the shell on earth. Dirk Smits (Dutch.) Translation of H. S. Van Dyk. 62 iHE reason I call it " Baby's Day " Is funny enough to tell ; The first thing she did was give " syrup of squills " To dolly to make her well ; And then when I told her how wrong it was, She said, with a quivering sigh, " I'm sorry I made her so sticky, mamma, But I couldn't let dolly die." Then comforted wholly she went awav, And was just as still as a mouse, And I thought to be sure I should find her at once In the nursery playing ''house;" But, lo ! on the way as I started to look, A queer little piece I found, Just like a centre of snowy lawn That the scissors had scalloped round, I cried. " O, baby ! what have you done ? You have been to somebody's drawer, And taken from out of the handkerchief pile The most beautiful one that you saw !" And then the dear little head went down Pathetic as it could be, While she sobbed, "There was nothing for me to cut, And I thought I'd take two or three !" It was only a little later on, That the water began to splash, And I jumped and found she was rubbing away On her sister's holiday sash ; But, catching a look of utter dismay, As she lifted her innocent eyes, She whispered : " Don't worry, I'll wash it all dean, And hang it up till it dries." But the funny mishaps of that wonderful day I could not begin to relate ; The boxes of buttons and pins she spilled, Like a cherub pursued by fate ! And still, all the while, the dear little dove Was fluttering 'round her nest, And the only thing I really could do Was to smooth out her wings on my breast. But the day drifted on till it came to an end, And the great moon rose in sight. And the dear soft lids o'er the dear soft eyes Dropped tenderly their good-night. And I thought, as I looked on her lying asleep, I was glad (for once in a way), That my beautiful child was human enough For a mischievous " Baby Day." Mrs. L. C. Whiton. MAMMA'S STORY. ' ' nr^ELL us a story, mamma dear," j The children cried one day. " The rain falls fast. It is going to last, And we are all tired of play." Ah ! pleading eyes and winning tones, How could they be denied? So mamma began in merry strain, And she laid her work aside : " There was an old woman that lived in a shoe. And of all the children that ever you knew, Hers was the wildest, funniest crew ; Do you wonder she didn't know what to do? "There were Ella, and Nell, and Mary Belle, Laurie, Laura, and Maud Estelle, Sarah, Sammy, and Josephine, Norah, Norval, and Madeline, Lilian, Archibald, and Harry, Christopher, Charlie, Pete, and Carrie, Jemmy, Johnny, and Theodore, And over a half a dozen more, " And then such a terrible time, 'twas said, She had in getting them all to bed. And supper, alas ! was such a dread, Especially when they cried for bread. One night she threatened to whip them all, And reached for the switch upon the wall. My ! how the madcap urchins flew In and out of the poor old shoe ; Over each other they madly dash, The old lady after them like a flash. Through a hole in the worn-out sole, Back and forth at each button-hole ; Out at the top and in at the toe, Around and under, away they go. " Finally, wearied out with fun, They drop in their places one by one, And not till her house was still as death, Does the old woman pause to recover breath." Julia M. Dana. 63 "THANKS TO YOU." - * - v » "^ - TELLING A STORY. iPW 1 ^ 'ITTLE Blue-eyes is sleepy, , -f£*g^ Come here and be rocked to sleep. |K£S jj What shall I tell you, darling ? The story of Little Bo Peep ? Or of the cows in the garden, Or the children who ran away ? If I'm to be story-teller What shall I tell you, pray ? " Tell me" — the Blue-eyes opened Like pansies when they blow, "Of the baby in the manger, The little child-Christ, you know. I like to hear that 'tory The best of all you fell." And my four-year-old nestled closer As the twilight shadows fell. And I told my darling over The old, old tale again : Of the baby born in the manger, And the Christ who died for men, Of the great warm heart of Jesus, And the children whom He blest, Like the blue-eyed boy who listened As he lay upon my breast. And I prayed, as my darling slumbered, That my child, with eyes so sweet, Might learn from his Saviour's lesson And sit at the Master's feet. Pray God he may never forget it, But always love to hear The tender and touching story That now he holds so dear. Ebes E. Rexfoed. 69 HEEE little curly heads golden and fair, Three pairs of hands that are lifted in prayer, Three little figures in garments of white, Three little mouths that are kissed for good-night, Three little gowns that are folded away, Three little children who rest from their play, Three little hearts that are full of delight, For this is the close of a sweet Sunday nigh:. And mamma had clustered them all round her knee, And made them as happy as children could he ; She told to them stories of Jesus of old Who called little children like lambs to His fold; Who gathered them up in His arms to caress, And blessed them as only a Saviour could bless, While the innocent faces grew tender and bright, With the sweet, earnest talk of the calm Sunday night. And the blue eyes of Bennie had widen'd with fear, While Maidie had dropped an occasional tear, When they heard of the lions and Daniel so bold, And Joseph who once by his brethren was sold, And the children who walked 'mid the furnace of flame, Till the Angel of God in his purity came, Walking unharmed in their garments of white, — Oh, these were sweet stories to hear Sunday night ! And Maidie had said — the dear little child — Looking up in the face of her mother so mild, "I wish — oh, so much ! — I wish, mamma, dear. When the angels were walking they'd come to us here; I'd like once to see them, so shining and fair, Come floating and floating right down through the air. Let's ask them to come," said the wee little sprite, " Let's ask them to come to us this Sunday night." Then mamma told in her grave, gentle way, How the angels were guarding the children each day; How they stood softly round by the little one's bed ; How the blessing descended alike on each head ; But when they were naughty or wilfully bad, Then the Father was grieved and His angels were sad. " Ah, I mean to be good," lisped the baby, " and then I may see them some time when they're coming to Ben !" Oh, the innocent children ! How little they know Of the dear eyes in heaven bent on them below ; Of the guardian spirits, who close by their side Are watching and waiting to strengthen and guide ; And now, as they lie wrapped in dreams and in sleep, How ceaseless the vigils the angels will keep ! And mamma prays, ''Father, oh, guide them, aright, And send Thy good angels to guard them to- night!" Mary R. Higham. CHILD'S MORNING HYMN. • AFELY guarded by Thy presence, By Thy tender love and power, Holy Father ! Thou hast brought me To this peaceful happy hour. While the night shades gather round me, While " I laid me down and slept," 'Twas Thy mercy that sustained me, And my life in being kept. Thoughts of all this care so tender, Wake a morning hymn of praise, While a song of full thanksgiving, Here and pow to Thee I raise. Strengthened thus in mind and body, Help me to begin anew, In the race of love and duty, And the right each hour pursue. So, when all life's changing seasons, Fraught with "weal or woe," are past, Kept and saved by love eternal, Praise shall crown the work at last. E. S. 70 -«•*£ 3* Q *£. S*- HE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be : But she is in her grave, and, oh ! The difference to me ! Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said : " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. Shall feel an overseeing power, To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insatiate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend : Nor shall she fail to see, Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. " The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; :'*"- Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. "William Woedswoeth, W GOING TO BED. »UR Fannie Angelina Didn't want to go to bed, — Her reasons would you know ? then Let me tell you what she said. At eight o'clock precisely, At the close of yesterday, Her mamma in the trundle-bed Had tucked her snug away. " It isn't time to go to bed, The clock goes round too quick ; It hurts my back to lie in bed And almost makes me sick : I want to show my Uncle George My pretty birthday ring ; And sing him ' Jesus loves me,' For he likes to hear me sing ; My dollie, Haddynewya, Her yellow dress is thin, And she's sitting on the horse-block, I forgot to bring her in ; I want to go and get her, She'll catch a cold and die ; I want to get my nankachick, I guess I've got to cry. I said I'd wait till papa comes, I wonder what he'll think ; There's something hurts me in my throat, I want to get a drink. I guess I'd rather get it in My little silver cup — What makes me have to go to bed When you are staying up?" So Fannie Angelina Was determined not to do it. Yet she drifted off to Nod land, Poor child, before she knew it. The queen who reigns in Nod land Shut her willful eyes so tight, They quite forgot to open Till the sun was shining- bright. 71 MY PLAYMATES. §cff ONCE had a sister, oh fair 'mid the fair ! With a face that looked out from its soft golden hair, Like a lily some tall stately angel may hold, Half revealed, half concealed in a mist of pure gold. I once had a brother, more dear than the day, With a temper as sweet as the blossoms in May ; With dark hair like a cloud, and a face like a rose, The red child of the wild! when the summer- wind blows. We lived in a cottage that stood in a dell ; Were we born there or brought there I never could tell ; Were we nursed by the angels, or clothed by the fays, Or, who led when we fled down the deep sylvan ways, 'Mid treasures of gold and silver ! When we rose in the morning we ever said "Hark!" We shall hear, if we list, the first word of the lark ; And we stood with our faces, calm, silent and bright, While the breeze in the trees held his breath with delight. Oh the stream ran with music, the leaves dript with dew, And we looked up and saw the great God in the blue; And we praised him and blessed him, but said not a word, For we soared, we adored, with that magical bird. Then with hand linked in hand, how we laughed, how we sung ! How we danced in a ring, when the morning was young ! How we wandered where kingcups were crusted with gold, Or more white than the light glittered daisies untold, Those treasures of gold and of silver ! Oh, well I remember the flowers that we found, With the red and white blossoms that damasked always wondering why it had ever been born, the ground ; Charles Dickens. 72 And the long lane of light, that, half yellow, half green, Seemed to fade down the glade where the young fairy queen Would sit with her fairies around her and sing, While we listened all ear, to that song of the Spring, Oh, well I remember the lights in the west, And the spire, where the fire of the sun seemed to rest, When the earth, crimson-shadowed, laughed out in the air, — Ah ! I'll never believe that the fairies were there; Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours, And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in the flowers, Drop treasures of gold and of silver. Oh, weep ye and wail ! for that sister, alas ! And that fair gentle brother lie low in the grass ; Perchance the red robins may strew them with leaves, That each morn, for white corn, would come down from the eaves ; Perchance of their dust the young violets are made, That bloom by the church that is hid in the glade ; But one day I shall learn, if I pass where they grow, Far more sweet they will greet their old play- mates, I know. Ah ! the cottage is gone, and no longer I see The old glade, the old paths, and no lark sings for me : But I still must believe that the fairies are there, That the light grows more bright, touched by fingers so fair, 'Mid treasures of gold and of silver ! -j=«3- CYAO One by One. jjNE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall ; Some are coming, some are going ; Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties Avait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below ; Take them readily when given, Ready, too, to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band ; One will fade as others greet thee; Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow ; See how small each moment's pain ; God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again. Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its tasks to do or bear ; Luminous the crown and holy, When each gem is set with care. Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond ; Nor the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven ; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 80 THE MOTHER AS TEACHER. HE mother is the lumi- nary that shines and reigns alone in the ear- ly child-life; as years advance, the scepter is divided and the teach- er shares the sway. We often think, as we meet the earnest gaze of the interested pupil, and watch the mind working and the young thought shaping to the will, " Why is it that mothers so willingly yield to others this broad sphere of their domain, and are content to foster the physical and external life of their children, leaving the intellectual and spiritual to grow without their aid ? " 81 One would suppose that capable moth- ers would jealously keep to themselves the high privilege of training the mind, and so bind their children to themselves by ties which are stronger than the mere physical tie can be. We who have grown to realize to whom, we are debtors, are thrilled with delight as we think of those who have been the parents of our intellectual life — who seem nearer to us than our familiar friends, though we never have and never may look upon their living faces, — Bryant, Long- fellow, Ruskin, Emerson and Carlyle, and many another. How they have covered our lives with a rich broidery of beau- tiful and inspiring thought, so that to THE MOTHER AS TEACHER. live in the same world, and at the same time, seems a benison of blessing. So may the mother weave into the life of her children thoughts and feelings, rich, beautiful, grand and noble, which will make all after-life brighter and better. Many a good mother may think she has no time for this mind and soul culture, but we find no lack of robes and ruffles, and except in cases where the daily bread of the family must be earned by daily work away from home, as is done by many a weary mother, we must feel that there is not one who cannot command one half hour each morning, when the mind is fresh and vigorous, to collect her children around her, and minister for a little to their higher wants. If each mother according to her several ability, seeks to develop the higher and better faculties of her children, the reward will be as great as the aim is noble. £fe SWEET AND LOW. rWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, Avhile my pretty one sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Eest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. -^ B A B Y ^«- §|||iABY, baby, on my breast, fll§f Oh, my little one, sleep sound ! While the red clouds warm the west, And the bright leaves light the ground. Mother's love is round you here ; God's love, too, is close and near; Full and happy be thy rest, Baby, baby, on my breast ! Baby, baby, at my knee, Lift your eyes up, let them show All the dreams I cannot see ; Talk and tell me, make me know How the world's dim puzzles seem To your soul's pure Avaking dream. Bring your marbles all to me, Baby, baby, at my knee. Baby, baby, at my side, Ah, your cheek just reaches mine, So, time will not be denied ; Glossy braids are smooth and fine, And I read within your eyes Womanhood's fair mysteries, Baby, baby, at my side, Tall enough to be a bride ! Baby, baby, far from me, Lines of care have crossed your brow, Little children climb your knee, Fill your heart and household now, " Mother," is my baby's name, Yet to me, she's still the same ; Still the child I rocked to rest As a baby on my breast. MARY AINGE DE VERE. ALFRED TENNYSON. 82 LIFE'S HAPPIEST PERIOD. IFE'S lAPPIEST JpERIOD. HERE is no pleas- ure that I have experienced like a child's mid-sum- mer holiday — the time, I mean, when two or three of us used to go away up the brook and take our dinners with us, and come home at night, tired, happy, scratched beyond recognition, with a great nosegay, three little trout, and one shoe, the other having been used for a boat till it had gone down with all hands out of soundings. How poor our Derby days, our Greenwich din- ners, our evening parties, where there are plenty of nice girls, after that ! Depend upon it, a man never experiences such pleasure or grief after fourteen years as he does before, unless in some cases, in his first love-making, when the sensation is new to him. CHARLES KINGSLEY. C 'HILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. §|NCE on a time, when sunny May Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair Childhood hard at play Upon a bank of blushing flowers: Happy. — he knew not whence or how, — And smiling, — who could choose but love him? For not more glad than Childhood's brow, AVas the blue heaven that bloomed above him. Old Time in most appalling wrath, That valley's green repose invaded ; The brooks grew dry upon his path, The birds were mute, the lilies faded. But time so swiftly winged his flight, In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, That Childhood watched his paper kite, And just knew nothing of the matter. With curling lip and glancing eye Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; But Childhood's glance of purity Had such a holy spell within it, That the dark demon to the air Spread forth again his baffled pinion, And hid his envy and despair, Self-tortured, in his own dominion. Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, Pale, cyprus-crowned Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup Full to the brim of bitter water: Poor childhood bade her tell her name ; And when the beldame muttered, "Sorrow," He said, " Don't interrupt my game; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." The Muse of Pinclus thither came, And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; Though sweet the music of the lay, To Childhood it was all a riddle, And "Oh," he cried, "do send away That noisy woman with the fiddle. Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, And taught him, with most sage en- deavor, Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, And why no toy may last forever. She talked of all the wondrous laws Which Nature's open book discloses, And Childhood, ere she made a pause, Was fast asleep among the roses. Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams Are all of earthly pain or pleasure, Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, Of cherished love, of hoarded treasure : But to the couch where Childhood lies A more delicious trance is given, Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, And glimpses of remembered Heaven! P R AE D. 83 Little Willie Waging Up. £y OME have thought that in the dawning, ^L In our being's freshest glow, VL^ God is nearer little children Than their parents ever know. And that if you listen sharply, Better things than you can teach, And a sort of mystic wisdom Trickles through their careless speech. How it is I cannot answer, But I knew a little child, Who, among the thyme and clover, And the bees was running wild. And he came one summer evening, With his ringlets o'er his eyes, And his hat was torn in pieces Chasing bees and butterflies. " Now I'll go to bed, dear mother, For I'm very tired of play ! " And he said his, " Now I lay me," In a kind of careless way. And he drank the cooling water, From his little silver cup, And said, gayly, " When it's morning, Will the Angels take me up?" Down he sank with roguish laughter In his little trundle bed, And the kindly god of slumber Showered the poppies o'er his head. " What could mean his speaking strangely ? " Asked his musing mother then — " Oh 'twas nothing but his prattle; What can he of Angels ken ? " There he lies, how sweet and placid, And his breathing comes and goes Like a zephyr moving softly, And his cheek is like a rose ; But she leaned her ear to listen If his breathing could be heard : " Oh," she murmured, "if the Angels Took my darling at his word ! " Night within its folding mantle Hath the sleepers both beguiled, And within its soft embracing Best the mother and the child ; Up she starteth from her dreaming, For a sound hath struck her ear — And it comes from little Willie, Lying on his trundle near. Up she springeth, for it strikes upon Her troubled ear again, And his breath, in louder fetches, Travels from his lungs in pain, And his eyes are fixing upward On some face beyond the room ; And the blackness of the spoiler, From his cheek hath chased the bloom. Never more his, " Now I lay me," Shall be said from mother's knee, Never more among the clover * Will he chase the humble-bee. Through the night she watched her darling, Now despairing, now in hope ; And about the break of morning Did the Angels take him up. E. H. SEARS. Jin UnftinUhed MwfU. — •*■ — r OW I lay" — say it, darling; '• Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending O'er her folded finger-tips. " Down to sleep — to sleep," she murmured, And the curly head dropped low. " I pray the Lord," I gently added, " You can say it all, I know." "Pray the Lord" — the words came faintly, Fainter still — " My soul to keep ; " Then the tired head fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest." Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding Of that child-heart! Would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, He who hears my humblest cry. 84 +$ TpE ¥pm$ CpLE gOMlJ. f^- ING him a cradle song, Tender and low ; Tell him how Jesus came Long, long ago : Came as a little one, Lowly and mild, God's own eternal Son, Yet Mary's child. Long years may come and pass, And there shall be Under the churchyard grass Slumber for thee ; Yet shall thy song live on Still in his life, Sweeter when thou art gone Out of the strife. Sorrow will come with time, Faith may grow cold ; Truth, like a silver chime, Calls to the fold ; Calls to the roving sheep (Gone far astray), " Come, and the Lord shall keep Spoilers away." Say not the words are weak, Scorned of the wise ; Doth not the Master speak In lowly guise? He shall thy weakness make Holy and strong, And thy poor song shall wake A sweeter song. SARAH DOWDNEY. =(T^M .^f^> EVA AND TOPSY. VA stood looking at Topsy. There stood the two children, rep- resentatives of the two extremes of society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements, .;,.. and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbor. They stood the representatives of their . races. The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, ' command, education, physical and moral eminence ; the Afric, born of ages of oppression, submission ignorance, toil, and vice ! H . B . STOW E. 85 All BB1I. ^ AVE you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours ? The gates of Heaven were left ajar With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even, — Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-wing'd angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touch'd a bridge of flowers, — those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers : Then all the air grew strangely sweet! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours. She came, and brought delicious May. The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went the livelong day ; The lily swung its noiseless bell ; And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seem'd bursting with its veins of wine. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours ! Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day ! What woman-nature fill'd her eyes, What poetry within them lay ! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more : Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born : We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen — The land beyond the morn ; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise), — For love of Him who smote our lives And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ / — our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards which were white And red with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheek'd peaches blush'd and fell, The ivory chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling in the grange; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In soften'd curves, her mother's face Her angel-nature ripen'd too. We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now : — Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame ! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech ; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things : She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell, — The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands : And what did dainty Baby Bell ? She only cross'd her little hands, She only look'd more meek and fair! We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow, — White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers 1 And thus went dainty Baby Be!l Out of this world of ours ! THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 86 £ ^ZB^JB^Z* ZB^IE. '* |ABY Bye, Wi Here's a fly; Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls Up the walls, Yet he never falls ! I believe with six such legs You and I could walk on eggs. There he goes On his toes, Tickling baby's nose. Spots of red Dot his head ; Rainbows on his back are spread; That small speck Is his neck ; See him nod and beck. I can show you, if you choose, Where to look to find his shoes, — Three small pairs, Made of hairs ; These he always wears. Black and brown Is his gown ; « He can wear it upside down ; It is laced Round his waist ; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made, He will lose them, I'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light. In the sun Webs are spun ; What if he gets into one ? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I ; God has given the little fly No such things, So he sings With his buzzing wings. He can eat Bread and meat ; There 's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand ? Then the fly shall kiss her hand ; Put a crumb On her thumb, Maybe he will come. Catch him ? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so ; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk ; Fie, oh fie, Foolish fly! How will he get dry ? All wet flies Twist their thighs; Thus they wipe their heads and eyes; Cats you know Wash just so. Then their whiskers grow. Flies have hairs too short to comb, So they fly bareheaded home ; But the gnat Wears a hat, Do you believe that ? Flies can see More than we, So how bright their eyes must be ! Little fly, Ope your eye ; Spiders are near by. For a secret I can tell, Spiders never use flies well. Then away, Do not stay, Little fly, good-day. THEODORE TILTON. 87 The Adopted Child. «HY would'st thou leave me, oh gentle $ child, Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild — A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; Mine is a fair and pillared hall, Where many an image of marble gleams, And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams." " Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the sum- mer's day ; They find the red cup-moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know ; Lady, kind lady ! oh let me go." " Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well : Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, Harps which the wandering breezes tune, And the silvery wood-note of many a bird Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain heard." " Oh ! my mother sings at the twilight's fall, A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; She sings it under our own green tree To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; I dreamt last night of that music low — Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." "Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest; She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more, Nor hear her song at the cabin door. Come thou with me to the vineyard nigh, And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." "Is my mother gone from her home away? — But I know that my brothers are there at play— I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well; Or they launch their boats where the brig' t streams flow — Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." "Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now; They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; They have left the fern by the spring's green side, And the streams where the fairy barks were tied. Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, For the cabin home is a lonely spot." Are they gone, all gone from the the sunny hill?— But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, And the heath is bent by the singing bee, And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow; Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. TO J. H FOUR YEARS OLD : — A NURSERY SONG . . . . Pien d'amori, Pien di canti, e pien di flori. Fkugoni. Full of little loves of ours, Full of songs, and full of flowers. AH, little ranting Johnny, For ever blithe and bonny, And singing nonn} r , nonny, With hat just thrown upon ye ; Or whistling like the thrushes, With a voice in silver gushes; Or twisting random posies With daisies, weeds, and roses; And strutting in and out so, Or dancing all about so ; TO J. H. With cock-up nose so lightsome, And sidelong eyes so brightsome, And cheeks as ripe as apples, And head as rough as Dapple's, And arms as sunny shining As if their veins they 'd wine in, And mouth that smiles so truly Heaven seems to have made it newly — It breaks into such sweetness With merry-lipped completeness Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio, As blithe as Laughing Trio ! ■ — Sir Richard, too, you rattler, So christened from the Tattler, My Bacchus in his glory, My little Cor-di-fiori, My tricksome Puck, my Robin, Who in and out come bobbing, As full of feints and frolics as That fibbing rogue Autolycus, And play the graceless robber on Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, How can you, can you be so? One cannot turn a minute, But mischief — there you 're in it : A-getting at my books, John, With mighty bustling looks, John, Or poking at the roses, In midst of which your nose is; Or climbing on a table, No matter how unstable, And turning up your quaint eye And half-shut teeth, with "May n't I?" Or else you 're off at play, John, Just as you 'd be all day, John, With hat or not, as happens ; And there you dance, and clap hands, Or on the grass go rolling, Or plucking flowers, or bowling, And getting me expenses With losing balls o'er fences ; Or, as the constant trade is, Are fondled by the ladies With "What a young rogue this is! v Reforming him with kisses ; Till suddenly you cry out, As if you had an eye out, So desperately fearful, The sound is really fearful; When, lo ! directly after, It bubbles into laughter. Ah, rogue ! and do you know, John, Why, 'tis we love you so, John? And how it is they let ye Do what you like, and pet ye, Though all who look upon ye, Exclaim, "Ah, Johnny, Johnny !" It is because you please 'em Still more, John, than you teaze 'em; Because, too, when not present, The thought of you is pleasant; Because, though such an elf, John, They think that if yourself, John, Had something to condemn, too, You'd be as kind to them, too ; In short, because you're very Good-tempered, Jack, and merry; And are as quick at giving As easy at receiving ; And in the midst of pleasure Are certain to find leisure To think, my boy, of ours, And bring us heaps of flowers. But see, the sun shines brightly, Come, put your hat on rightly, And we'll among the bushes, And hear your friends, the thrushes ; And see what flowers the weather Has rendered fit to gather ; And, when we home must jog, you Shall ride my back, you rogue you — Your hat adorned with fine leaves, Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves; And so, with green o'erhead, John, Shall whistle home to bed, John. LEIGH HUNT. CRADLE SONG. FROM THE GERMAN. u ^go Sleep, baby, sleep ! ^lilI|§HY father's watching the sheep, Thy mother's shaking the dream- land tree, And down drops a little dream for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep ! The large stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep ! And cry not like a sheep, Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, And bite this naughty child of mine. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ' The Saviour loves his sheep ; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep . Sleep, baby, sleep ' Away to tend the sheep, Away thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, And do not harm my sleeping child ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! ELIZABETH PRENTISS. THE BIRD CATCHER. q^g-Q -3/--0 GENTLY, gently yet, young stranger, Light of heart and light of heel ! Ere the bird perceives its danger, On it slyly steal. Silence ! — ah ! your scheme is failing — No ; pursue your pretty prey ; See, your shadow on the paling Startles it away. Caution ! now you're nearer creeping ; Nearer yet — how still it seems ! Sure, the winged creature's sleeping, Wrapt in forest dreams ! Golden sights that bird is seeing. Nest of green, or mossy bough ; Not a thought it hath of fleeing ; Yes, you'll catch it now. How your eyes begin to twinkle ! Silence, and you'll scarcely fail. Now stoop down, and softly sprinkle Salt upon its tail. Yes, you have it in your tether, Never more to skim the skies ; Lodge the salt on that long feather — Ha ! it flies ! it flies ! Hear it — hark ! among the bushes, Laughing at your idle lures ! Boy, the self-same feeling gushes Through my heart and yours. Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor, How have I been — hapless fault ! Led, like you, my hopes to centre On a grain of salt ! On what captures I've been counting, Stooping here, and creeping there, All to see my bright hope mounting High into the air ! Thus have children of all ages, Seeing bliss before them fly, Found their hearts but empty cages, And their hopes on high ! LAMAN BLANCHARD. € OLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby: Bock them, rock them, lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. THOMAS DEKKER. 90 DANAE. Dpr^e. 'JjttHILST, around her lone ark sweeping, 3pp Wailed the winds and waters wild, Her young cheeks all wan with weeping. Danae clasped her sleeping child . And •'Alas." i cried she.) "my dearest. What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine ! But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest, In that sinless rest of thine. Faint the moonbeams break above thee, And, within here, all is gloom ; But fast wrapt in arms that love thee, Little reck'st thou of our doom. Not the rude spray round thee flying, Has e'en damped thy clustering hair, — On thy purple mantlet lying, mine Innocent, my Fair ! Yet. to thee were sorrow sorrow, Thou would'st lend thy little ear, And this heart of thine might borrow Haply yet a moment's cheer. But no ; slumber on, Babe, slumber ; Slumber, Ocean-waves ; and you. My dark troubles, without number, — Oh, that ye would slumber too ! Though with wrongs they've brimmed my chalice, Grant Jove, that, in future years, This boy may defeat their malice, And avenge his mother's tears!" SIM ox IDES. Translation of william peter. (Greek. | MY SERMON. I HAVE been siting here for an hour, noting clown some thoughts for the sermon which I hope to write during this week, and to preach nest Sunday. I have not been able to think very con- nectedly, indeed ; for two little feet have been pattering round me, two little hands pulling at me occasionally, and a little voice entreating that I should come and have a race upon the green. Of course I went ; for like most men who are not very great or very bad, I have learned, for the sake of the little owner of the hands and the voice, to love every little child. My sermon will be the better for these interruptions. I do not mean to say it will be absolutely good, though it will be as good as I can make it; but it will be better for these races with my little girl. BOYD. /"(flsS- eMTT!B flKAl^f, IwET every sound be dead; . Baby sleeps. The Emperor softly tread ! Baby sleeps. | Let Mozart's music stop ! Let Phidia's chisel drop ! Baby sleeps. Demosthenes be dumb ! Our tyrant's hour has come ! Baby sleeps. 91 THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW. THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW. — * — 5 HO does not remember the keen relish of the rapid run in the wheelbarrow of early youth, bumping and rolling about, and finally turning a corner at full speed and upsetting ? Who does not remember the delight of the little springless carriage that threatened to dis- locate and grind down the bones ? Luxury destroys real enjoyment. There is more real enjoyment in riding in a wheelbarrow than in driving in a carriage-and-four. ofoo Oh, fortunate baby ! Sunday lass ! The veins of gold through the rocks you'll see; And when o'er the shining sands you pass, You can tell where the hidden springs may be. And never a fiend or an airy sprite May thwart or hinder you all your days, Whenever it chances, in mirk midnight, The lids of your marvelous eyes you raise. You may see, while your heart is pure and true, The angels that visit this lower sphere, Drop down the firmament, two and two, Their errands of mercy to work down here. This is the dower of a Sunday child; What do you think of it, little brown head, Winking and blinking your eyes so mild, Down in the depths of your snowy bed ? ALICE WILLIAMS. She Sunday Baby. THE BLIND BOY. ;OU wonderful little Sunday child ! Half of your fortune scarce you know, Although you have blinked and winked and smiled Full seven and twenty days below. "The bairn that was born on Sabbath day," So say the old wives over their glass — " Is bonny and healthy, and wise and gay! " What do you think of that, my lass? Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth! And (as if that were not enough for a dower), Because of the holy day of your birth, Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's hour. When we poor bodies, With backward look, Shiver and quiver and quake with fear Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook, Never a thought need you take, my dear — For "Sunday's child" may go where it please, Sunday's child shall be free from harm ! Right down through the mountain side it sees The mines unopened where jewels swarm ! o H, say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy ? What are the blessings of the sight, Oh, tell your poor blind boy ! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night '? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy ; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. COLLEY CIBBER. 92 WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN. HAVE you forgotten, little wife, Our far-off childhood's golden life? Our splendid castles on the sands, The boat I made with my own hands, The dreams we had ! the songs we made ! The sunshine! and the woven shade! The tears of many a sad good-bye, When we were parted, you and I ! The rain that caught us in the wood, The cakes we had when we were good, The doll I broke and made you cry, When we were children, you and I! Have you forgotten, little wife, The dawning of that other life ? The strange new light the whole world wore, When life love's perfect blossom bore! Ah, nay! your loving heart, I know, Remembers still the long-ago ; It is the light of childhood's days That shines through all your winning ways. God grant we ne'er forget our youth, Its innocence, and faith, and truth, The smiles, the tears, and hopes gone by. When Ave were children, you and I. FREDERICK E. WEATHERLY. 93 SAFE FOLDED D H, it is hard when o'er the face We scarce can see for weeping The little loving baby face, That last, still shadow comes creeping; Full hard to close the tender eyes, And fold the hands for sleeping. Yet when the world our own would claim, It doth not greatly grieve us; We calmly see as days go by, Our little children leave us — And, smiling, heed not how the swift, Soft-footed years bereave us. Oh mother hearts I count you rich Beyond mere earth-possessing, Whose little babies never grow Away from your caressing — Safe-folded in His tender arms, Who gives again with blessing. CAROLINE LESLIE. CHILDREN'S HOUR. >ETWEEN the dark and the day- light, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planting together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall ! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair : If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all '? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you"down into the dungeon. In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you for ever, Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away ! HENRY. WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Introduction to "Songs of Innocence. HlPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : " Pipe a song about a lamb ! So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again ;" So I piped ; he wept to hear. 94 INTRODUCTION TO "SONGS OF INNOCENCE:' " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer !" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. " Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." So he vanish'd from my sight ; And I pluck'd a hollow reecl, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. WILLIAM BLAKE. dk(li^@ THE NEW COMER. Lancashire Dialect. g^ +. . .4,. ^-3 IfjjjliHA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid, pfl§| But should n't ha' come just when tha did ; Toimes are bad. We 're short 0' pobbies for eawr Joe, But that, of course, tha did n't know, Did ta, lad? Aw 've often yeard mi feyther tell 'At when aw coom i' th' world misel Trade wur slack ; An' neaw it 's hard wark pooin' throo — But aw munna fear thee, iv aw do Tha '11 go back. Cheer up ! these toimes '11 awter soon ; Aw 'm beawn to beigh another spoon — One for thee ; An', as tha 's sich a pratty face, Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place On mi knee. Hush ! hush ! tha munno cry this way, But get this sope o' cinder tay While it 's warm ; Mi mother used to give it me, When aw wur sich a lad as thee, In her arm. Hush a babby, hush a bee — Oh, what a temper ! dear a me, Heaw tha skroikes ! Here 's a bit o' sugar, sithee ; Howd thi noise, an' then aw '11 gie thee Owt tha loikes. We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare, But eawt o' this tha '11 ha' thi share, Never fear. Aw hope tha '11 never want a meal, But alius fill thi bally weel While tha 'rt here. And tho' we 'n childer two or three, We '11 make a bit 0' reawm for thee — Bless thee, lad ! Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest ; Come, hutch up closer to mi breast — Aw 'm thi dad. CMADLE SONl&a QT LEEP little baby of mine, ^S Night and the darkness are near Mr But Jesus looks down Through the shadows that frown, And baby has nothing to fear. Shut little sleepy blue eyes ; Dear little head be at rest ; Jesus like you, Was a baby once too, And slept on his own mother's breast. Sleep little baby of mine Soft on your pillow so white ; Jesus is here To watch over you, dear, And nothing can harm you to-night. Oh little darling of mine, What can you know of the bliss, The comfort I keep, Awake and asleep, Because I am certain of this ? 95 d&p BED-TIME i. JY=HE children are going to bed In nurseries shaded and clean, And many a bright and curly head Is nestling the white sheets between. Little faces all washed white as snow, Are dewy with kisses to-night, And young lips are murmuring low Sweet prayers — words from consciences white. Tiny dresses and jackets and shoes Lie folded away till the morn, Like the chrysalis, no more of use To the gayly-striped insect new-born. The angel of sleep hovers near, And curtains the room with his wings ; That incense to angels is dear Which from the nursery altars upsprings. Little eyelids quite tired with play, Are drooping and closing like flowers, And restless young forms laid away, To sleep through the long midnight hours. In cottage and castle and hall, In valley, on prairie, or hill, The calm hush of evening doth fall, And life hath grown suddenly still. At sunset a blessing comes down, And peace upon all things is shed, For in city and village and town The children are going to bed. II. The children are going to bed, Such bed as their lives ever know, In alley and attic and shed, And cellar-ways fetid and low, In homes where wrangle and din Turn night into hideous noon, Where the voice of shame, sorrow, and sin Will break their light slumbers too soon. All tumbled and dirty they lie, No kiss on the heavy young brow, A tear scarcely dried in the eye, The flush of a blow ling'ring now. They sleep upon pavement or floor, With never a low word of prayer, Or gasp at the window or door For a breath of the life-giving air. Far up in the tenement high They sob at the falling of day, And angels bend down from the sky To hear what the poor children say. It may be that even in heaven Some bright tears of pity are shed, And sins of the day all forgiven When the children are going to bed. III. " The children are going to bed ! " Hushed voices speak gently the word : All muffled the mother's light tread, No merry " Good-evening " is heard, No breath stirs the ringlets of gold, No dimple the passionless cheek, No tossing limbs ruffle a fold Laid over the hands folded meek. Oh ! quiet the cradle, though small, Where the children are laid to their rest ; There is room and to spare for them all, In Earth's warm and welcoming breast. What matter if castle or cot Once held the fair image of snow ? All alike are they now in their lot, As they nestle the flowers below. 96 BED-TIME. Then cover them- up from our sight, Spread the freshest green turf o'er their head, Bid them one more caressing " good- night.'' The children are going to bed. The children are folded in dreams, Bright angels have sung them to sleep, And stars with then - great solemn beams, Loving watch o'er their tired forms keep. Xo waking to sorrow or gloom, Xo hunger, no shame, and no sin, Oh ! faithful and loving the tomb That safe from life's ills shuts them in. The sweet name of Jesus our Lord Once more o'er their jdUIows be said, And praise, that, secure in His "Word, The children are going to bed. M . E . W I X S L O W . CHOOSING A NAME. |Cy?EXD down thy winged Angel, God ! jfejr; Amidst this night so wild, And bid him come where now we watch, And breathe upon our child. She lies upon her pillow, pale, And moans within her sleep, Or wakeneth with a patient smile, And striveth not to weep ! How gentle and how good a child She is, we know too well, And dearer to her parents' hearts Than our weak words can tell. We love — we watch throughout the night, To aid, when need may be ; We hope — and have despair'd at times, But now we turn to Thee. Send down thy sweet-soul'd Angel, God ! Amidst the darkness wild, And bid him soothe our souls to-night, And heal our gentle child ! BARRY CORNWALL. (HAVE got a new-born sister ; I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — She will shortly be to christen ; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her. Now I wonder what would please her, — Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? Ann and Mary, they're too common ; Joan's too formal for a woman ; Jane's a prettier name beside ; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 't was Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books ; Ellen's left off long ago ; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine ; What do you think of Caroline ? How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next ! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her ; — I will leave papa to name her. MARY LAM --*- 0]S TJIE PICTURE OF fl\ IXEfl]S>F PLflY- 1X6 ]5E^I^ n PRECIPICE. WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See. to the last, last verge her infant steals ! Oh fly— yet stir not. speak not, lest it fall. — Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. leonidas of Alexandria. (Greek.j Translation of s A M U E L ROGERS. 97 15+ 3 < S To The Cuckoo. beauteous stranger of the grove, Thou messenger of Spring ! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy way, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year ! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring ! JOHN LOGAN. ■*+ WS- -*-9- 98 Sweet Baby, Sleep. fWEET baby, sleep! what ails dear? What ails my darling, thus to cry ? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. my Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? What thing to thee can mischief do ? Thy God is now thy Father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had ; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be ; Thine eldest brother is a King, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; For whosoever thee offends By thy Protector threaten'd are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight ; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was He ; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin mother's knee, That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be till, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease ; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed : Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth my babe, for thee ; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby sleep. Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not: Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. GEORGE WITHER. 99 ., dfe '/T> That Little Hat." II FIND it in the garden path, Its little crown half full Of white flowers ; where's the rogue Who dared my roses pull? I find it on the roadside there, The flowers tossed away, And in the crown, packed carefully, A load of stones and clay. I find it in the daisied field, Or hidden in the clover, Inspected by the wandering bees, And crawled by insects over. I find it on the old barn floor, Or in the manger resting, Or swinging from the beams above, Where cooing doves are nesting. I find it 'neath my busy feet Upon the kitchen floor, Or lying midway up the stairs, Or by my chamber door. I find it in, I find it out, 'Neath table, lounge, or chair, The little shabby brimless thing, I find it everywhere But on the curly, golden pate, For which alone 'twas meant, That little restless, sunny head, On mischief always bent. Oh ! baby boy, this problem solve, And tell me, darling, whether Your roguish pate and this old hat Were ever seen together ? ^r LITTLE roll of flannel fine; A thrill in mother's heart — " 'tis mine;" A little head of golden hair ; A lifted eye to heaven in prayer. MARYD. BRINE. A smile that ripples to a laugh ; A tear with grief in its behalf; A pushing of a slender chair ; A climbing of the oaken stair; A stride o'er everything at hand; A horse at Santa Claus' command; A little cart all painted red ; A train of cars at full steam sped ; A pair of "pants" that reach the knee; A strut like midshipman from sea ; A pair of boots with tops of red ; A knife, a ball, a gallant sled ; A pocket full of everything; A "shooter," skates, and yards of string; A voting fractions "such a bore;" A holiday rejoicing o'er; A stretching down the pantaloon ; A swim — a wrestling match at noon; A little Latin now, and Greek ; A letter home just once a week; A roaming through collegiate halls; A summer evening spent in calls ; A rapture o'er a sunny face ; A bow, a ring, some bridal lace ; A kneeling at the chancel rail ; A trembling bride, a bridegroom pale ■ A leap into the world's wide sea; My boy was gone — ah me ! ah me ! FRANCES A. M. JOHNSON. 100 ^/i-i\^- Hi If I Could Keep Her So. 1UST a little baby lying in my arms, Would that I could keep you with your baby charms; Helpless, clinging fingers ; downy, golden hair, Where the sunshine lingers, caught from otherwhere ; Blue eyes asking questions, lips that cannot speak, Roly-poly shoulders, dimple in your cheek ; Dainty little blossom, in a world of woe ; Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. Roguish little damsel, scarcely six years old ; Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold ; Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play, Tongue that never ceases talking all the day, Blue eyes learning wonders of the world about, Have come to tell you them — what an eager shout ! Winsome little damsel, all the neighbors know ; Thus I long to keep you, for I love you so. Sober little school-girl with your strap of books, And such grave importance in your puzzled looks, Solving weary problems, poring over sums, Yet with tooth for sponge cake and for sugar plums, Reading books of romance in your bed at uight, Waking up to study in the morning light ; Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow, Full of contradictions — I would keep you so. \ Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by my side, All the world's before, and the world is wide ; Hearts are there for winning, hearts are there to break, Has your own, shy maiden, just begun to wake? Is that rose of dawning, glowing on your cheek. Telling us in blushes what you will not speak ? Shy and tender maiden, I would fain forego All the golden future, just to keep you so. All the listening angels saw that she was fair, Ripe for rare unfolding in the upper air; Now the rose of dawning turns to lily white, And the close-shut eyelids veil the eyes from sight. All the past I summon as I kiss her brow — Babe, and child, and maiden, all are with me now, O ! my heart is breaking ; but God's love I know — Safe among the angels, He will keep her so. LOUISE C . MOULTOS. "^ 101 WILLIE WINKIE. ^jjMiMi& ^$Mvn$iie>. WEE Willie Winkle- rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep. Onything but sleep, ye rogue ! — glowerin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an aim jug with an aim spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk. Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrumse ; Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee ; But a kiss frae aft his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. WILLIAM MILLER. N THE BABIE. + AE shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet ; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips and balmy mou' With nae an tooth within. Her een sae like her mother's een, Twa gentle, liquid things ; Her face is like an angel's face: We're glad she has nae wings. She is the buddin' o' our love, A giftie God gied us : We maun na have the gift owre wee. 'Twad be na blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given ; An* sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae heaven. J. E. RANKIN. +. & — ^=^-t- I E always frank and open with your children. Make them trust you and tell you all their secrets. Make them feel at ease with you, and make free with them. There is no such good plaything for grown-up chil- dren like you and me as weans, wee ones. It is wonderful what you can get them to do with a little coaxing and fun. You all know this as well as I do, and you will practice it every day in your own families. There is a pleasant little story out of an old book : — "A gentleman having led a company of children beyond their usual journey, they began to be weary, and all cried to him to carry them on his back, but because of their multi- tude he could not do that. 'But,' says he, l I'll get horses for us all ;' then cut- ting little wands out of the hedges as ponies, and a great stake as a charger for himself, this put mettle into their little legs, and they rode cheerily home." So much for a bit of ingenious fun. DR . BROWN. 102 DEATH OF A BABE. & £l She had seen All of earth's year except the winter's snows, Spring, summer, autumn, like sweet dreams, had smiled On her. Eva — or living — was her name ; A bud of life folded in leaves and love ; The dewy morning star of summer days; The golden lamps of happy fire-side hours ; The little ewe-lamb nestling by our side ; The dove whose cooing echoed in our hearts ; The sweetest chord upon our harp of praise : The quiet spring the rivulet of joy; The pearl among His gifts who gave us all; On whom not we alone, but all who look'd, Gazing would breath the involuntary words, "God bless thee, Eva — God be bless'd for thee." Alas, clouds gather'd quickly, and the storm Fell without warning on our tender bud, Scattering its leaflets; and the star was drench'd Tn tears; the lamp burnt dimly unawares The little lamb was faint ; the weary dove Cower'd its young head beneath its drooping wing ; The chord was loosen'd on our harp ; the fount Was troubled, and the rill ran nearly dry ; And in our souls we heard our Father saying, "Will ye return the gift?'' The Voice was low — The answer lower btill — " Thy will be done." And now where we had often pictured her, I saw her one of the beatified ; Eva, our blossom, ours forever now, Unfolding in the atmosphere of love : The star that set upon our earthly home Had risen in glory, and in purer skies Was shining; and the lamp we sorely miss'd, Shed its soft radiance in a better home ; Our lamb was pasturing in heavenly meads ; Our dove had settled on the trees of life ; Another chord was ringing with delight, Another spring of rapture was unseal'd, In Paradise ; our treasure was with God ; The gift in the great Giver's strong right hand ; And none who look'd on her could choose but say, " Eva, sweet angel, God be bless'd for thee." E. H. BICKERSTETH. 103 PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. IN the quiet nursery chambers, — Snowy pillows yet unpressed, — See the forms of little children Kneeling, white-robed, for their rest. All in quiet nursery chambers, While the dusky shadows creep, Hear the voices of the children ; "Now I lay me down to sleep." In the meadow and the mountain Calmly shine the Winter stars, But across the glistening lowlands Stand the moonlight's silver bars. In the silence and the darkness, Darkness growing still more deep, Listen to the little children, Praying God their souls to keep. " If we die " — so pray the children, And the mother's head droops low, One from out her fold is sleeping Deep beneath the winter's snow — " Take our souls ; " — and past the casement Flits a gleam of crystal light, Like the trailing of his garments, Walking evermore in white. Little souls that stand expectant, Listening at the gates of life, Hearing, far away, the murmur Gf the tumult and the strife, We who fight beneath those banners, Meeting ranks of foemen there, Find a deeper, broader meaning In your simple vesper prayer. When your hand shall grasp this standard Which to-day you watch from far, When your deeds shall shape the conflict In this universal war : Pray to Him, the God of battles, Whose strong eyes can never sleep, In the warring of temptation, Firm and true your souls to keep. When the combat ends, and slowly Clears the smoke from out the skies ; When, far down the purple distance, All the noise of battle dies ; When the last night's solemn shadow Settles down on you and me, May the love that never faileth Take our souls eternally ! -*#&%- °i& CHILD'S M00D> WANT that rose the wind took yesterday, I want it more than this : It had no thorn — it was the best that grew, I want my last night's kiss. I want that butterfly with spotted wings That brushed across my hand, Last night, between the sunset and the dew, It came from fairy-land. It would have stayed, I guess, it wavered so, Where all those pansies bloom : They ga\ e it wings to get away from me, I lost it in the gloom. And yesterday the bees on all the heads Of clover swting so low, I saw them take their honey; but to-day They only sting and go. That star that always comes before the moon, Dropped out of heaven last night ; I hunted where I saw it fall — and found A worm with yellow light. I want the sun to go, and let the dark Hide everything away. That was the sweetest rose in all the world The wind took yesterday. JULIET C. MARSH. 104 THE FORCED PRAYER. @fmmf> BABY THANKFUL. — •*• — ROAMING in the meadow, Little four-year-old Picks the starry daisies, With their hearts of gold; Fills her snowy apron, Fills her dimpled hands; Suddenly — how quiet In the grass she stands ! " Who made Powers so petty — Put 'em here? Did God?" I half heeding answer With a careless nod. Dropping all her blossoms, AVith uplifted head, Fervent face turned skyward, "Thank you, God !" she said. CAROLINE METCALK. 105 3/ts£^g£g\a.-p The Cry of the Children, |0 ye hear the children weeping, my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shad- ows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy ; " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary, Our young feet," they say, " are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek : Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. "True," say the children, "it may happen. That we die before our time : Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her : Was no room for any work in the close clay ! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ' Get up little Alice ! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her -eyes; And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have : They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the , city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds a-near the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shad- ows, From your pleasures fair and fine ! "For, oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 106 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. "For all day the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places ; Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceil- ing, All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, ' ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moan- ing) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth ! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, my brothers, To look up to Him and pray ; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God, that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And we hear not (for the wheels in their re- sounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. Our Father!' If He heard us He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' " But no ! " say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone : And they tell us of His image is the master, Who commands us to work on. Go to ! " say the children, — " up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbe- lieving : We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and dis- proving, my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's, possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm : Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep ! let them weep ! 107 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they 'mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, cruel nation, Will you stand, to mo\e the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. TH E LITTLE rnvni.TPi? h- HE walks beside his mother, And looks up in her face ; He wears a glow of boyish pride With such a royal grace ! He proudly waits upon her; Would shield her without fear — The boy who loves his mother well, Her little cavalier. To see no tears of sorrow Upon her loving cheek, To gain her sweet, approving smile, To hear her softly speak — Ah ! what in all this wide world Could be to him so dear ? — The boy who loves his mother well, Her little cavalier. Look for him in the future Among the good, the true : All blessings on the upward way His little feet pursue. Of robed and crowned and sceptered kings He stands the royal peer — The boy who loves his mother well, Her little cavalier. GE ORGE COOPER. CO UNTRY ^CHILDR EN. czz)~-' J^tfi H — i 5 ITTLE fresh violets, Born in the wild wood; Sweetly illustrating Innocent childhood : Shy as the antelope, Brown as a berry, Free as the mountain air, Romping and merry. Blue eyes and hazel eyes Peep from the hedges, Shaded by sun-bonnets, Frayed at the edges ! Up in the apple trees, Careless of danger, Manhood in embryo, Stares at the stranger, Out in the hilly patch, Seeking the berries — Under the orchard trees, Feasting on cherries — Trampling the clover blooms, Down 'mong the grasses, No voice to hinder them, Dear lads and lasses ! No grim propriety — No interdiction ; Free as the birdlings From city restriction ! Coining the purest blood, Strength'ning each muscle, Donning health armor 'Gainst life's coming bustle. Dear little innocents ! Born in the wildwood ; Oh, that all little ones Had such a childhood ! Blue skies spread over them, Earth's green beneath them, No sweeter heritage Could we bequeath them. 108 ♦Bailing a Boy in the Morning.* ' HE Connecticut editor who wrote the follow- ing, evidently knew what he was talking about : — Calling a boy up in the morning can hard- ly be classed under the head of " pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is get- ting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this ; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair-door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny." There is no response. " Johnny." Still no re- sponse. Then there is a short, sharp, "John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made ; and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd bet- ter be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immedi- ately goes to sleep again. And the ope- ration has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda- bottle ejects its cork, and the "John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stair- way goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. And he pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is con- sistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. "Good-JIight ¥E ^&*~ |^OOD-NIGHT! the sun is setting, !p|||£ " Good-night !" the robins sing, And blue-eyed dolls aud blue-eyed girls Should soon be following. Come ! lay the Lady Geraldine Among the pillows white ; 'T is time the little mother kissed Her sleepy doll good-night. And, "Willie, put the cart away, And drive into the shed The pony and the mooly cow ; 'T is time to go to bed. For, listen ! in the lilac tree The robin does not sing ; " Good-night !" he sang, and tucked his head Beneath his weary wing. Soon all the world will go to rest, And all the sky grow dim ; God " giveth his beloved sleep," So we may trust in Him. The Lord is in the shadow, And the Lord is in the light, To guard His little ones from harm ; Good-night, dear hearts, good-night ! 109 M5 :ephebd &A. FA8TORAI..S tiHE valley rings with mirth and joy; *■ Among the hills the echoes play <^* A never, never-ending song, To welcome in the May. The magpie chatters with delight ; The mountain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest ; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food ; Or through the glittering vapors dart In very wantonness of heart. Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun ; Their work, if any work they have, Is out of mind, — or done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christian hymn ; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, Their rusty hats they trim : And thus, as happy as the day, Those shepherds wear the time away. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born ! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, Those boys with their green coronal ; They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry ! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. Said Walter, leaping from the ground, " Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race." Away the shepherds flew ; They leapt — they ran — and when they came Eight opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, " Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries. James stopped with no good will. Said Walter then, exulting, " Here You'll find a task for half a year. " Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross, — Come on, and tread where I shall tread " The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go ; Into the chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock. The gulf is deep below ; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall. With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march ; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list ! he hears a piteous moan. Again ! — his heart within him dies ; His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down Into the gulf profound. His dam had seen him when he fell — She saw him down the torrent borne; And, with all a mother's love, She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn ; The lamb, still swimming round and round Made answer in that plaintive sound. When he had learnt what thing it was That sent this rueful cry, I- ween The boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task ; Nor was there wanting other aid : A Poet, one who loves the brooks Far better than the sages' books, By chance had hither strayed ; And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round. He drew it from the troubled pool, And brought it forth into the light ; The shepherds met him with his charge. An unexpected sight ! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; Then up the steep ascent they hied, And placed him at his mother's side ; And gently did the Bard Those idle shepherd boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 116 <=-&" ^TOlUlSLEEPINGiCHILD^ ?RT thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth ? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue That stray along that forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair ? Oh ! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death ; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, A phantom of a blessed dream ? A human shape I feel thou art — I feel it at my beating heart, Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence ! Though dear the forms by Fancy wove. We love them with a transient love ; Thoughts from the living world intrude Even on her deepest solitude: But, lovely child ! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair, And left no other vision there. To me thy parents are unknown ; Glad would they be their child to own ! And well they must have loved before. If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem, And, seeing thee, I figure them. What many a childless one would give. If thou in their still home wouldst live! Though in thy face no family line Might sweetly say. " This babe is mine !" In time thou wouldst become the same As their own child, — all but the name. How happy must thy parents be Who daily live in sight of thee ! Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek Than see the smile, and hear thee speak, And feel all natural griefs beguiled By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 11 What joy must in their souls have stirred When thy first broken words were heard — Words, that inspired by Heaven, expressed The transports dancing in thy breast ! And for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow Even while I gaze, are kindling now I called thee duteous ; am I wrong ? No ! truth, I feel, is in my song: Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move To God, to Nature, and to love ! To God ! — for thou, a harmless child, Hast kept his temple undefiled ; To Xature ! — for thy tears and sighs Obey alone her mysteries ; To love ! — for fiends of hate might see Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee. What wonder then, though in thy dreams Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! Oh ! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years ; Thou smilest as if thv soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on, than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the seraphim ? But now thy changing smiles express Intelligible happiness. I feel my soul thy soul partake. What grief, if thou wouldst now awake ! With infants happy as thyself I see thee bound, a playful elf; I see thou art a darling child, Among thy playmates bold and mid ; They love thee well ; thou art the queen Of all their sports, in bower or green ; And if thou livest to woman's height, In thee will friendship, love, delight. 7 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. And live thou surely must ; thy life Is far too spiritual for the strife Of mortal pain ; nor could disease Find heart to prey on smiler like these. Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright — To those thou lovest, a saving light — The staff of age, the help sublime Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; And when thou goest to heaven again, Thy vanishing be like the strain Of airy harp — so soft the tone The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! Thrice blessed he whose stars design His spirit pure to lean on thine, And watchful share, for days and years, Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears! For good and guiltless as thou art, Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — Griefs that along thy altered face Will breathe a more subduing grace Than even those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy. Though looks, God knows, are cradled there That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. O vision fair ! that I could be Again as young, as pure, as thee ! Vain wish ! the rainbow's radiant form May view, but cannot brave, the storm ; Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes That paint the bird of Paradise; And years, so Fate hath ordered, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, Such as the gladness of thy face, O sinless babe, by God are given To charm the wanderer back to heaven. No common impulse hath me led To this green spot, thy quiet bed, Where, by mere gladness overcome, In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. When to the lake I would have gone, A wondrous beauty drew me on — Such beauty as the spirit sees In glittering fields and moveless trees, After a warm and silent shower Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. What led me hither, all can say Who, knowing God, his will obey. Thy slumbers now cannot be long; Thy little dreams become too strong For sleep — too like realities; Soon shall I see those hidden eyes. Thou wakest, and starting from the ground, In dear amazement look'st around ; Like one who, little given to roam, Wonders to find herself from home ! But when a stranger meets thy view, Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. A moment's thought who I may be, Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. Fair was that face as break of dawn, When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn, Like a thin veil that half concealed The light of soul, and half revealed. While thy hushed heart with visions wrought Each trembling eyelash moved with thought And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek — Such summer-clouds as travel light, When the soul's heaven lies cold and bright — ■ Till thou awokest ; then to thine eye Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy ! And lovely is that heart of thine, Or sure those eyes could never shine With such a wild, yet bashful glee, Gay, half-o'ercome timidity! Nature has breathed into thy face A spirit of unconscious grace — A spirit that lies never still, And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will: As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake Soft airs a gentle rippling make, Till, ere we know, the strangers fly, And water blends again with sky. happy sprite ! didst thou but know What pleasures through my being flow From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling From their blue light could ne'er be stealing; 118 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. But thou wouldst be more loth to part, And give me more of that glad heart. Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence The glory of thy innocence. But with deep joy I breathe the air That kissed thy cheek, and fanned thy hair, And feel, though fate our lives must sever, Yet shall thy image live for ever ! JOHN WILSON. EAR child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, As live and beautiful as flame, Thou glancest round my graver hours As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers Were not by mortal forehead worn, But on the summer breeze were borne, Or on a mountain streamlet's waves Came glistening down from dreamy caves. With bright round cheek, amid whose glow Delight and wonder ccme and go ; And eyes whose inward meanings play, Congenial with the light of day ; And brow so calm, a home for Thought Before he knows his dwelling wrought; Though wise indeed thou seemest not, Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. That shout proclaims the undoubting mind; That laughter leaves no ache behind ; And in thy look and dance of glee, Unforced, unthought of, simply free, How weak the schoolman's formal art Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, In gaze and glance, in voice and word. In spite of all foreboding fear, A thing thou art of present cheer ; And thus to be beloved and known, As is a rushy fountain's tone, As is the forest's leafy shade, Or blackbird's hidden serenade. Thou art a flash that lights the whole — A gush from Nature's vernal soul. And yet, dear child ! within thee lives A power that deeper feeling gives, That makes thee more than light or air, Than all things sweet and all things fair; And sweet and fair as aught may be, Diviner life belongs to thee, For 'mid thine aimless joys began The perfect heart and will of Man. Thus what thou art foreshows to me How greater far thou soon shalt be ; And while amid thy garlands blow The winds that warbling come and go, Ever within, not loud but clear, Prophetic murmur fills the ear, And says that every human birth Anew discloses God to earth. JOHN STERLING. ■« t} a T .t..l. l ■ it to- fi Farewell. ||||tiY fairest child, I have no song to give «1& y° u ; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 119 H (ELP YOURSELVE)S. ;ANY boys and girls make a failure in life because they do not learn to help them- selves. They depend on father and mother even to hang up their hats and to find their playthings. When they become men and women, they will depend on husbands and wives to do the same thing. " A nail to hang a hat on," said an old man of eighty years, " is worth everything to a boy." He had been "through the mill," as people say, so that he knew. His mother had a nail for him when a boy — " a nail to hang his hat on," and nothing else. It was "Henry's nail" from Jan- uary to January, year in and out, and no other member of the family was allowed to appropriate it for any purpose whatever. If the broom by chance was hung there- on, or an apron or coat, it was soon re- moved, because' that nail was "to hang Henry's hat on." And that nail did much for Henry ; it helped make him what he was in manhood — a careful, systematic, orderly man, at home and abroad, on his farm and in his house. He never wanted another to do what he could do for him- self. Young folks are apt to think that cer- tain things, good in themselves, are not honorable. To be a blacksmith or a boot- maker, to work on a farm or drive a team, is beneath their dignity, as compared with being a merchant, or practising medicine or law. This is pride, an enemy to suc- cess and happiness. No necessary labor is discreditable. It is never dishonorable to be useful. It is beneath no one's dig- nity to earn bread by the sweat of the brow. When boys who have such false notions of dignity become men, they are ashamed to help themselves as they ought, and for want of this quality they live and die unhonored. Trying to save their dig- nity, they lose it. Here is a fact we have from a very suc- cessful merchant. When he began busi- ness for himself, he carried his wares from shop to shop. At length his business increased to such an extent, that he hired a room at the Marlboro' Hotel, in Boston, during the business season, and thither the merchants, having been duly notified, would repair to make purchases. Among all his customers, there was only one man who would carry to his store the goods which he had purchased. The buyers asked to have their goods carried, and often this manufacturer would carry them himself. But there was one merchant, and the largest buyer of the whole num- ber, who was not ashamed to be seen car- rying a case of goods through the streets. Sometimes he would purchase four cases, and he would say, " Now, I will take two, and you take two, and we will carry them right over to the store." So the manu- facturer and the merchant often went through the streets of Boston quite heavily loaded. This merchant, of all the num- ber who went to the Marlboro' Hotel for their purchases, succeeded in business. He became a wealthy man when all the others failed. The manufacturer, who was not ashamed to help himself, is now living — one of the wealthy men of Massachusetts, ready to aid, by his generous gifts, every good object that comes along, and honored by all who know him. You have often heard and read the maxim, " God helps those who help them- selves." Is it not true ? WILLIAM M. THAYER. 120 -McMTTLE WD ^IDIJVIG K00D:{£* ^OME back, come back together, All ye fancies of the past, ^Ye days of April weather, Ye shadows that are cast By the haunted hours before ! Come back, come back, my Childhood ; Thou art summoned by a spell From the green leaves of the wild wood, From beside the charmed well, For Eed Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore ! The fields were covered over With colors as she went ; Daisy, buttercup, and clover Below her footsteps bent ; Summer shed its shining store ; She was happy as she pressed them Beneath her little feet ; She plucked them and caressed them ; They were so very sweet, They had never seemed so sweet before, To Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore. How the heart of childhood dances Upon a sunny day ! It has its own romances, And a wide, wide world have they ! A world where Phantasie is king, Made all of eager dreaming ; When once grown up and tall — Now is the time for scheming — Then we shall do them all ! Do such pleasant fancies spring For Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore '? She seems like an ideal love, The poetry of childhood shown, And yet loved with a real love, As if she were our own — A younger sister for the heart ; Like the woodland pheasant, Her hair is brown and bright ; And her smile is pleasant, With its rosy light. Never can the memory part With Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore. Did the painter, dreaming In a morning hour, Catch the fairy seeming Of this fairy flower ? Winning it with eager eyes From the old enchanted stories, Lingering with a long delight On the unforgotten glories Of the infant sight? Giving us a sweet surprise In Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore ? Too long in the meadow staying, Where the cowslip bends, With the buttercups delaying As with early friends, Did the little maiden stay. Sorrowful the tale for us ; We, too, loiter, 'mid life's flowers, A little while so glorious, So soon lost in darker hours. All love lingering on their way, Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore. L/ETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 121 "IkOD will tate tare of baby dear," My winsome darling said, When in her robe of white she knelt Beside her little bed. Her tiny dimpled hands were clasped, As though she were in prayer, And oh ! methought a heavenly glow Fell on her golden hair. A ray, it may be, darted through The door just pushed ajar By angel hand, whose radiant face Like a bright evening star Looked down upon my darling one, Kneeling beside her bed, And smiled to hear the simple faith In the sweet words she said. " Dod will tate tare of baby dear," And then the eyelids drooped ; I laid her gently down to sleep, But thought the angel stooped To kiss good-night ; for the red lips Were parted as she slept, And o'er her face a holy smile In rippling dimples crept. " God will take care of baby dear ! " Ah, yes ! I knew it well, E'en when the shadows, cold and chill, Upon her young life fell. And yet the mother-heart rebelled ! This puny hand, I said, Can shield her, guide her in the path Where God would have her led. I could not lose my petted flower, >■ So beautiful, so dear, Nor thought it was too dark and chill For such sweet blossoms here. " Dod will tate tare of baby dear," The parched lips murmured slow ! And then the eyelids drooped and closed Forever, here below ! Oh, mourning heart, hush thy sad wail, She's safe, now, in His love ; " God will take care of baby dear " In His bright home above. IDA GLENWOOD. THE QUEEN IN HER CARRIAGE IS RIDING BY. jfTb H, the queen in her carriage is passing by : II II Her cheeks are like roses, her eyes like the sky ; Her wonderful teeth are white as new milk, Her pretty blonde hair is softer than silk. She's the loveliest monarch that ever was seen; You ask of what country the darling is queen; Her empire extends not to far distant parts, She is queen of our household, the mistress of hearts. For scepter she lifts her soft dimpled hands; Her subjects all hasten to heed her commands Her smile is bewitching, and fearful her frown, And all must obey when she puts her foot down. May blessings descend on the bright little head, From the time she awakes till she's safely in bed; And now do you guess, when I speak of the queen, "Tis only our six months baby I mean ? 122 -£Tv£/{S^l£ekSV THAT way look, my infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show ! See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall — Withered leaves, — one, two, and three,- From the lofty elder-tree ! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round, they sink Softly, slowly ; one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute In his wavering parachute. But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! First at one, and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now, — now one, — Now they stop, and there are none. What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire ! With a tiger-leap ! Half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again ; Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd ? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 'Tis a pretty baby treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade), And with busy revellings, Chirp, and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale, so blithe a place ; Multitudes are swept away, Never more to breathe the day. Some are sleeping ; some in bands Traveled into distant lands ; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighborhood ; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he, that giddy sprite, Blue-cap, with his colors bright, Who was blest as bird could be Feeding in the apple-tree — Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out — Hung, head pointing towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound — Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! Light of heart, and light of limb — What is now become of him ? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighboring rill That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. 123 THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEA VES. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in yain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure ; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy. Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near ? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gayety ? Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature — Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show — Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face — Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. Pleased by my random toy — By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye. Sharing in the ecstasy — I would fare like that or this. Find my wisdom in my bliss, Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought — Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling leaf. zlih The Fairy Child, |HE summer sun was sinking With a mild light, calm and mellow ; It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, And his loose locks of yellow. The robin was singing sweetly, And his song was sad and tender; And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song, Smiled with a sweet soft splendor. My little boy lay on my bosom While his soul the song was quaffing ; The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing. I sate alone in my cottage, The midnight needle plying ; I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying ! There came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning ; I knelt to pray; but rose again, For I heard my little boy groaning. I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, But that night my child departed — They left a weakling in his stead, And I am broken-hearted ! Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, For his eyes are dim and hollow; My little boy is gone — is gone, And his mother soon will follow. The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, And the mass be chanted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy, In the moonlit churchyard sweetly. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. JOHN ANSTER. 124 -&-*- -4-8" THRENODY <{> o/i\o 1 HE South-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire ; But over the dead he has no power ; The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return. I see my empty house ; I see my trees repair their boughs ; And he, the wondrous child, Whose silver warble wild Outvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round — The hyacinthine boy, ior whom Morn well might break and April bloom — The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereinto he was born, And by his countenance repay The favor of the loving Day — Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; Far and wide she cannot find him ; My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. Beturned this day, the South-wind searches, And finds young pines and budding birches ; Bui? finds not the budding man ; Nature, who lost him, cannot remake him ; Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; Nature, Fate, Men, him seek in vain. And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, Oh, whither tend thy feet? I had the right, few days ago, Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; How have I forfeited the right ? Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? I hearken for thy household cheer, eloquent child ! Whose voice, an equal messenger, Conveyed thy meaning mild. What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toys Fitting his age and ken, Yet fairest dames and bearded men, Who heard the sweet request, So gentle, wise, and grave, Bended with joy to his behest, And let the world's affairs go by, Awhile to share his cordial game, Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear For his lips could well pronounce Words that were persuasions. Gentlest guardians marked serene His early hope, his liberal mien ; Took counsel from his guiding eyes To make this wisdom earthly wise. Ah, vainly do these eyes recall The school-march, each day's festival, When every morn my bosom glowed To watch the convoy on the road ; The babe in willow wagon closed, With rolling eyes and face composed ; With children forward and behind, Like Cupids studiously inclined ; And he the chieftain paced beside, The centre of the troop allied, With sunny face of sweet repose, To guard the babe from fancied foes. The little captain innocent Took the eye with him as he went; Each village senior paused to scan And speak the lovely caravan. From the window I look out To mark thy beautiful parade, Stately marching in cap and coat To some tune by fairies played ; A music, heard by thee alone, To works as noble led thee on. Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, Up and down their glances strain. The painted sled stands where it stood; The kennel by the corded wood ; The gathered sticks to stanch the wall Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall; The ominous hole he dug in the sand, And childhood's castles built or planned : His daily haunts I well discern — The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — And every inch of garden ground Paced by the blessed feet around 125 THRENODY. From the roadside to the brook Whereinto he loved to look. Step the meek birds where erst they ranged The wintry garden lies unchanged : The brook into the stream runs on ; But the deep-eyed boy is gone. On that shaded day, Dark with more clouds than tempests are, When thou didst yield thy innocent breath In birdlike heavings unto death, Night came, and Nature had not thee ; I said : " We are mates in misery." The morrow dawned with needless glow ; Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow; Each tramper started ; but the feet Of the most beautiful and sweet Of human youth had left the hill And garden — they were bound and still. There's not a sparrow or a wren, There's not a blade of Autumn grain, Which the four seasons do not tend, And tides of life and increase lend ; And every chick of every bird, And weed and rock-moss is preferred. Oh, ostrich-like forgetfulness ! Oh loss of larger in the less ! Was there no star that could be sent, No watcher in the firmament, No angel from the countless host That loiters round the crystal coast, Could stoop to heal that only child, Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, And keep the blossom of the earth, Which all her harvests were not worth ? Not mine — I never called thee mine, But Nature's heir — if I repine, And seeing rashly torn and moved Not what I made, but what I loved, Grew early old with grief that thou Must to the wastes of Nature go — 'T is because a general hope Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope. For flattering planets seemed to say This child should ills of ages stay, By wondrous tongue, and guided pen, Bring the flown Muses back to men. Perchance not he, but Nature, ailed ; The world and not the infant failed. It was not ripe yet to sustain A genius of so fine a strain, Who gazed upon the sun and moon As if he came unto his own ; And, pregnant with his grander thought, Brought the old order into doubt. His beauty once their beauty tried ; They could not feed him, and he died, And wandered backward as in scorn, To wait an aeon to be born. Ill day which made this beauty waste, Plight broken, this high face defaced ! Some went and came about the dead ; And some in books of solace read ; Some to their friends the tidings say ; Some went to write, some went to pray ; One tarried here, there hurried one : But their heart abode with none. Covetous Death bereaved us all, To aggrandize one funeral. The eager fate which carried thee Took the largest part of me. For this losing is true dying ; This is lordly man's down-lying, This his slow but sure reclining, Star by star his world resigning. child of Paradise, Boy who made dear his father's home, In whose deep eyes Men read the welfare of the times to come, 1 am too much bereft. The world dishonored thou hast left. Oh, truth's and nature's costly lie ! Oh, trusted broken prophecy ! Oh richest fortune sourly crossed ! Born for the future, to the future lost ! The deep Heart answered : " Weepest thou ? Worthier cause for passion wild If I had not taken the child. And deemest thou as those who pore, With aged eyes, short way before — Think 'st Beauty vanished from the coast Of matter, and thy darling lost ? Taught he not thee — the man of eld, Whose eyes within his eyes beheld Heaven's numerous hierarchy span The mystic gulf from God to man ? To be alone wilt thou begin When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? To-morrow when the mask shall fall That dizen Nature's carnival, The pure shall see by their own will, Which overflowing Love shall fill, 'Tis not within the force of Fate The fate-conjoined to separate. 126 THRENODY. But thou, my votary, weepest thou? I gave thee sight — where is it now ? I taught thy heart beyond the reach Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, As far as the incommunicable ; Taught thee each private sign to raise, Lit by the super-solar blaze. Past utterance, and past belief, And past the blasphemy of grief, The mysteries of Nature's heart ; And though no Muse can these impart, Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, And all is clear from east to west. "I came to thee as to a friend; Dearest, to thee I did not send Tutors, but a joyful eye, Innocence that matched the sky, Lovely locks, a form of wonder, Laughter rich as woodland thunder, That thou might'st entertain apart The richest flowering of all art ; And, as the great all-loving Day Through smallest chambers takes its way, That thou might'st break thy daily bread With prophet, saviour, and head ; That thou might'st cherish for thine own The riches of sweet Mary's son, Boy-rabbi, Israel's paragon. And thoughtest thou such guest Would in thy hall take up his rest? Would rushing life forget her laws, Fate's glowing revolution pause ? High omens ask diviner guess, Not to be conned to tediousness. And know my higher gifts unbind The zone that girds the incarnate mind. When the scanty shores are full With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; When frail Nature can no more, Then the Spirit strikes the hour : My servant Death, with solving rite, Pours finite into infinite. ' Wilt thou freeze Love's tidal flow, Whose streams through Nature circling go ? Nail the wild star to its track On the half-climbed zodiac ? Light is light which radiates ; Blood is blood which circulates ; Life is life which generates ; And many-seeming life is one — Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? Its onward force too starkly pent In figure, bone, and lineament ? Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? Nor see the genius of the whole Ascendant in the private soul, Beckon it when to go and come, Self-announced its hour of doom ? Fair the soul's recess and shrine, Magic-built to last a season ; Masterpiece of love benign ; Fairer than expansive reason, Whose omen 'tis, and sign. Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? Verdicts which accumulates From lengthening scroll of human fates, Voice of earth to earth returned, Prayers of saints that inly burned — Saying : What is excellent, As God lives, is permanent ; Hearts are dust, hearts' loves retrain ; Hearts' love will meet thee again. Eevere the Maker; fetch thine eye Up to his style, and manners of the sky. Not of adamant and gold Built he heaven stark and cold ; No, but a nest of bending reeds, Flowering grass, and scented weeds : Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, Or bow above the tempest bent ; Built of tears and sacred flames, And virtue reaching to its aims ; Built of furtherance and pursuing, Not of spent deeds, but of doing. Silent rushes the swift Lord Through ruined systems still restored, Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, Plants with worlds the wilderness ; Waters with tears of ancient sorrow Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. House and tenant go to ground, Lost in God, in Godhead found." RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 127 The Morning-Glory. E wreathed about our dar- ling's head 'M The morning-glory bright ; ^ Her little face looked out* beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, " She is the morning glory true, And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem ; For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle-bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. "We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and added perfect gift To crown Love's morning hour j And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day. We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead ! The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round; We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. O Earth ! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain ! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain ; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. MARIA WHITE LOWELL. A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER. 1 P to me sweet childhood looketh, Heart and mind and soul awake ; Teach me of thy ways, oh Father ! For sweet childhood sake. 128 A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER. In their young hearts, soft and tender, Guide my hand good seed to sow, That its blossoming may praise thee Wheresoe'er they go. Give to me a cheerful spirit, That my little flock may see It is good and pleasant service To be taught of Thee. Father, order all my footsteps; So direct my daily way That, in following me, the children May not go astray. Let thy holy counsel lead me — Let thy light before me shine, That they may not stumble over Word or deed of mine. Draw us hand in hand to Jesus, For his word's sake — unforgot, " Let the little ones come to me, And forbid them not." And these dark bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. " For, when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, Ave shall hear His voice Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy, When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God, like lambs we joy. I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair„ And be like him, and he will then love me. WILLIAM BLAKE.. -ZtL THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. MY mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but, oh, my soul is white ! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree ; And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say : " Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away, And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noon-day. " And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; H ' OW peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small white hands that ne'er were- still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore; Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise, Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm. Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave ; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave. He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither ; so his stay With us was short; and 'twas most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod, Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God, 0. blest word — evermore! J. R. LOWELL. 129 9 J A SUNBEAM AND A SHADOW. N (HEAR a shout of merriment, a laughing boy I see ; Two little feet the carpet press, and bring the child to me ; Two little arms are round my neck, two feet upon my knee j How fall the kisses on my cheek ! how sweet they are to me ! That merrry shout no more I hear, no laughing child I see ; No little arms are round my neck, nor feet upon my knee ! No kisses drop upon my cheek ; those lips are sealed to me. Dear Lord ! how could I give him up to any but to thee ! MONTHLY RELIGIOUS MAGAZINE. Some (Bother's @hild. T home or away, in the alley or street, Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet A girl that is thoughtless, or a boy that is wild, My heart echoes softly, " 'Tis some mother's child." And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled, Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold, — Be it woman all fallen, or man all denied, A voice whispers sadly, " Ah! some mother's child." No matter how far from the right she hath strayed ; No matter what inroads dishonor hath made : No matter what elements cankered the pearl — Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl. No matter how wayward his footsteps have been ; No matter how deep he is sunken in sin : No matter how low is his standard of joy ; — Though guilty and loathsome, he is some mother's boy. That head hath been pillowed on some tender breast; That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed ; That soul hath been prayed for, in tones sweet and mild : For her sake deal gently with — some mother's child. FRANCIS L. KEELER. 130 +- f ii mat ■ •; H^ CLOUD is on my heart and brow, L\ The tears are in my eyes, -*- -A. And wishes fond, all idle now, Are stifled into sighs ; — As, musing on thy early doom, Thou bud of beauty, snatched to bloom, So soon, 'neath milder skies, I turn, thy painful struggle past, From what thou art to what thou wast! I think of all thy winning ways, Thy frank but boisterous glee, Thy arch, sweet smiles, thy coy delays, Thy step, so light and free ; Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run, Thy gladness when the task was done And gained thy mother's knee ; — Thy gay, good-humored, childish ease, And all thy thousand arts to please ! Where are they now, and where, oh where ! The eager, fond caress, The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair, The lips all sought to press ? The open brow, and laughing eye, The heart that leaped so joyously? Ah ! had we loved them less ! Yet there are thoughts can bring relief, And sweeten even this cup of grief. Thou hast escaped a thorny scene, A wilderness of woe, Where many a blast of anguish keen Had taught thy tears to flow ; Perchance some wild and withering grief Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf, In these dark bowers below, Or sickening thrills of hope deferred, To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred! Thou hast escaped life's fitful sea, Before the storm arose, Whilst yet its gliding waves were free From aught that marred respose ; Safe from the thousand throes of pain, Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain Upon thine opening rose ; — And who can calmly think of this, Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss ? I culled from home's beloved bowers To deck thy last long sleep, The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers That summer's dews may steep : The rosebud, emblem meet, was there, The violet blue, and jasmine fair, That drooping seemed to weep ; — And now I add this lowlier spell : — Sweets to the passing sweet, farewell ! ALARIC A. WATTS. -&m a«- THEf MOTHER 'SfflOPE. IS there, when the winds are singing In the happy summer time — When the raptured air is ringing With Earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp, and village chime — Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child ? Listen ! and be now delighted : Morn hath touched her golden strings ; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted j Life and Light are reunited, Amid countless carollings; Yet, delicious as they are, There is a sound that's sweeter far — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all — the human voice ! 131 THE MOTHER'S HOPE. Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone — Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves and silver showers, — These, ere long, the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round — Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word. Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain- Ear of one whose love is surer — Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain ; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a life-time after, Echoes of that infant laughter. 'T is a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense — Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint and fine inflexion, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honey'd words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought — Tones that never thence depart ; For she listens — with her heart. VACATION, MASTEK, no more of your lessons ! ffi For a season we bid them good by, 7 And turn to the manifold teachings Of ocean, and forest, and sky. We must plunge into billow and breaker; The fields we must ransack anew ; And again must the sombre woods echo The glee of our merry-voiced crew. From teacher's and preacher's dictation — From all the dreaded lore of the books — Escaped from the thraldom of study, We turn to the babble of brooks ; We hark to the field-minstrels' music, The lowing of herds on the lea, The surge of the winds in the forest, The roar of the storm-angered sea. To the tree-tops we'll climb with the squirrels ; We will race with the brooks in the glens ; The rabbits we'll chase to their burrows ; The foxes we'll hunt to their dens ; The woodchucks, askulk in their caverns, Weill visit again and again ; And we'll peep into every bird's nest The copses and meadows contain. For us are the blackberries ripening By many a moss-covered wall ; There are bluehats enough in the thickets To furnish a treat for us all ; In the swamps there are ground-nuts in plenty; The sea-sands their titbits afford ; And, 0, most delectable banquet, We will feast at the honey-bee's board ! O, comrades, the graybeards assure us That life is a burden of cares ; That the highways and byways of manhood Are fretted with pitfalls and snares. Well, school-days have their tribulations ; Their troubles, as well as their joys. Then give us vacation forever, If we must forever be boys ! LA MAN BLANCHARD. 1EVERLY MOORE. 132 •^-BABIES AND THEIR RIGHTS.-^- BABY has a right, too fre- quently denied it, to be let alone. It ought to be a rule in the nursery never to dis- turb the infant when it is happy and quiet. Older children, too, two, three, and four years of age, who are amusing themselves in a peaceful, contented way, ought not to be wantonly interfered with. I have often seen a little creature lying in its crib coo- ing, laughing, crooning to itself in the sweetest baby fashion, without a care in the world to vex its composure, when in would come mamma or nurse, seize it, cover it with endearments, and effectually break up its tranquility. Then, the next time, when these thoughtless people want- ed it to be quiet, they were surprised that it refused to be so. It is habit and train- ing which makes little children restless and fretful, rather than natural disposi- tion, in a multitude of cases. A healthy 133 BABIES AND THEIR RIGHTS. babe, coolly and loosely dressed, judicious- ly fed, and frequently bathed, will be good and comfortable if it have not too much attention. But when it is liable a dozen times a day to be caught wildly up, bounced and jumped about, smothered with kisses, poked by facetious fingers, and petted till it is thoroughly out of sorts, what can be expected of it? How would fathers and mothers endure the martyrdom to which they allow the babies to be subjected ? Another right which every baby has is to its own mother's care and supervision. The mother may not be strong enough to hold her child and carry it about, to go with it on its outings, and to personally attend to all its wants. Very often it is really better for both mother and child that the strong arms of an able-bodied woman should bear it through its months of helplessness. Still, no matter how ap- parently worthy of trust a nurse or serv- ant may be, unless she have been tried and proved by long and faithful service and friendship, a babe is too precious to be given unreservedly to her care. The mother herself, or an elder sister or auntie, should hover protectingly near the tiny creature, whose life-long happiness may depend on the way its babyhood is passed. Who has not seen in the city parks the beautifully-dressed infants, darlings evi- dently of homes of wealth and refinement, left to bear the beams of the sun and stings of gnats and flies, while the nurses gossiped together, oblivious of the flight of time ? Mothers are often quick to re- sent stories of the neglect or cruelty of their employees, and cannot be made to believe that their own children are suffer- ers. And the children are too young to speak. The lover of little ones can almost al- ways see the subtle difference which exists between the babies whom mothers care for, and the babies who are left to hirelings. The former have a sweeter, shyer, gladder look than the latter. Perhaps the babies who are born, so to speak, with silver spoons in their mouths, are better off than those who came to the heritage of a gold spoon. The gold spooners have lovely cradles and vassinets. They wear Val- enciennes lace and embroidery, and fash- ion dictates the cut of their bibs, and the length of their flowing robes. They are waited upon by bonnes in picturesque aprons and caps, and the doctor is sent for whenever they have the colic. The little silver-spooners, on the other hand, are arrayed in simple slips, which the mother made herself in dear, delicious hours, the sweetest in their mystic joy which happy womanhood knows. They lie on the sofa, or on two chairs with a pillow placed carefully to hold them, while she sings at her work, spreads the snowy linen on the grass, moulds the bread, and shells the peas. The mother's hands wash and dress them, the father rocks them to sleep, the proud brothers and sisters carry them to walk, or wheel their little wagons along the pavement. Fortunate babies of the silver spoon ! Alas and alack ! for the babies who have never a spoon at all, not even a horn or a leaden one. Their poor parents love them, amid the squalid circumstances which hem them in, but they can do little for their well-being, and they die by hun- dreds in garrets and cellars and close tene- ment rooms. When the rich and char- itable shall devise some way to care for the babies of the poor, when New York shall imitate Paris in founding an institu- tion akin to La Creche, we shall have taken a long step forward in the direction of social and moral elevation. M. E. SANGSTER. 134 (5o • We find some touching trace of thee — A pencil mark upon the wall That " naughty hands " made thoughtlessly ; And broken toys around the house, Where he has left them they have lain, Waiting for little busy hands That will not come again — Will never come again. Within the shrouded room below He lies cold — and yet we know It is not Charlie there ! It is not Charlie, cold and white, It is the robe, that in his flight, He gently cast aside ! Our darling hath not died ! i . A L D R I C H . A CHILD PRAYING. ^pgltOLD thy little hands in prayer, ^ly Bow down at thy mother's knee, Now thy sunny face is fair. Shining through thine auburn hair ; Thine eyes are passion-free ; And pleasant thoughts, like garlands bind thee Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee — Then pray, child, pray ! Now, thy young heart, like a bird, Warbles in its summer nest ; No evil thought, no unkind word, No chilling autumn winds have stirred The beauty of thy rest ; But winter hastens, and decay Shall waste thy verdant home away — Then pray, child, pray ! Thy bosom is a house of glee, With gladness harping at the door ; While ever, with a joyous shout, Hope, the May queen, dances out, Her lips with music running o'er ; But Time those strings of joy will sever, And hope will not dance on for ever — Then pray, child, pray Now, thy mother's arm is spread Beneath thy pillow in the night ; And loving feet creep round thy bed, And o'er thy quiet face is shed The taper's darkened light ; But that fond arm will pass away, By thee no more those feet will stay — Then pray, child, pray ! ROBERT ARIS WILI.MOTT. 136 SHADOWS ON THE WALL. "efir LITTLE Bessie wakes at midnight, And upon the nursery wall, Sees she by the flickering fire light, Shadows dancing grim and tall. Now they rise and now they beckon, Nearer still they seem to come, Bessie's blue eyes gaze wide open, And her lips are stricken dumb. Bessie thinks they are "the witches," " Mary said they'd take away All the naughty little children, And I've not been good to-day. " Once I did not mind my mother, And I broke the china cup," So the little tender conscience All the past day's sins sums up. Still the dancing shadows waken Childhood's grief and childhood's fear> And there sink into the pillow Many a sob and many a tear ; Till the mother, sleeping lightly, Just within the open door, Wakes and listens for a moment ; Hastens barefoot o'er the floor; Folds the little weeping maiden Close within her loving arms ; And upon that tender bosom Bessie sobs out her alarms. Then the mother, softly smiling, Whispers, "All your witches tall, Oh, my foolish little Bessie, Are but shadows on the wall ! " See, the tall ones are the andirons ; That the wardrobe ; this the chair ; And the shawl upon the sofa Makes the face with flowing hair. " Has my darling then forgotten, When she said her evening prayer, How she prayed that God's good angels Still might have her in their care ? " Sure she knows that the Good Shepherd Guards his flock by day and night, And the lambs are folded safely, In the dark as in the light." Soon upon her mother's bosom Little Bessie falls asleep, Murmuring, as she clings the closer, " Pray the Lord my soul to keep." And the mother, softly kissing The wet eyelids and the hair, Tossed back from the snowy forehead, Clasps her close in voiceless prayer. That the Love which gave her darling, Still may keep till dawns the day When earth's haunting fears are over, And the shadows flee away. _D 4&M& Q> j f I ERE with an infant, joyful sponsors come, P | Then bear the new-made Christian to his home A few short years and we behold him stand To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand : A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier : — Thus as the months succeed, shall infants take Their names ; thus parents shall the child forsake ; Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel, By love or law compelled their vows to seal. crab be. 137 LL. Castles in the Fii^e.^ ITTING by the fire-light, In the twilight gray, Building airy castles, Bessie, Jack, and May, Curly brown and golden locks, Nestled close together, Heeding not the wailing winds Of November weather. Seeing in the wood-fire Many a vision rare; Tracing in their fancies, The future gay and fair. Well it is each dreamer Sees not down the years All his cares and sorrows, All his toils and tears. " Look ! I see a war-horse, Prancing, inky black, Don't you see me charging Fiercely on his back ? Now, again, I'm bowing To the loud 'Hurrah!' I've come back victorious — A hero from the war." " See the haughty lady, Turning cold away From the throng of suitors, Who all vainly pray. Oh, she will not listen, Noble though they be, She's waiting for her sailor, Sailing o'er the sea." Now it is sweet May's turn, Peering in the blaze, What can see dear blue eyes Of the future days ? U^>— »■ ■ : ■ m » " I can see a little urn, 'Neath a willow tree, In a churchyard, all alone, That I think's for me." Boyish peals of laughter, Ring out clear and free, " Yes, I see the little urn, It's to make the tea. I'll come back from battle, Bessie from the sea, Dearest May shall sit at home, And brew us cups of tea." PICF&&MS @F MWM@mr. t fm MONG the beautiful pictures [\ That hang on Memory's wall ^\ \> Is one of a dim old forest, * That seemeth best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below ; Not for the milk-white lilies, That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep ; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary, 138 PICTURES OF MEMORY. And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep i>y the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. ALICE CARY „ ■ — ■*- For the Children. COME stand by my knee, little children, Too weary for laughter or song; The sports of the daylight are over, And evening is creeping along; The snow-fields are white in the moonlight, The winds of the winter are chill, But under the sheltering roof-tree The fire shineth ruddy and still. You sit by the fire, little children, Your cheeks are ruddy and warm ; But out in the cold of the winter Is many a shivering form. There are mothers that wander for shelter, And babes that are pining for bread ; Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children, From whose tender hand you are fed. Come look in my eyes, little children, And tell me, through all the long day, Have you thought of the Father above us, /ho guarded from evil our way ? He heareth the cry of the sparrow, And careth for great and small ; In life and in death, little children, His love is the truest of all. Now come to your rest, little children, And over your innocent sleep, Unseen by your vision, the angels Their watch through the darkness shall keep; Then pray that the Shepherd who guideth The lambs that He loveth so well May lead you, in life's rosy morning, Beside the still waters to dwell. THE CHILD ASLEEP. ^JrWEET babe ! true portrait of thy ^cj§ father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 'T is sweet to watch for thee — alone for thee! His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? Awake, my boy ! I tremble with affright ! Awake and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! Even at the price of thine give me repose ! Sweet error !— he but slept— I breathe again. Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! Oh ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? clotilde de surville (French.) Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 139 MY MOTHERS STORIES. I RECALL a little verse my mother taught me one summer twilight, which, she remarked, she had taught the older children when they were little like me. It was this : "Have communion with few, be intimate with one, deal justly by all, and speak evil of none." And then she added cheerfully, "It took some time to get your brother to re- peat it correctly ; he would say untimate for intimate, and justless instead of justly • But he learned it correctly at last, and, I may add, has never forgotten it. So with amusement were mother's good instruc- tions blended ; after the pleasant story about my brother's childhood it was im- possible to forget the text. But, alas, I have never taught it to my children ; so many papers, books, and magazines made expressly for children of this generation, hasten the lighting of the evening lamp, and the twilight lessons of home become fewer. But in them all I never read a more comprehensive para- graph, and one that would do to put in practice in every particular so thoroughly, and I hope if it gets into print, not only my children, but those of other house- holds, will commit it to memory, imbibe its spirit, and put it in practice through life. DULL BOYS. «INES, the stronger they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and such after- wards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both bright, and squared and pointed by nature, and yet are soft and worthless; whereas Orient ones in India are rough and rugged naturally. Hard, rugged and dull natures of youth, acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dullness at first is to be borne with, if they be diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten him- self who beats nature in a boy for a fault, and I question whether all the whipping in the world can make their parts which are naturally sluggish, rise one minute before the hour nature has appointed. DR. THOMAS FULLER. Jl Jlemarkable JJaby, IT was the peculiarity of this baby to be always cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether they came and went away again is not in evi- dence; but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of its mother, to make a handsome dental provision for the sign of the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwithstanding that it always car- ried, dangling at its waist, (which was immediately under its chin,) a bone ring, large enough to have represented the rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads of walking sticks selected from the stock, the fingers of the family, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of doors, and the cool knobs of the tops of pokers, were among the commonest in- struments indiscriminately applied for the baby's relief. The amount of electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in a week, is not to be calculated. Still, its mother always said, "It was coming through, and then the child would be herself" and still it never did come through and the child continued to be somebody else. CHARLES DICKENS. 140 goffering* of Childhood. $HE sufferings of a bashful boy ! Can torture chamber be more dreadful than the juvenile party, the necessary parade of the Christmas dinner, to a shy boy ! I have sometimes taken the hand of such a one, and have found it cold and clammy; desperate was the struggle of that young soul, afraid of he knew not what, caught by the machinery of society, which man- gled him at every point, crushed every nerve, and filled him with faintness and fear. How happy he might have been with that brood of young puppies in the barn, or the soft rabbits in their nest of hay ! How grand he was paddling his poor, leaky boat down the rapids, jump- ing into the river, and dragging it with his splendid strength over the rocks ! Nature and he were friends ; he was not afraid of her ; she recognized her child and greeted him with smiles. The young animals loved him, and his dog looked up into his fair blue eyes, and recognized his king. But this creature must be tamed ; he must be brought into prim parlors, and dine with propriety ; he must dress himself in garments which scratch, and pull, and hurt him ; boots must be put on his feet which pinch ; he must be clean — terrible injustice to a faun who loves to roll down-hill, to grub for roots, to follow young squirrels to their lair, and to polish old guns rather than his manner. And then the sensitive boy, who has a finer grain than the majority of his fel- lows, suddenly thrown in the pandemo- nium of a public school ! Nails driven into the flesh could not inflict such pain as such a one suffers; and the scars remain. One gentleman told me, in mature life, that the loss of a toy stolen from him in childhood still rankled. How much of the infirmity of human character may be traced to the anger, the sense of wounded feeling, engendered by a wrong done in childhood when one is helpless to avenge ! All this may be called the necessary hardening process, but I do not believe in it. We have learned how to temper iron and steel, but we have not learned how to treat children. Could it be made a money- making process, like the Bessemer, I be- lieve one could learn how to temper the the human character. Our instincts of intense love for our children are not enough ; we should study it as a science. The human race is very busy ; it has to take care of itself, and to feed its young ; it must conquer the earth — perhaps it has not time to study Jim and Jack and Charley, and Mary and Emily and Jane, as problems. But, if it had, would it not perhaps pay ? There would be fewer criminals. Many observers recommend a wise neglect — not too much inquiry, but a judicious surrounding of the best influ- ences, and then — let your young plant grow up. Yes; but it should be a very wise neglect — it should be a neglect which is always on the watch lest some insidious parasite, some unnoticed but strong bias of character, take possession of the child, and mould or ruin him. Of the ten boys running up yonder hill, five will be fail- ures, two will be moderate successes, two will do better, one will be great, good and distinguished. If such are the terrible statistics — and I am told that they are so — who is to blame ? Certainly the parent or guardian, or circumstance — and what is circumstance ? APPLETON'S JOURNAL. 141 THE dew was falling fast, the stars began " What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is want- to blink ; ing to thy heart ? I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Tii y limbs, are they not strong ? And beautiful creature, drink ! " thou art. And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden have no peers ; at its side. And tna t green corn all day is rustling in thy ears! Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all alone, '" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; woollen chain — With one knee on the grass did the little This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst maiden kneel, gain ; While to that mountain-lamb she gave its For rain and mountain-storms — the like thou evening meal. need'st not fear ; The rain and storm are things that scarcely The lamb, while from her hand he thus his can come here. supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his » R e st, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot tail with pleasure shook. the (j a y " Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, in when my father found thee first in places far such a tone away ; That I almost received her heart into my own. Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert , ■-, -, „ owned by none, 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of And thy mQther from thy gide for evermore beauty rare! was gone. I watched them with delight: they were a lovely pair. « jj e t 00 k thee in his arms, and in pity brought Now with her empty can the maiden turned t ^ home • awa y > . A blessed day for thee ! Then whither wouldst But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did thou roam ? she stay. A faithful nurse thou hast— the dam that did Bight towards the lamb she looked ; and from TT . y x . . . • , , . , t , Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have a shady place ^ I unobserved could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured num- " Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought bers brino- • tnee m tn ^ can Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid Fresh water from the brook > as clear as ever might sing : — ran > And twice in the day, when the ground is wet "What ails thee, young one? what? Why with dew, pull so at thy cord ? I bring thee draughts of milk — warm milk it Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and is, and new. board ? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as can be ; they are now ; Best, little young one, rest; what is 't that Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in aileth thee ? the plough. 142 THE PET LAMB. My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. "It will not, will not rest! — Poor creature, can it be That 't is thy mother's heart which is working so in thee ? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. " Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair ! I 've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there ; The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. " Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is hard by Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again ! " — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line - by line, That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was mine- Again and once again, did I repeat the song ; •'Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. LITTLE Miss Meddlesome, scattering crumbs Into the library noiselessly comes — Twirls off her apron, tilts open some books, And into a work-basket rummaging, looks. Out go the spools spinning over the floor, Beeswax and needle-case stepped out before ; She tosses the tape-rule and plays with the floss, And says to herself, "Now won't mamma be cross !" Little Miss Meddlesome climbs to the shelf, Since no one is looking, and, mischievous elf, Pulls down the fine vases, the cuckoo clock stops, And sprinkles the carpet with damaging drops. She turns over the ottoman, frightens the bird, And sees that the chairs in a medley are •stirred; Then creeps on the sofa, and, all in a heap, Drops out of her frolicsome mischief asleep. But here comes the nurse, who is shaking her head, And frowns at the Mischief asleep on her bed ; But let's hope when Miss Meddlesome's slum- ber is o'er She may wake from good dreams and do mischief no more. JOEL BENTON. FATHER IS COMING ! NAY, do not close the shutters, child ; For, far along the lane, The little window looks, and he, Can see it shining plain ; I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful fire-light in the dark. I know he's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild ; See how lie laughs, and crows, and stares — Heaven bless the merry child ; He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; He's through the garden-gate ; Run, little Bess, and ope the door, And do not let him wait ; Shout, baby, shout ! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. MARY HOWITT, 143 APPY season of child- hood ! Kind nature, that art to all a boun- tiful mother ; that vis- itest the poor man's hut with auroral radi- and for thy ance nurseling hast provid- ed a soft swathing of love and infinite hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers, danced-round (umgaukelt) by sweetest dreams ! If the paternal cottage shuts us in, its roof still screens us ; with a father we have as yet a prophet, priest and king, and an obedience that makes us free. The young spirit has awakened out of eternity, and knows not what we mean by time ; as yet time is no fast-hurrying stream, but a sportful, sunlit ocean ; years to the child are as ages : ah ! the secret of vicissitude, of that slower or quicker decay and cease- less down-rushing of the universal world fabric, from the granite mountain to the man or day-moth, is yet unknown ; and in a motionless universe, we taste, what afterwards in this quick-whirling universe is forever denied us, the balm of rest. Sleep on, thou fair child, for thy long rough journey is at hand ! A little while, and thou too shalt sleep no more, but thy very dreams shall be mimic battles ; thou too, with old Arnauld, wilt have to say in stern patience : "Rest? Rest? Shall I not have all eternity to rest in?" Celes- tial Nepenthe ! though a Pyrrhus conquer empires, and an Alexander sack the world, he finds thee not; and thou hast once fallen gently, of thy own accord, on the eyelids, on the heart of every mother's child. For as yet, sleep and waking are one: the fair life-garden rustles infinite around, and everywhere is dewy fragrance, and the budding of hope ; which budding, if in youth, too frostnipt, it grow to flow- ers, will in manhood yield no fruit, but a prickly, bitter-rinded stone fruit, of which the fewest can find the kernel. THOMAS CARLYLE. _2G_ ^CRSDLE + SONG^ |LEEP my baby beside the fire, Sleep, child, sleep, Winds are wailing, nigher and nigher, Waves are raising, higher and higher, Sleep, child, sleep, While thy father out on the sea, Toils all night for thee and me. Sleep, my baby content and blest, Sleep, child, sleep ; Whether the heart in thy mother's breast Be light or heavy — so best ! so best ! Sleep, child, sleep, While thy father out on the sea, Toils all night for thee and me. 144 ialii ltJ.Mt% l|e|ttitttt €t»il» LIGHTER scarf of richer fold The morning flushed upon our sight, And Evening trimmed her lamps of gold From deeper springs of purer light ; And softer drips bedewed the lea, And whiter blossoms veiled the tree, And bluer waves danced on the sea When baby Zulma came to be ! The day before, a bird had sung Strange greetings on the roof and flown; And Night's immaculate priestess flung A diamond from her parted zone Upon the crib beside the bed, Whereunto, as the doctor said, A king or queen would soon be led By some sweet Ariel overhead. Ere yet the sun had crossed the line When we at Aries' double bars, Behold him, tempest-beaten, shine In stormy Libra's triple stars ; What time the hillsides shake with corn And boughs of fruitage laugh unshorn And cheery echoes wake the morn To gales of fragrance harvest-born In storied spots of vernal flame And breezy realms of tossing shade, The tripping elves tumultuous came To join the fairy cavalcade ; Erom blushing chambers of the rose, And bowers the lily's buds enclose, And nooks and dells of deep repose, Where human sandal never goes, The rabble poured its motley tide ; Some upon airy chariots rode, By cupids showered from side to side, And some the dragon-fly bestrode ; While troops of virgins, left and right, Like microscopic trails of light, The sweeping pageant made as bright As beams a rainbow in its flight ! It passed ; the bloom of purple plums Was rippled by trumpets rallying long O'er beds of pink's and dwarfish drums Struck all the insect world to song ; The milkmaid caught the low refrain, The ploughman answered to her strain, And every warbler of the plain The ringing chorus chirped again ! Beneath the sunset's faded arch, It formed and filed within our porch, With not a ray to guide its march Except the twilight's silver torch ; And thus she came from clouds above, With spirits of the glen and grove, A flower of grace, a cooing clove, A shrine of prayer and star of love ! A queen of hearts ! — her mighty chains Are beads of coral round her strung, And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns, Commanding in an unknown tongue ; The kitten spies her cunning ways, The patient cur romps in her plays, And glimps'es of her earlier days Are seen in picture-books of fays. To fondle all things doth she choose, And when she gets, what some one sends, A trifling gift of tinny shoes, She kisses both as loving friends ; For in her eyes this orb of care, Whose hopes are heaps of frosted hair, Is but a garland, trim and fair, Of cherubs twining in the air. 0, from a soul suffused with tears Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn Which it has felt in other years, — Across the morn our Lord was born, I waft thee blessings ! At thy side May his invisible seraphs glide ; And tell thee still, what'er betide, For thee, for thine, for all, He died ! 145 AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER. 10 tITTlE FEET, ^) WO little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand, — Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land. Dimpled and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Treading the world's rough ways '? These rose- white feet along with the doubtful future, Must bear a mothers load ; Alas ! since Woman has the heaviest burden, And walks the harder road. Love for a while will make the path before them All dainty, smooth and fair, — Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there. But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, ' Who shall direct them then ? How will they be .allured, betrayed, deluded, Poor little untaught feet ! Into what dreary mazes will they wander, What dangers will they meet ? Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness Of sorrow's tearful shades? Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades ? Will they go toiling up ambition's summit, The common world above ? Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love ? 146 'LITTLE FEET" Continued.^ Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded Which find but pleasant ways : Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days. But these are few. Far more there are who wander "Without a hope or friend, — Who find their journey full of pains and losses And long to reach the end. How shall it be with her, the tender stranger Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the worlds rude highway Stretches so fair and wide ? Ah who may read the future? For our darling We crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet. FLORENCE PERCY. finram of SIfHblpxft, CX'. HE cows are lowing along the lane, The sheep to the fold have come, And the mother looks from the cottage door, To see how the night comes over the moor, And calls the children home. Their feet are bare in the dusty road, Their cheeks are tawny and red, They have waded the shallow below the mill, They have gathered wild roses up the hill, A crown for each tangled head. The days will come and the days will go, And life hath many a crown, But none that will press upon manhood's brow, As light as the roses resting now On the children's foreheads brown. T /.ITTLE children, young and aged, •*— * Bear the blessing up ! Pour around the life elixir From your golden cup. Love is the divine restorer Of the souls of men ; This the new perpetual Eden We must seek again. Love is the eternal childhood ; Hither all must come, Who the kingdom would inherit Of the heavenly home. 147 ^tsdy -*- : 'i'#0 ! the jolly sailors, Lounging into port! Heave ahead, my hearties — That's your lively sort ! Splendid sky above us, Merrily goes the gale. Stand by to launch away Eag and paper sail ! Archie owns a schooner, Jack a man-o'-war, Joe a clipper A 1 Named the Morning Star; Charlie sails a match-box, Dignified a yawl ; Breakers on the lee shore- Look out for a squall ! Now we're bound for China — That's across the pond ; Then we go a-cruising Many a mile beyond. Man-o'-war is watching A rakish-looking craft — Kerchunk ! goes a bullfrog From his rushy raft. There's a fleet of lillies We go scudding round, — Bumblebees for sailors, — And they're fast aground. Here's a drowning fly In her satin dress. All hands, about ship ! Signals of distress. Argosies of childhood, Laden down with joys, Gunwale-deep with treasures ! Happy sailor boys, May your merry ventures All their harbors win, And upon life's stormy sea Every ship come in. — GEO. COOPER. Vi NOTHEE little form asleep, And a little spirit gone ; Another little voice is hushed, And a little angel born. Two little feet are on the way To the home beyond the skies, And our hearts are like the void that'comes When a strain of music dies ! A pair of little baby shoes, And a lock of golden hair ; The toys our little darling loved, And the dress she used to wear ; The little grave in the shady nook, Where the flowers love to grow; And these are all of the little hope That came three years ago ! The birds will sit on the branch above, And sing a requiem To the beautiful little sleeping form That used to sing to them ; But never again with the little lips To their songs of love reply, For that silvery voice is blended with The minstrelsy on high ! 'KNICKERBOCKER, — ..*&.^$.$~.<>.— TOUCH NOT. 'OUCH not the tempting cup, my boy ; Though urged by friend or foe ; Dare when the tempter urges most, Dare nobly say. No — No ! The joyous angel from on high Shall tell your soul the reason why. Touch not the tempting cup, my boy ! In righteousness be brave ; Take not the first, a single step, Towards a drunkard's grave ; The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh Shall tell your soul the reason why. 148 I AM all alone in my chamber now, W And the midnight hour is near, "' And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick Are the only sounds I hear ; And over my soul, in its soltitude, Sweet feelings of sadness glide ; For my heart and my eyes are full when I think Of the little boy that died. I went one night to my father's house — Went home to the dear ones all, — ■ And softly I opened the garden gate, And softly the door of the hall ; My mother came out to meet her son, She kissed me and then she sighed, And her head fell on my neck, and she wept For the little boy that died. And when I gazed on his innocent face, As still and cold he lay, And thought what a lovely child he had been And how soon he must decay, " death, thou lovest the beautiful," In the woe of my spirit I cried ; For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died ! Again I will go to my father's house, — Go home to the dear ones all, — And sadly I'll open the garden gate, And sadly the door of the hall ; I shall meet my mother, but nevermore With her darling by her side, But she'll kiss me and sigh and weep again For the little boy that died. I shall miss him when the flowers come In the garden where he played ; I shall miss him more by the fireside, When the flowers have all decayed; I shall see his toys and his empty chair, And the horse he used to ride ; And they will speak, with a silent speech, Of the little boy that died. I shall see his little sister again With her playmates about the door, A.nd I'll watch the children in their sports, As I never did before ; And if in the group I see a child That's dimpled and laughing-eyed, I'll look and see if it may not be The little boy that died. We shall all go home to our Father's house, — To our Father's house in the skies, Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, And our love no broken ties ; We shall roam on the bank of the River of Peace And bathe in its blissful tide : And one of the joys of our heaven shall be The little boy that died. j. d. ROBINSON. NoB&bjrm theEouse. N baby in the house, I know, 'T is far too nice and clean. No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen. No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs ; No wooden men set up in rows, Or marshalled off in pairs ; No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes ; No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes ; No little troubles to be soothed ; No little hands to fold ; No grimy fingers to be washed ; No stories to be told ; No tender kisses to be given ; No nicknames, " Dove " and " Mouse;" No merry frolics after tea, — No baby in the house ! CLARA G. DOLLIVER. 149 wm i ITTLE Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly In her hands all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech, While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. " But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, '0 love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace.' " Then, ay, then— he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed a-near him, Which shall seem to understand, — Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand. ' " Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own hps tremble With a yes I must not say, Nathless maiden brave, ' Farewell, ' I will utter, and dissemble — ' Light to-morrow with to-day,' Little Ellie, in her smile, Chooses, ..." I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds ! He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. " And the steed shall be red-roan. And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath ; And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. " And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind ; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. " Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet : ' Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting ! What will thou exchange for it?' " And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, — And the second time, a glove ; But the third time I may bend From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon If he comes to take my love.' 150 ROMANCE OF A SWAN'S NEST. "Then the young foot-page will run — Then my lover "will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee : ' I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master, — But, Love, I love but thee /' Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two. " He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Ellie went home sad and slow, If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not ; but I know She could never show him — never That swan's nest among the reeds ! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted, "Where the osier pathway leads — Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted — And a rat had gnawed the reeds. m aij,i,§wi® ii^wifc RS BIRD slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats of mauy a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings ; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a toy, horse and wagon, a top, a ball — memor- ials gathered with many a tear, and many a heart-break ! She sat down by the drawer, and leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer. And oh, mother that reads this, has there never been in your house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been to you like the opening again of a little grave. MRS. H. B. STOWI, She <3k The period of childhood is y e happiest. ef§r A Mother to Her Nsw-Born Child. SWEET cry ! as sacred as the blessed Hymn Sung at Christ's birth by joyful Seraphim! Exhausted nigh to death by that dread pain, That voice salutes me to dear life again. Ah, God! my child; my first, my loving child! I have been dreaming of a thing like thee Ere since, a babe, upon the mountains wild I nursed my mimic babe upon my knee. In girlhood I had visions of thee ; love Came to my riper youth, and still I clove Unto thine image, born within my brain So like ! as even there thy germ had lain ! My blood! my voice! my thought! my dream achieved! Oh, till this double life, I have not lived ! THOMAS WADE. 155 Baby Lcouise. * tV o- M in love with you, Baby Louise ! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies, God's sunshine, Baby Louise. When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, W h a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer. You learned above, Baby Louise ? I'm in Love with you, Baby Louise ! Why, you never raise your beautiful head ! Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red With a flush of delight to hear the word said, " I love you," Baby Louise. Do you hear me, Baby Louise ? I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And — you've gone to sleep like a weary flower, Ungrateful Baby Louise. — MARGARET EYTINGE. *: :* fILliI'8 P1AII1 l«t)NE sweet morning little Willie, I Springing from his trundle-bed, Bounded to the vine-wreathed window And put out his sunny head. It was in the joyous spring-time, When the sky was soft and fair, And the blue-bird and the robin Warbled sweetly everywhere. In the field the lambs were playing, Where the babbling brook ran clear To and fro, in leafy tree-tops, Squirrels frisked without a fear. In his ear his baby-brother Baby-wonders tried to speak, And the kiss of a fond mother Bested on his dimpled cheek. Zephyrs from the fragrant lilacs Fanned his little rosy face, And the heart's ease, gemmed with dewdrops, Smiled at him with gentle grace. Gliding back with fairy footsteps, Willie, dropping on his knees, Softly prayed "Dear God, I love you! Make it always happy, please ! " 156 TIRED of play ! Tired of play ! What hast thou done this livelong day ! The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; The sun is creeping up the steeple and tree ; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves, Twilight gathers, and day is done — How hast thou spent it, restless one ! Playing? But what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide? What promise of morn is left unbroken ? What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? How with thy faults has duty striven ? What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, By greenwood path, and by singing rill? There will come an eve to a longer day, That will find thee tired — but not of play ! And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now ! Well for thee if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well. If thine open hand has relieved distress — If thy pity has sprung to wretchedness — If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, And humbled thy heart with penitence — If Nature's voices have spoken with thee With her holy meanings eloquently — If every creature hath won thy love, Prom the creeping worm to the brooding dove — If never a sad, low-spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — Then, when the night steals on, as now It will bring relief to thine aching brow And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. N. P. WILLIS. A MOTHER'S JOYS. I 'VE gear enough, I've gear enough, I've bonnie bairnies three ; Their welfare is a mine of wealth, Their love is a crown to me. The joys, the dear delights they bring, I'm sure I'd not agree To change for every worldly good That could be given to me. Let others flaunt in fashion's ring, Seek rank and high degree ; I wish them joy with all my heart, They're envied not by me. I would not give those loving looks, The heaven of those smiles, To bear the proudest name — to be The Queen of Britain's isles. My sons are like their father dear, And all the neighbors tell That my young blue-eyed daughter's just The picture of myseP. Oh, blessings on my darlings all ! They're dear as summers shine, My heart runs o'er with happiness To think that they are mine. At evening, morning, every hour I've an unchanging prayer, That Heaven would my bairnies bless, My hope, my joy, my care. I've gear enough, I've gear enough, I've bonnie bairnies three ■ Their welfare is a mine of wealth, Their love a crown to me. WILLIAM FERGUSON. THE GOLDEN IGE. Where children are there is the Golden Age. NOVALIS. She Sportive Boy. HILE childhood reigns, the sportive boy Learns only prettily to toy, And while he roves from play to play, The wanton trifles life away. BROOME. 157 What Education domprigeg. solidate religion £ IRST there must proceed a way how to discern the natural inclinations and capacities of children. Secondly, next must ensue culture and furnishment of the mind. Thirdly, the moulding of behaviour and decent forms. Fourthly, the tempering of affections. Fifthly, the quickening and exciting of observation and practical judgement. Sixthly, and the last in order, but the principal in value, being that which must knit and con- all the rest, is the timely instilling of conscientious principles and seeds of SIR HENRY WOTTON. J he SducaMon of iSfiMdim. Children pick up words as pigeons peas : And utter them again as God shall please. ' N anxious mother asked Mrs. Barbauld at what age she should begin to teach her child to read ? " I should much prefer that a child should not be able to read before five years of age," was the reply. Why then have you written books for children of three? " Because if young Mammas will be over busy, they had better teach in a good way than a bad one." I have known clever precocious children at three years dunces at twelve, and dunces at six particularly clever at sixteen. One of the most popu- lar authoresses of the present day could not read when she was seven. Her mother was rather uncomfortable about it, but said, that as everybody did learn to read with opportunity, she supposed her child would do so at last. By eighteen this apparently slow genius paid the heavy but inevitable debts of her father from the profits of her first work, and before thirty had published thirty volumes. iutu to Jiring Up iphtm fRING thy children up in learning and obedience, yet without outward austerity. Praise them openly, reprehend them secretly. Give them good counte- nance and convenient maintenance, accord- ing to thy ability; otherwise thy life will seem their bondage, and what por- tion thou shalt leave them at thy death, they will thank death for it and not thee. And I am persuaded that the foolish cockering of some parents, and the over stern carriage of others, causeth more men and women to take ill courses, than their own vicious inclinations. LORD BURLEIGH. -?..;_ Good Life, Long Life. I HON. MISS MURRAY. N small proportion we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. BEN JONSON. 158 -«#»«;» ozfR Dear o/us. G OD gives us ministers of love, Which we regard not being near ; Death takes them from us, then we feel That angels have been with us here ! 165 JAMES ALDRICH. -*$£- =cT=^®$&fc^> -r* IWK CJ«E 0E I]W7P^¥.ij ^4 < S BETSEY'S got another baby ! Charming, precious little type ! Grandma says — and she knows surely- That you never saw its like. Isn't it a beaming beauty, Lying there so sweet and snug? Mrs. Jones, pray stop your scandal, Darling's nose is not a pug ! Some one says 'tis Pa all over, Whereat Pa turns rather red, And, to scan his features, quickly To the looking-glass has fled ; But recovers his composure, When he hears the nurse's story, Who admits that of all babies This indeed's the crowning glory ! Aunt Lucretia says she guesses — Says, indeed, she knows it, pos, That 't will prove to be a greater Man than e'er its father was ; Proving thus the modern thesis Held by reverend doctors sage, That in babies, as in wisdom, This is a " progressive " age. Uncle Henry looks and wonders At so great a prodigy ; Close and closer still he presses Thinking something brave to see. Up they hold the babe before him, While they gather in a ring, But, alas ! the staggered uncle Vainly tries his praise to sing. As he stares, the lovely infant, Nestling by its mother's side, Opes its little mouth, and singing, Gurgles forth a milky tide. Uncle tries to hide his blushes, Looks about to find his hat, Stumbles blindly o'er the cradle, And upsets the startled cat. Why, Oh why such awkward blunders ? Better far have stayed away, Nor have thrust yourself where woman Holds an undisputed sway ; Do you think that now they'll name it, As they mean to, after you ? Wretched mortal ! let me answer, You're deluded if you do ! Round about the noisy women Pass the helpless stranger now, Raptured with each nascent feature, Chin and mouth, and eye and brow ; And for this young bud of promise All neglect the rose in bloom, Eldest born, who, quite forgotten, Pouts within her lonely room. Sound the stage-horn ! ring the cow-bell ! That the waiting world may know ; Publish it through all our borders, Even unto Mexico. Seize your pen, Oh dreaming poet ! And in numbers smooth as may be, Spread afar the joyful tidings, Betsey's got another baby ! — K NICKERBOCKER. SBBBBBBSSt+a "Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmity. 1 WEARILY from stair to stair, Slowly climb the little feet, Dress awry and tangled hair, Pouting lips as berries sweet. " I'se so tired, don't 'ou see ? Dess I never '11 det up-stairs. Dranpa, won't 'ou tarry me, So as I tan say my prayers ?" 166 LITTLENESS. Light the burden that I bore, Nestling softly on my breast ; Arms that hugged me o'er and o'er, Tiny form at perfect rest. And the midget softly said, " Ain't you glad I'se small ? When I have to go to bed, 'Ou tan always tarry me." 'Ou sec, Glad I clasped the maiden close, Warm the beating of my heart; Love which every parent knows, Made the happy tear-drops start. Ah ! I thought my weary feet, Toiling painfully life's stair, Often find it passing sweet When I meet my Father there. Weak and sinful, poor and blind, Glad I seek his sheltering arm; Joyful welcome there I find, Calm security from harm. Whispering prattle faint and low, In his ever open ear, Words whose meaning I scarce know, Yet he loves to pause and hear. Does there ever o'er Him fall That glad thrill of holy glee — Gladness that I am so small He can safely carry me ? M. E. WINS LOW, fe£^= o/i\o w (■LEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness ; Thy thanks to all that aid ; Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid ; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, — - These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, midst my dear ones, Have wasted with dry brow ; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, — The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too ; My light where'er I go ; My bird, when prison-bound ; My hand-in-hand companion — No, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say, " He has departed" — " His voice" — "his face" — is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, — Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping! This silence too the while, — Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile ; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, " We've finished here." LEIGH HUNT. 167 ||||RANDMA told me all about it, fJH|£ Told me so I couldn't doubt it. How she danced — my grandma danced- Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, How she turned her little toes — Smiling little human rose ! — ■ Long ago. Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her ! why she wears a cap, Grandma does, and takes a nap Every single day ; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago. Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking — ■ (Every girl was taught to knit Long ago), Yet her figure is so neat. And her way so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow, Long ago. Grandma says our modern jumping, Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle folk Long ago. No — they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again, Long ago. Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says ; but boys were charming- Girls and boys I mean, of course — Long ago. Bravely modest, grandly shy — What if all of us should try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet Long ago ? With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion ? All would wear the calm they wore Long ago. In time to come, if I perchance Should tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, " We did it, dear, in some such way Long ago. MRS. MARY M . DODGE. WHO WOULD BE A BOY AGAIN? IN company one evening, when the song, " Would I were a boy again," was called for, a gray-headed " old boy" discoursed thus : A boy again ! Who would be a boy again, if he could? To have measles, itch, and mumps; to get licked by bigger boys and scolded by older brothers; to stub toes ; to slip up on the ice ; to do chores; to get your ears boxed; to get whaled by a thick-headed schoolmaster ; to be made to stand up as the dunce for the amusement of the whole school, and be told how miserable, weak, and stupid you Avere when you were born, and to have the master ask you what would have become of you at that interesting time in life if your parents had not been so patient with and so kind to you; to eat at the second table when company comes ; to set out cabbage plants and thin corn because you are little, and consequently it wouldn't make your back ache so much ; to be made to go to school when you don't want 168 WHO WOULD BE A BOY AGAIN. to; to lose your marbles; to have your sled broken ; to get hit in the eyes with frozen apples and soggy snow balls; to cut your finger; to lose your knife; to have a hole in your only pair of pants when your pretty cousin from the city comes to see you ; to be called a coward at school if you don't fight ; to be whaled at home if you do fight ; to be struck after a little girl and dare not tell her ; to have a boy too big for you to lick to tell you that your sweetheart squints ; to have your sweetheart cut you dead and affiliate with that boy John Smith, whom you hate particularly, because he set your nose out of joint the week before ; to be made to go to bed when you know you ain't a bit sleepy ; to have no fire-crackers on the Fourth of July, no skates on Christ- mas; to want a piece of bread and butter with honey and get your ears pulled ; to be kept from the circus when it comes to town, and when all other boys go ; to get pounded for stealing roasting ears ; to get run by bull-dogs for trying to nip water- melons; to have the canker rash, cate- chism, stone bruises ; to be called up to kiss old women that visit your mother ; to be scolded because you like Maggie Love better than your own sister; to be told of a scorching time little boys will have Avho tell lies, and are not like George Washington; to catch your big brother kissing the pretty school ma'am on the sly, and wish you were big so you could kiss her too, and — and — why who'd be a boy again f MY BOY. LITTLE face, little, loved, tender face, Set, like a saint's, in curls for aureole — Little, loved face, in which the clear child soul Is mirror'd with a changeful, perfect grace ; Where sudden ripples of light laughter chase The dimples round the dainty mouth ; where roll Cloud shadows of great questionings, and dole For human ills half realized, where race, In restless sequence, gloom, gleam, shade and shine— A thousand feelings, sorrow, love and joy, A thousand thoughts, of folly half divine, And bold imaginings, and fancies coy, And reasonings dream-like ! — O my boy, my boy, How I do love that little face of thine ! 169 p %Ue £ltfle Clctked lu the Strawer. In manj' a mother's heart these pathetic words, all the more tender and touching from the quaint Scotch brogue, will awaken an echo, that comes again and again, and never entirely dies away, assuring the sorrowing heart that the echo itself comes from the far-away land. UT in the drawer — my heart can bear nae niair ; -fe- llow up the paper wi' my dawty's hair; I ken, I ken, it but renews my waes — [ I ken I sudna' touch my lassie's claes ; But when the past comes crowdin' through my brain I canna let her bits o' things alane. Sin' e'er she dee'd I wauken wi' a start, An' O, there's something saer comes ower my heart ; Then thochts like lightnin' minds me o' her death, An' for a while I scarce can draw my breath. I dream'd a dream before she took her bed, An' O ! wae's me, it's been ower truly read ; An' whan the cock began to craw at night, I bodit aye that something wasna' richt ; An' whan the window shook frae head to fit, I thocht my very heart lap aff the bit. Nae mair 'hint the door I'll see her keek, Nae mair to mine she'll lay her dimpled cheek I An' never mair me roun' the neck she'll tak', Nor dook her bonnie headie in my lap ! Weel she was likit by ilk neebor wean, An' unco blythe they keepit my hearth-stane : The dorty anes she'd pleasure sae auldfarran — "Wad let them see the " man that broke the barn " Wad mak' doo's dookits wi' her fingers sma', An' raise a lauch that wad delight them a' ; Syne let them see, upon the auld kist head, Hoo " Robie Salmon selt his gingerbread ; " Wad cock her head and gie sick pawkie looks — Her tongueie gaed as it wad clippit cloots, But when my wee drap tea I set agaun, My wee bit lassie sune was at my han' ; A drappie i' the saucer aye she gat, An' syne contentit at my fit she sat. But noo when I set down I scarce break bread, I scarce can lift the saucer to my head. Ah ! never mair at nippit cakes I'll growl, Nor catch her fingers i' the sugar bowl ! I ken, I ken she's in a bright warl' noo, Among the flowers that death can never poo I ken, O ! weel I ken, we're born to part — But if I didna greet I'd break my heart !" 170 [[[IlllllllUf •H BOY1O01. [ A E E X T S should remem- ber that the children of to- day, and espe- cially those born in cities, are peculiarly exposed to temptation. The opportu- nities which came to many of us from the old home life in the country, with its crisp atmosphere of Puritan goverment, its hab- its of honesty and honorable industry, its conservative customs, and its simple rev- erent faith in God, all centered around one spot, all hallowing one locality, will not come to our children, because the causes and incentives which operated to establish them in us, do not operate to establish them in the rising generation. A boyhood passed in the city is a far different thing from one passed in the country. The sights and sounds and surroundings of metropolitan life force the growth of the young, and at a time, too, when the physical and sensuous preponderate in the nature. These beget a looseness of thought and freedom of conduct before the judgement is sufficiently matured by experience to check them. These educate one into neces- sities faster than individual effort can earn the means of supplying them ; and foster that worst of all habits of the young man — eating, and wearing, and spending what he has not earned. We do not say, pa- rents, that these evil tendencies cannot be lessened or wholly counterbalanced, but we do say that they call for the utmost effort on your part, and make anxiety rea- sonable. They may achieve what the world calls success, although even this will be hazarded. But they will never lead that life of piety and holiness which can alone commend them in their character and conduct to the favor of God. They will live and labor as those whose lives end at the grave. The line of pure sel- fishness will circumscribe their lives, and shame and confusion of face will cover them when they appear to render their account before God. REV. W . H . H.MURRAY. BE GENTLE. E ever gentle with the children God has given you; watch over them constantly; reprove them earnestly, but not in anger. In the forcible language of Scripture, " Be not bitter against them." I once heard a kind father say : " Yes, they are good boys ; I talk to them very much, but do not like to beat my children — the world will beat them." It was a beautiful thought, though not elegantly expressed. Yes : there is not one child in the circle round the table, healthful and happy as they look now, on whose head, if long enough spared, the storm will not beat. Adversity may with- er them, sickness may fade, a cold world may frown on them, but amidst all let memory carry them back to home where the law of kindness reigned, where the mother's reproving eye was moistened with a tear, and the father frowned " more in sorrow than in anger." ELIHU BURRITT. 171 V= v The JVIother to her Ghild. r ^ HEY tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; And while thou sleep'stcome messengers, they say, Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven. And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, To find thy way through darkness home again ? Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou Avert, The cherub and the angel thou mayst be, A life's probation in this sadder world ? Art thou with memory of two things only, Music and light, left upon earth astray And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, Look'd for with fear and trembling? God ! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer, To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — The angels who now visit her in dreams ! Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once mor^ ! And let the light and music, which the world Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails Avith sweet recognition, be to her A A r oice to call her upAvard, and a lamp To lead her steps unto Thee ! WILLIS. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX,-. < -. > ' ;xxxxx He that spareth his rod hateth his son ; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. BIBLE. 172 HE child is father of the man. we meet this array of words ! Yet how Men are but children of a lar- insensible we are to the profound philos- ger growth. How often do ophy they enwrap. Sublime and aston- 173 WHAT ARE CHILDREN. ishing truths ! Uttered every day in our hearing, set before our eyes at every step of our journey through life, written over all the monuments of earth, upon the pages and banners of all History, upon the temples and the pyramids, the palaces and the sepulchres of departed Nations, upon all the doings of the Past and Pres- ent, as with unextinguishable fire, and sounding forever and ever in the unap- proachable solitudes of the Future! Yet heard with indifference, read without emo- tion, and repeated from mouth to mouth, day after day and year after year, without a suspicion of their deep meaning, of their transcendent importance, of their imper- ishable beauty. And why ? The language is too familiar, the apparent signification too simple and natural for the excited un- derstandings of the multitude. There is no curtain to be lifted, no veil to be rent as with the hands of giants, no zone to be loosened, no mystery to be expounded afar off, as in the language of another world, nothing to be guessed at, or deciphered, nothing but what anybody might under- stand if he would, and, therefore, nothing to be remembered or cared for. But, in simple truth, a more sublime interrogation could not be propounded than that which may appear to be answered by the language referred to, What are children ? Step to the window with me. The street is full of them. Yonder a school is let loose; and here, just within reach of our observation, are two or three noisy little fellows ; and there, another party mustering for play. Some are whispering together, and plotting so loudly and so earnestly, as to attract everybody's atten- tion ; while others are holding themselves aloof, with their satchels gaping so as to betray a part of their plans for to-morrow afternoon, or laying their heads together in pairs, for a trip to the islands. Look at them, weigh the question I have put to you, and then answer it, as it deserves to to be answered. What are children? To which you reply at once, without any sort of hesitation perhaps, — " Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined"; or, " Men are but children of a larger growth " ; or, per- ad venture, "The child is father of the man." And then, perhaps, you leave me, perfectly satisfied with yourself and with your answer, having "plucked out the heart of the mystery," and uttered, with- out knowing it, a string of glorious truths, — pearls of great price. But instead of answering you as another might, instead of saying, Very true, what if I were to call you back to the window with words like these : Do you know what you have said ? do you know the meaning of the language you have employed ? or, in other words, do you know your own meaning f What would you think of me ? That I was playing the philosopher, per- haps, that I wanted to puzzle you with a childish question, that I thought I was thinking, or at best that I was a little out of my senses. Yet, if you were a man of understanding, I should have paid you a high compliment ; a searcher after truth, I should have done you a great favor ; a statesman, a law-giver, a philanthropist, a patriot, or a father, I should have laid you under everlasting obligations, I should have opened a boundless treasury under- neath your feet, I should have translated you instantly to a new world, carried you up into a high mountain, as it were, and set before you all the kingdoms of the earth, with all their revolutions and changes, all future history 7 , the march of armies, the growth of conquerors, the wax- ing and the waning of empire, the changes of opinion, the apparition of thrones dash- ing against thrones, the overthrow of sys- tems, and the revolution of ages. 174 WHAT ARE CHILDREN. Among the children who are now play- ing together, — like birds among the blos- soms of earth, haunting all the green shadowy places thereof, and rejoicing in the bright air ; happy and beautiful crea- tures, and as changeable as happy, with eyes brimful of joy, and with hearts play- ing upon their little faces like sunshine upon clear waters ; among those who are now idling together on that slope, or hunt- ing butterflies togethep-on the edge of that wood, a wilderness of roses, — you would see not only the gifted, and the powerful, the wise and the eloquent, the ambitious and the renowned, the long-lived and the long-to-be lamented of another age, but the wicked and the treacherous, the liar and the thief, the abandoned profligate and the faithless husband, the gambler and the drunkard, the robber, the burglar, the ravisher, the murderer, and the be- trayer of his country. The child is father of the man. Among them and'that other little troop just appearing, children with yet happier faces and pleasanter eyes, the blossoms of the future — the mothers of nations — you would see the founders of states and the destroyers of their country, the steadfast and the weak, the judge and the criminal, the murderer and the executioner, the exalted and the lowly, the unfaithful wife and the broken-hearted husband, the proud betrayer and his pale victim, the living and breathing portents and prodi- gies, the embodied virtues and vices, of another age and of another world, and all playing together ! Men are but children of a larger growth. Pursuing the search you would go forth among the little creatures, as among the types of another and a loftier language, the mystery whereof has just been re- vealed to you, — a language to become universal hereafter, types in which the autobiography of the Future was written ages ago. Among the innocent and help- less creatures that are called children, you would see warriors, with their garments rolled in blood, the spectres of kings and princes, poets with golden harps and illu- minated eyes, historians and painters, architects and sculptors, mechanics and merchants, preachers and lawyers; here a grave-digger flying his kite with his future customers, there a physician playing at marbles with his; here the predestined to an early and violent death for cowardice, fighting the battles of a whole neighbor- hood ; there a Cromwell or a Csesar, a Na- poleon or a Washington, hiding them- selves for fear, enduring reproach or insult with patience; a Benjamin Franklin hig- gling for nuts or gingerbread, or the "Old Parr " of another generation sitting apart in the sunshine, and shivering at every breath of wind that reaches him. Yet we are told that "just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined." Hereafter is made up of the shreds and patches of Heretofore. If " Men are but children of a larger growth," then what are children f Men of a smaller growth. And this happens to be the truth, not only in the world of imagination, but in the world of realities ; not only among poets, but among lawyers. At law, chil- dren are men, — little children murderers. A boy of nine, and others of ten and eleven, have been put to death in England, two for murder, and a third for " cunningly and maliciously firing" two barns. Of the little murderers, one killed his playmate and the other his bedfellow. And therefore, said the judges, they knew they had done wrong, — they could distin- guish between good and evil; and there- fore they ordered both to be strangled. And they were strangled accordiogly. As if a child who is old enough to know 175 WHAT ARE CHILDREN. that he has done wrong, is therefore old enough to know that he deserves death ! So with regard to children of the other sex. At law babies are women, women babies. The same law which classes our mothers and our wives, our sisters and our daughters, with infants, lunatics, idiots and " persons beyond sea," allows a child to be betrothed at seven, to be en- dowed of her husband's future estate at nine, and to agree or disagree to a previ- ous marriage at twelve. And what is law in England is law here. Such are children. Corrupted they are fountains of bitterness for ages. Would you plant for the skies? Plant in the live soil of the warm and generous and youthful ; pour all your treasures into the hearts of children. Would you look into the future as with the spirit of prophecy, and read as with a telescope the history and character of our country, and of other countries? You have but to watch the eyes of children at play. What children are, neighborhoods are, communities are, states, empires, worlds ! They are the elements of Hereafter made visible. Even fathers and mothers look upon children with a strange misapprehension of their dignity. Even with the poets they are only the flowers and blossoms, the dew-drops or the playthings of earth. Yet " of such is the kingdom of heaven." The Kingdom of Heaven ! with all its principalities and powers, its hierarchies, dominations, thrones ! The Saviour un- derstood them better ; to Him their true dignity was revealed. Flowers! They are the flowers of the invisible world, — indestructible, self-perpetuating flowers, with each a multitude of angels and evil spirits underneath its leaves, toiling and wrestling for dominion over it ! Blossoms ! They are the blossoms of another world, whose fruitage is angels and archangels. Or dew-drops ? They are dew-drops that have their source, not in the chambers of the earth, nor among the vapors of the sky, which the next breath of wind, or the next flash of sunshine may dry up forever, but among the everlasting fountains and inexhaustible reservoirs of mercy and love. Playthings ! God ! — if the little creatures would but appear to us in their true shape for a moment ! We should fall upon our faces before them, or grow pale with consternation, or fling them oif with horror and loathing. What would be our feelings to see a fair child start up before us a maniac or a murderer, armed to the teeth ? to find a nest of serpents on our pillow ? a destroyer or a traitor, a Harry the Eighth, or a Benedict Arnold asleep in our bosom ? A Catharine or a Peter, a Bacon, a Galileo, or a Benthan, a Napoleon or a Voltaire, clambering up our knees after sugar-plums? Cuvier laboring to distinguish a horse-fly from a blue-bottle, or dissecting a spider with a rusty nail ? La Place trying to multiply his own apples, or to subtract his play- fellows' gingerbread? What should we say to find ourselves romping with Messalina, Swedenborg, Madam de Stael ? or playing bo-peep with Murat, Robes- pierre, and Charlotte Corday ? or puss- puss in the corner with George Washing- ton, Jonathan Wild, Shakespeare, Sap- pho, Jeremy Taylor, Mrs. Clark, Alfieri, and Harriet Wilson ? Yet stranger things have happened. These were all children but the other day, and clambered about the knees, and rummaged in the pockets, and nestled in the laps of the people no better than we are. But if they had ap- peared in their true shape for a single moment, while playing together ! What a scampering there would have been among the grown folks ! How their fingers would 176 WHAT ARE CHILDREN. have tingled ! Now to me there is no study half so delightful as that of these little creatures, with hearts fresh from the gardens of the sky, in their first and fairest and most unintentional disclosures, while they are indeed a mystery, a fra- grant, luminous, and beautiful mystery. And I have an idea that if we only had a name for the study, it might be found as attractive and as popular, and perhaps, — though I would not go too far — perhaps about as advantageous in the long run to the future fathers and mothers of mankind, as the study of shrubs and flowers, or that of birds and fishes. And why not ? They are the cryptogamia of another world, — the infusoria of the skies. Then why not pursue the study for your- selves? The subjects are always before you. No books are needed, no costly drawings, no lectures, neither transparen- cies nor illustrations. Your specimens are all about you. They come and go at your bidding. They are not to be hunted for, along the edge of a precipice, on the bor- ders of the wilderness, in the desert, nor by the sea-shore. They abound not in the uninhabited or unvisited place, but in your very dwelling-houses, about the steps of your doors, in every street of every village, in every green field, and every crowded thoroughfare. They flourish bravely in snow storms, in the dust of the trampled highway, where the drums are beating and colors flying — in the roar of cities. They love the sounding sea-breeze and the open air, and may always be found about the wharves, and rejoicing before the windows of toy-shops. They love the blaze of fire- works and the smell of gunpowder ; and where that is, they are to a dead certainty. You have but to go abroad for half an hour in pleasant weather, or to throw open your doors or windows on a Saturday after- noon, if you live anywhere in the neigh- borhood of a school-house, or a vacant lot, with here and there a patch of green, or a dry place in it, and steal behind the cur- tains, draw the blinds, and let the fresh wind blow through and through the cham- bers of your heart for a few minutes, win- nowing the dust and scattering the cob- webs that have gathered there while you were asleep, and lo ! you will find it ring- ing with the voices of children at play, and all alive with the glimmering phantasma- goria of leap-frog, prison-base, knock- up- and-catch. JOHN NEAL. A THOUGHT OVER A CKAD1E. |s|!? SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, @g& Child of my love ! I tremble to believe "^ That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — A heart that, from its struggle with the world, Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings, Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs, And drink in sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven May take a blemish from the breath of love, And bear the blight forever. I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child! My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times Bears its sweet burden ; and if thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, Take Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light- Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child ! And link us close, oh God, when near toheaven! N. P. WILLIS. 177 12 l&S^j) fYTEE WIDOWS LULLABY.4£fe- HE droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" The sun comes up from the lea, As he who will never come more Came up that first day to her door, When the ship furled her sails by the shore, And the spring leaves were green on the tree. But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie 1" The sun goes down in the sea, As he who will never go more, Went down that last day from her door, When the ship set her sails from the shore, And the dead leaves were sere on the tree. But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" The year comes glad o'er the lea, As he who will never come more, Never, ah never ! Came up that first day to her door, When the ship furled her sails by the shore, And the spring leaves were green on the tree. Never, ah never ! He M r ho will come again, never ! But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie !" Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" The year goes sad to the sea, As he who will never go more For ever went down from her door, Ever, for ever ! When the ship set her sails by the shore, And the dead leaves were sere on the tree. Ever, for ever ! For ever went down from her door. 178 THE WIDOW'S LULLABY. But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie! Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" A gun, and a flash, and a gun, The ship lies again where she lay ! High and low, low and high in the sun, There's a boat, a boat on the bay ! High and low, low and high, in the sun, All as she saw it that day, When he came who shall never come more, And the ship furled her sails by the shore. But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! AVhisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!" All as she saw it that day, With a gun, and a flash, and a gun, The ship lies again where she lay, And they run, and they ride, and they run, Merry, merry, merry, down the merry highway; To the boat high and low in the sun. Nearer and nearer she hears the rolling drum, Clearer and clearer she hears the cry, "They come.'' Far and near runs the cheer to her ear once so dear, Merry, merry, merry, up the merry highway, As it ran when he came that day And said, " Wilt thou be my dearie ? Oh, wilt thou be my dearie ? My boat is dry in the bay, And I'll love till thou be weary !" And she could not say him nay, For his bonny eyes o' blue, And never was true-love so true, To never so kind a dearie, As he who will never love more, When the ship furls her sails by the shore. Then she shakes like a wind-stricken lily, " Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" SYDNEY DO BELL. 179 /f\ OLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's \\ tt knee ; Dear little Goldenhair ! tired was she, All the day busy as busy could be. Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, Out with the birds and butterflies bright. Skipping about till the coming of night. Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. " What has my baby been doing," he said, " Since she arose, with the sun from her bed?" " Pitty much," answered the sweet little one ; ' I cannot tell so much things I have done, — Played with my dolly and feeded my Bun. " And I have jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap, Bufitle worlds ! mama's castles of Hope. " And I have readed in my picture-book, And little Bella and I went to look For some smooth stones by the side of the brook. u ' Then I corned home and eated my tea, And I climbed up to my grandpapa's knee, I jes as tired as tired can be." Lower and lower the little head pressed, Until it drooped upon grandpapa's breast ; Dear little Goldenhair ! sweet be thy rest ! We are but children ; the things that we do Are as sports of a babe to the infinite view That sees all our weakness, and pities it too. God grant that when night overshadows our way And we shall be called to account for our day, He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's play! And 0, when aweary may we be so blest As to sink like the innocent child to our rest, And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast ! The real orphan is not he who has lost his father, but he whose father gave him no education. ORIENTAL E. TliHERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven. I've said my "seven times" over and over Seven times one are seven. F. BURGE SMITH. I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always, — they know no better; They are only one times one. Oh Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. You were bright — ah bright — but your light is failing ; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. Oh velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow, — You've powdered your legs with gold. Oh brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold ! Oh Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! Oh Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, — I will not steal them away ; I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! I am seven times one to-day. JEAN INGELO W. 180 "BE KIND, BOYS." YOU are made to be kind, boys, generous, magnanimous. If there is a boy in school who has a club-foot, don't let him know you ever saw it. If there is a poor boy with ragged clothes, don't talk about rags in his hear- ing. If there is a lame boy, assign him some part of the game which does not require running. If there is a hungry one, give him part of your dinner. If there is a dull one, help him to get his lesson. If there is a bright one, be not envious of him; for if one boy is proud of his talents, and another is envious of them, there are two great wrongs, and no more talent than before. If a larger or stronger boy has injured you, and is sorry for it, forgive him. All the school will show by their countenances how much better it is than to have a great fist. HORACE MANN. A DIHNBR AHD A KISS. i HAVE brought your dinner, father," The blacksmith's daughter said, As she took from her arm the kettle, And lifted its shining lid. " There is not any pie or pudding ; So I will give you this ;" And upon his toil-worn forehead She left the childish kiss. The blacksmith took off his apron, And dined in happy mood, Wondering much at the savor Hid in his humble food, While all about him were visions Full of prophetic bliss ; But he never thought of the magic In his little daughter's kiss. While she, with her kettle swinging, Merrily trudged away, Stopping at sight of a squirrel, Catching some wild bird's lay, O, I thought, how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners Were seasoned with a kiss ! Sad SemcmBrances of MMdhood. THE dreams of childhood — its airy fables ; its graceful, beautiful humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond ; so good to be be- lieved in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown, for then the least among them rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world, wherein it was better for all the children of Adam that they should oftener sun themselves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise — what had she to do with these ? Remembrances of how she had journeyed to the little that she knew, by the enchanted roads of what she and millions of innocent creatures had hoped and imagined ; and how first com- ing upon Reason through the tender light of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as great as itself; not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, with its victims bound hand and foot, and its big dumb shape set up with a sightless stare, never to be moved by anything but so many calculated tons of leverage — what had she to do with these '? Her remem- brances of home and childhood were re- membrances of the drying up of every spring and fountain in her young heart as it gushed out. The golden waters were not there. They were flowing for the fertilization of the land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles. CHARLES DICKENS. 181 EARLY DAYS. EARLY DAYS. I^H ! enviable early clays, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care to guilt unknown ! How ill exchanged for riper times, To feel the follies or the crimes Of others or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish ! ROBERT BURNS. A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last, Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By records of a well-nll'd past: A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Children of the Rich and Poor Contrasted, The jlntyei'iJ. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old : A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares, — The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares ; And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn : A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands he does his part In every useful toil and art: A heritage,, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it, A fellow feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door: ^HE nursery anticipates the school and the church ; it sows the first seed and in that little ijjT^j-d home the atmosphere of the world first comes into close contact with the child's moral and immortal nature. Looked at in its true light, what is the nursery but just the next age in its bud and blossom? An enlightened regard, therefore, for the highest good of our chil- dren should make us deeply concerned for that of our domestics ; for in contributing to their knowledge of God, we are helping to purify the moral atmosphere iu which our whole household shall live and move, and laying down deeper, by every such effort, the foundations of our domestic happiness, and through this, in our share promoting the true prosperity and sta- bility of the commonwealth. It has been justly said, " Families are the nurseries both for the state and for the church ; the springs which, from their retirements, send forth the tributary streams, which by their confluence make up the majestic flow of national greatness and prosperity. 182 DR. A. THOMPSON. CAPACITY OF CHILDREN. IMPROVEMENT depends far in but a little each day j they are like a less upon lengths of tasks and vase with a narrow neck ; you may pour hours of application than is little or pour much, but much will not supposed. Children can take enter at a time. michelet. 183 .^^tjF fl 0}ologh of a Baby. MOTHER little boy— the biggest there, but still lit- tle — was tottering to and fro, bent on one side, and considerably affected in his knees by the weight of a large baby, which he was supposed by a fiction that obtains some- times in sanguine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh ! the inexhaustible re- gions of contemplation and watchfulness into which this baby's eyes were then only beginning to compose themselves to stare, over his unconscious shoulder ! It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet in any one place, for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep when required. Tetterby's baby was as well known in the neighborhood as the post- man or the pot-boy. It roved from door- step to door-step in the arms of little Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at the rear of troops of juveniles who followed the tumblers or the monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for every- thing that was attractive, from Monday morning till Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Whenever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was aAvake and must be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England ; and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp flapping bonnet, and to go staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to any body, and could never be delivered anywhere. CHARLES DICKENS. • J-o^o^. BOYISH HABITS. I HAVE sometimes thought of break- ing myself of what are termed boy- ish habits; but reflection has satis- fied me that it would be very foolish, and that I should esteem it a blessing that I can find amusement in everything, from tossing a cricket-ball to negotiating a treaty with the Emperor of China. Men who will give themselves entirely to busi- ness and despise (which is their tendency) trifles, may be very able in their general conception of the great outline of a plan, but they feel a want of knowledge, which is only to be gained by mixing with all classes in the world, when they come to those lesser points upon which its successful execution may depend. SIR JOHN MALCOLM. TWO things are absolutely necessary to young people : Exercise to ren- der them robust, and discipline to make them good and wise. PLATO. The boy who best learns all he can Will best succeed when he's a man. 184 y oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo MOTHER AND CHILD. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo s~ HE wind blew wide the casement, and within — It was the loveliest picture ! — a sweet child Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, In pauses, from the fountain, — the white round Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees "With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh: — And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, Looked archly on its world, — the little imp, As if it knew even then that such a wreath Were not for all ; and with its playful hands It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, — Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; And the true heart of that young mother then Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. CHILDREN A LOAN, OOD Christian people ! here lies for you an inestimable loan : take all heed thereof; in all carefulness employ it: with high recompense or else with heavy penalty, will it one day be required back. THOMAS CARLYLE. 185 FROM THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. GlEATED I see the two again, Vj But not alone ; they entertain I A little angel unaware, With face as round as is the moon ; A royal guest with flaxen hair. Who, throned upon his lofty chair, Drums on the table with his spoon, Then drops it careless on the floor, To grasp at things unseen before. Are these celestial manners ? these The ways that win, the arts that please Ah, yes ; consider well the guest, And whatsoe'er he does seems best, He ruleth by the right divine Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee and thine. He speaketh not, and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes ; The golden silence of the Greek, The gravest wisdom of the wise, Not spoken in language, but in looks More legible than printed books, As if he could but would not speak. And now, monarch absolute Thy power is put to proof; for lo ! Resistless, fathomless, and slow, The nurse comes rustling like the sea, And pushes back the chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. ooooooooooooooocooooooooooooooco o o o c o •t&JH^- 3§ " Importance of a Child. %>• |HY mother's joy, thy father's hope thou bright, Bright pure dwelling, where two fond hearts keep their gladness ; Thou little potentate of love, who comest With solemn sweet dominion to the old, Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged With the grave embassage of that dear past, When they were young like thee, thou vindication Of God, thou living witness against all men Who have been babies, thou everlasting promise Which no man keeps, thou portrait of our nature, Which in despair and pride, we scorn and worship Thou household God, whom no iconoclast Hath broken ! SYDNEY DOBELL. 186 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. A Child's First Impression of a Star. £Y HE had been told that God made all ^^ the stars V^/ That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. She stood alone By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted, with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively — "Father! dear father! God has made a star!" WILLIS. §w%$ : Jmsi-fciriiJJMtUo fijtldim ITTLE children, love each other, Never give mother pain ; If your brother speak in anger, Answer not in wrath again. Be not selfish to each other, Never mar another's rest, Strive to make each other happy, And you will yourselves be blest. ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart Besting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had pray'd, And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be a deeper covenant — which sin And the temptations of the world, and death, Would leave unbroken — and that she would know In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God. WILLIS . ! -S-%— o— %-S-t, Undbi^ CQy Window. |: MjNDEB my window, under my window, mWj All in (he Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together : — There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over, Merry and clear, the voice I hear, Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover. Under my window, under my window, In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe, I catch them all together : — Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with the scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window, And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies ; But dear little Kate takes nought amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. T. WESTWOOD. 187 RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD. RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD. \ E it a weakness, it deserves some praise ; "We love the play-place of our early days : The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved existing still ! The bench on which we sat while deep employed, Tho' mangled, hack'd and hew'd, not yet destroyed ; The little ones unbuttoned glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw: To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with dextrous pat. The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, When first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it even in age, at our latest day. W M . COWPER, DAISY AMONG TEE DAISIES. gjOOB. little Daisy ! So tired was she ! Mamma was busy as busy could be, — For house-cleaning time had arrived, you must know, And troublesome Daisy was brim-mil of woe; She tripped over this,— she stumbled in that,— And over a big roll of carpet fell flat ; She bumped her small nose Till 'twas red as a rose ; And, to crown her mishaps, Nursie trod on her toes : " Then, please, miss, just keep yourself out of the way," Growled nurse. Oh, wretched, uncomfortable day! Poor Daisy ! her questions unheeded, Her proffered assistance not needed, Scolded for nothing (she thought in her heart), Allowed in the wondrous commotion no part, — What wonder, at last, That she ran away fast To the beautiful fields, where all troubles were past, To the beautiful meadows, where daisies were growing, And where the tall grasses the soft wind was blowing ? There were bright yellow buttercups, brim-fuli of butter, And gayly- winged butterflies, all in a flutter ; And sweet clover-blossoms, that tempted the bees To steal all the honey their bee-ships might please ; And, right in the midst of these pleasures, The sunshine fell down Like a soft, golden crown, To rest on the field full of treasures, And kiss little Daisy, who sat in the grass, To talk to the butterflies — sweet little lass ! "0, dear Mr. Butterf'y, what do you think? My house isn't pleasant to-day ; For everyone's cross, and the cartips are up, And nurse said to ' get out of ze way.' So I've come to your house, and I'll be just as dood As a little dirl ever can be — 0, dear Mr. Butterf'y, zat ain't polite, When I'm talking, to fly off from me ! " But off o'er the meadow the butterfly soared, Unheeding his wee little guest, truth to tell ; And Daisy decided to visit awhile The little white 'fowers' she liked so well. So, where the fair daisies kept house together, Half hidden 'mongst grasses as high as her head, Our dear little Daisy, so tired, grew sleepy, And borrowed a part of the wild flowers' bed. And there, while the sunshine was stealing about Her sweet sleeping-place, with a peep in and out, — 188 DAISY AMONG THE DAISIES. Now leaving a kiss on the soft, yellow hair. Now trying to brown the dimpled cheeks fan, — Little Daisy all drowsily talked to the flowers, While minutes were hastening to make up the hours : " How fttnny it is, I think, don't you '? That I'm a daisy, and you are, too ! But then, I'm mamma's daisy, and so / don't live in the grass and grow. I don't know where I came from, though ; Maybe I used to be a little thing, All yellow in the middle, with a little wing, Growing out all wound, and just as white As yours ! " Here Daisy laid a finger light Upon the soft white leaves beside her cheek. " 0, little bit of f ; ower-daisy, speak To me ! Tell me, do you know If you, some day, a little dirl will gwow? Maybe a mamma'll come and get you, And, if the sunshine-mother '11 let you. Go away from all the others, — All your f ! ower sisters and brothers ; And then you "11 be a httle live dirl, And maybe your hair will twist and turl, And make you cry when nursie combs it, jus' As J do cry, and, nurse says, 'mate a fuss.' Mamma don't love her girl-daisy to-day, ■ And that is why I runned so fast away. I wish a birdie please would sing a song, I'm just as sleepy as — as — " Ah ! ere long The tired eyelids, over tired eyes. Fell softly down, beneath the summer skies. MARY D. BRINE. ©he Haughty Bai^n. HE bairnie sat on the hillock hard, The bright little brook beside, 1th a world of care on his bonnie face, And the tears on his cheeks scarce dried. He put his books in his satchel worn, And kissed the mother good-bye ; And smiled at her caution to walk in the road, For the grass was scarcely dry. The naughty bairn ! he had in his mind How merry it would be To go and sit by the babbling brook, And the pebbles and flowers see. He could not bear to think of the school, And the long, long, tiresome day; So he laid his satchel "neath the old stone wall. And hied to the brook away. He tossed the pebbles in the waters bright. And plucked the sweet wild flowers ; And thought what a merry way this was To spend the morning hours. So he merrily played till the sun went down. In a sea of crimson fire ; And he saw o'er the meadows slowly creep The shadow of the village spire. And then he remembered he must go home, And he thought of his mother's frown ; And then first he saw his mud-soiled hands, And the stains on his best school gown. And somehow the brook as it rippled along, Sang a quaint and a sad, sad lay ; It sang to the bairn of the stolen hours, And the lost and wasted day. And home through the gloaming the bairnie strayed, But the smile of the day was gone; For, child as he was, he felt the grief That always follows wrong. A naughty boy the bairn had been, He had strayed from school away, For the lessons were hard, and he could not learn. And he longed, oh, he longed to play. Though the doing wrong may seem merry and light, The mem'ry is cold and chill ; And the only pleasure we can truly know Is doing the Father's will. 189 THE SCHOOL BOY. -*-■ WE bought him a box for his books and things, And a cricket-bag for his bat; And he looked the brightest and best of kings Under his new straw hat. We handed him into the railway train With a troop of his young compeers, And we made as though it were dust and rain Were filling our eyes with tears. We looked in his innocent face to see The sign of a sorrowful heart ; But he only shouldered his bat with glee And wondered when they would start. 'Twas not that he loved not as heretofore, For the boy was tender and kind ; But his was a world that was all before, And ours was a world behind. 'Twas not his fluttering heart was cold, For the child was loyal and true ; And the parents love the love that is old, And the children the love that is new. And we came to know that love is a flower Which only groweth down ; And we scarcely spoke for the space of an hour As we drove back through the town. €€' 99 t '^HAT shall we do?" the children said, By the spirit of frolic and mischief led, Frank and Lulu and Carrie, three As full of nonsense as they could be : Who never were known any fun to stop Until they were just about ready to drop. Frank, whose "knowledge-box" surely abounds With games, spoke up for "Hare and Hounds." " Down the cellar or up the stair, Here and there, and everywhere, You must follow, for I'm the Hare!" Lulu and Carrie gave quick consent, And at cutting their papers and capers went, For the stairs were steep, and they must not fail To have enough for a good long trail. Away went the Hare Right up the stair, And away went the Hounds, a laughing pair; And Tony, who sat Near Kitty, the cat, And was really a dog worth looking at, With a queer grimace Soon joined the race, And followed the game at a lively pace ! Then puss, who knew A thing or two, Prepared to follow the noisy crew, And never before or since, I ween, Was ever beheld such a hunting scene ! The Hare was swift; and the papers went This way and that, to confuse the scent; But Tony, keeping his nose in air, In a very few moments betrayed the Hare, Which the children told him was hardly fair. I can not tell you how long they played, Of the fun they had, or the noise they made ; For the best of things in this world, I think, Can ne'er be written with pen and ink. But Bridget, who went on her daily rounds, Picking up after the "Hare and Hounds," Said she didn't mind hearing their lively capers, But her back was broke with scraps o' papers. Carrie, next day, couldn't raise her head • Frank and Lulu were sick in bed ; The dog and the cat were a used-up pair, And all of them needed the doctor's care. The children themselves can hardly fail To tack a moral upon this trail ; And I guess on rather more level grounds They'll play their next game of " Hare and Hounds." JOSEPHINE POLLARD. 190 *oo. occooooococcooocccoocoooooooc G\ 1 'ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooc* t^_ THE clock strikes seven in the hall, The curfew of the children's day, That calls each little pattering foot From dance and song and lively play ; Their day that in a wider light Floats like a silver day-moon white, Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, But sets within a golden west. Ah, tender hour that sends a drift Of children's kisses through the house, And cuckoo notes of sweet "Good night," That thoughts of heaven and home arouse, And a soft stir to sense and heart, As when the bee and blossom part ; And little feet that patter slower, Like the last droppings of a shower. And in the children's room aloft, What blossom shapes do gaily slip Their daily sheaths, and rosy run From clasping hand and kissing lip, A naked sweetness to the eye — Blossom and babe and butterfly In witching one, so dear a sight ' An ecstasy of life and light. Then lily-drest, in angel white, To mother's knee they trooping come. The soft palms fold like kissing shells, And they and we go singing home— Their bright heads bowed and worshiping, As though some glory of the spring, Some daffodil that mocks the day, Should fold his golden palms and pray. The gates of paradise swing wide A moment's space in soft accord, And those dread angels, Life and Death, A moment veil the flaming sword, As o'er this weary world forlorn From Eden's secret heart is borne That breath of Paradise most fair, "Which mothers call " the children's prayer.'' Then kissed, on beds we lay them down, As fragrant white as clover'd sod, And all the upper floors grow hushed With children's sleep, and dews of God. And as our stars their beams do hide, The stars of twilight, opening wide, Take up the heavenly tale at even, And light us on to God and heaven. JANE ELLIS HOPKINS. "NOT LOST, BUTjONE BEFORE," r s ^OW mournful seems, in broken dreams. ml? The memory of the day, When icy Death hath seal'd the breath Of some dear form of clay. When pale, unmoved, the face we loved, The face we thought so fair, And the hand lies cold, whose fervent hold Once charm'd away despair. Oh, what could heal the grief we feel For hopes that come no more, Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word, " Not lost, but gone before." Oh sadly yet with vain regret The widow's heart must yearn ; And mothers weep their babes asleep In the sunlights's vain return. The brother's heart shall rue to part From the one through childhood known ; And the orphan's tears lament for years A friend and father gone. For death and life, with ceaseless strife, Beat wild on this world's shore, And all our calm is in that balm, " Not lost, but gone before." Oh ! world wherein nor death, nor sin, Nor Aveary warfare dwells ; Their blessed home we parted from With sobs and sad farewells. Where eyes awake, for whose dear sake Our own with tears grow dim, And faint accords of dying words Are changed for heaven's sweet hymn ; Oh ! there at last, life's trials past, We'll meet our loved once more, Whose feet have trod the path to God — " Not lost, but gone before." HON. MRS. NORTON. 191 LITTLE CHILDREN. PORTING through the forest wide, Playing by the water side, Waudering o'er the heather fells, Down within the woodland delist All among the mountains wild, Dwelleth many a little child. In the rich man's house so wide, By the poor man's snug fireside, 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, Little children may be seen; Like the flowers which spring up fair, Bright and countless everywhere ! In the fair isles of the main, In the desert's lone domain, In the savage mountain glen, 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men, Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone, Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone On a league of peopled ground, Little children may be found ! Blessings on them ! they, in me, Move a kindly sympathy, With their wishes, hopes, and fears, With their laughter and their tears, With their wonders, so intense, And their small experience. Little children not alone On the spacious earth are known, 'Mid its labors and its cares, 'Mid its sufferings and its snares ; Free from sorrow, free from strife, In the world of love and life, Where no sinful thing hath trod — In the presence of our God, Spotless, blameless, glorified, Little children there abide ! W E miss her footfall on the floor, Amidst the nursery din, Her tip-tap at our bedroom door, Her bright face peeping in. MARY HOWITT. And when to Heaven's high court above Ascends our social prayer, Though there are voices that we love, One sweet voice is not there. And dreary seem the hours, and lone, That drag themselves along, Now from our board her smile is gone, And from our hearth her song. We miss that farewell laugh of hers, With its light joyous sound, And the kiss between the balusters, When goodnight time comes round. And empty is her little bed, And on her pillow there Must never rest that cherub head With its soft silken hair. But often as we wake and weep, Our midnight thoughts will roam, To visit her cold, dreamless sleep, In her last narrow home. Then, then it is Faith'c tear-dimm'd eyes See through ethereal space, Amidst the angel-crowded skies, That dear, that well-known face. With beckoning hand she seems to say, " Though, all her sufferings o'er, Your little one is borne away To the celestial shore, Doubt not she longs to welcome you To her glad, bright abode, There happy endless ages through To live with her and God." 192 BENNY'S QUESTIONS. c^oVe?^ HAT is the kitty good for ? My little boy Benny said. To catch the mice in the pantry When they nibble mamma's bread, To sit on the -rug in the sunshine, To play with her little toes, And if kitty is good for anything else, It is more than mamma knows. What is the mooly cow good for, Mamma? I'd like to know. To eat green grass in the pastures Where the meadow-lilies grow, To give us sweet golden butter, Rich milk, and yellow cream, And a great many more good presents Than Benny could even dream. What are the busy bees good for — To sting little boys ? asked he. There is many a lesson my boy could learn From even a busy bee For he works all day in the summer Laying sweet treasures by For the long cold days that are coming, When roses and violets die. What is old Rover good for ? I'm sure I can not see. To teach my Benny how patient Even a brute can be ; To watch papa's house at midnight, When the lamps are all out in the street, So, Benny, take care of good Rover, And give him enough to eat. What is my mamma good for ? The little rogue laughing said. Oh, Benny, my boy, I answered, As I pillowed his sunshiny head, Your mamma is good for nothing If she can not teach her child To follow the Infant Saviour, So loving, tender, and mild. FOUR TEARS OLD. OH, sun ! so far up in the blue sky ; Oh, clovers ! so white and so sweet ; Oh, little brook ! shining like silver, And running so fast past my feet, — You don't know what strange thing has happened Since sunset and star-shine last night ; Since the four-o'clocks closed their red petals To wake up so early and bright. Say, what will you think when I tell you What my dear mamma whispered to me, When she kissed me on each cheek twice over? You don't know what a man you may see ! Sweet-clover, stand still ; do not blow so : I shall whisper way down in your ear, I was four years old early this morning ! Would you think so, to see me, my dear ? Do you notice my pants and two pockets ? I'm so old, I must dress like a man ; I must learn to read books and write letters, And I'll write one to you when I can. My pretty gold butterflies flying, Little birds, and my busy brown bee, I shall never be too old to love you ; And I hope that you'll always love me ! FANNY BENEDICT. 193 13 msrw amco^iimiOT^ " Honor thy father and thy mother." ATHER and mother ! sacred names and dear ; The sweetest music to the infant ear, And dearer still to those, a joyous band, Who sport in childhood's bright enchanted land. And when, as years roll on, night follows day, The young wax old and loved ones pass away, Through mists of time yet holier and more dear, " Father and mother " sound to memory's ear. The days, the hours, the moments as they speed, Each crowned by loving thought or word or deed, Oh, heart's long-suffering, self-denying ! sure Earth holds no love more true, and none so pure. Thou happy child whom a good God hath given A parents' shelt'ring home, that earthly heaven, Where ceaseless care, where tireless love and true, Nurse thy young life as flowers are nursed by dew, E'en as the flowers, for the dear debt they owe, Bloom, and sweet odors in rich meed bestow, Let the fair blossoms of thy love and duty Cluster about thy home in fragrant beauty. Never from eye or lip be seen or heard The sullen glance or the rebellious word, And never wilfully or heedless pain The tender hearts that cannot wound again. But fond caress, sweet smile and loving tone, Obedience prompt and glad, be thine alone, For filial love, like mercy, is twice blest ; While to the parent of earth's joys the best, Richer than treasures of the land or sea, It wins God's blessing, O my child, for thee I 194 IADGE, wee woman with earnest look, ♦Wf* Is head and ears in a fairy book ; Rob is a rogue with hair of tow. Last but greatest is Baby Joe. Fastened down there In the big arm-chair, Stiff and angular, strong and square. He can't get up and he can't slide out ; Nothing to do but to wriggle about, Suck his thumbs and his rubber ring, And wonder vaguely about his shoes (Sbiny and small such as babies use), How they ever came on his feet. If they're made to look at, or only to eat ? Thinks quite strongly of making a spring In the hope of breaking the naughty thing That holds him a prisoner snug and tight In that tiresome chair from morning till night. But here comes Rob with a funny face. Baby looks up and takes heart of grace ; All his sorrows and griefs are past ; Here is something to do at last. He gurgles and crows And wrinkles his nose, "With one little dimple that comes and goes ; He stretches an arm with a doubled-up fist, Soft and rosy from elbow to wrist, For Rob has been puffing his red cheeks out Till they look like big apples he's holding there, Ripe and shining and smooth and fair. Baby Joe strikes hard with his fist of pink At the puckered-up lips, then quicker than wink Rob jumps to his feet with a laugh and a shout, And capers and dances and whirls about. But the best of the play is, that when it is done They can play it all over again, Such fun ! CARRIE H. THOMPSON. GASA WAPPY. JXD hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy — The realms where sorrow dare not come, "Where life is joy ? Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; Even by its bliss we meet our dearth, Casa Wappy ! Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye ; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee ; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathomecl agony ; Casa Wappy ! Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given ; Beauty embodied to our sight — A type of heaven ! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self, than a part Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 'T was cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy I This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; That found thee prostrate in decay ; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! * The self-appellative of a beloved child. 195 CASA WAPPY. Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child ! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight ; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light! I feel thy breath upon my cheek — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till oh ! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy ! Methinks thou smil'st before me now, With glance of stealth ; The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health ; I see thine eyes' deep violet light — Thy dimpled cheek carnation bright — Thy clasping arms so round and white — Casa Wappy ! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat — thy bow — Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; But where art thou ? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scattered there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! Even to the last, thy every word — To glad — to grieve — Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird On Summer's eve ; In outward beauty undecayed, Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, Casa Wappy ! We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night The chamber fills ; We pine for thee, when morn's first light Reddens the hills ; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, Casa Wappy ! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth, It doth not own, whate'er may seem, An inward birth : We miss thy small step on the stair ; — We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; All day we miss thee — everywhere — Casa Wappy ! Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below — The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," Beturn — but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy ! 'T is so ; but can it be — while flowers Bevive again — Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain ? Oh ! can it be, that, o'er the grave, The grass renewed should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save ? — Casa Wappy ! It cannot be ; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery — thought were woe— And truth a lie ; — Heaven were a coinage of the brain — Beligion frenzy — virtue vain — And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy ! Then be to us, dear, lost child ! . With beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above ! Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy ! Yet, 't is sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy, That Heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy ; There past are death and all its woes ; There beauty's stream for ever flows ; And pleasure's clay no sunset knows, Casa Wappy ! Farewell then — for a while, farewell — Bride of my heart ! It cannot be that long we dwell, Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; And, dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave, I'll meet with thee, Cassy Wappy ! DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 196 <& A v£ 1 CANNOT make him dead ! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair ; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes — he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair : I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that — he is not there ! I thread the crowded street ; A satchelled lad I meet. With the same beaming eyes and colored hair And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid ; Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy ; Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer : Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though— he is not there! Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there ! He lives ! — In all the past He lives ; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair ; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God ! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! JOHN PIERPONT. H NDERNEATH the sod low lying, Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Sorrow here. Yes ! they're ever bending o'er her Eyes that weep, Forms that to the cold grave bore her Vigils keep. When the summer moon is shining, Soft and fair, Friends she loved, in tears are twining Chaplets there. Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Throned above ! Souls like thine with God inherit Life and love ! JAMES T. FIELDS, 197 THE OPEN WINDOW. The 6pen Window. , l|HE old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air; But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog Was standing by the door ; He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall ; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet familiar tone ; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone ! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand ! H. \V. LONGFELLOW. SHE CAME AND WENT. AS a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my souhheld that moment's heaven; — I only know she came and went. As at one bound our swift Spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps; — I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent ; The tent is struck, the vision stays; — I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And when the oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ^>H those little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use. Oh the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes ! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet, That, by God's good will, Years since, grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet. And oh, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure, That little dear treasure, And o'er them thought and wept ! For they mind her for evermore Of a patter along the floor; And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then oh, wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! WILLIAM C. BENNETT. 198 IT St,©© 1 ® ^Ve^WtsVa^ / E had black eyes with long lashes, red cheeks, and hair almost > black and almost > curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trowsers, buttoned on ; had a habit of whistling, and liked to ask ques- tions ; was accompanied by a small, black dog. It is a long while now since he dis- appeared. I have a very pleasant house and much company. My guests say, " Ah ! it is pleasant here ! Everything has such an orderly, put-away look — nothing under foot, no dirt !" But my eyes are aching for the sight of whittlings and cut paper upon the floor, of tumble- down card-houses, of wooden sheep and cattle, of pop-guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks, and trumpery. I want to see boats a rigging, and kites a making, crumbles on the car- pet, and paste spilt on the kitchen table. I want to see the chairs and tables turned the wrong way about. I want to see candy- making and corn-popping, and to find jack-knives and fish-hooks among my muslins. Yet these things used to fret me once. They say, " How quiet you are here ! Ah ! one here may settle his brains, and be at peace." But my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet, for a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra la la, for the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums, fifes, and tin trumpets ; yet these things made me nervous once. They say, "Ah! you have leisure — nothing to disturb you ; what heaps of sewing you have time for !" But I long to be asked for a bit of string or an old newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil or pea-nuts. I want to be coaxed for a piece of new cloth for jibs or main-sails, and then to hem the same. I want to make little flags, and bags to hold mar- bles. I want to be followed by little feet all over the house, teasing for a bit of dough for a little cake, or to bake a pie in a saucer. Yet these things used to fidget me once. They say, "Ah! you are not tied at home. How delightful to be always at liberty to go to concerts, lectures, and parties! No confinement for you." But I want confinement. I want to listen for the school-bell mornings, to give the last hasty wash and brush, and then to watch from the window nimble feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to mend, and to replace lost buttons. I want to obliterate mud-stains, fruit-stains, molasses-stains, and paints of all colors. I want to be sitting by a little crib of evenings, when weary feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed that mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the oft-repeated stories. They don't know their happiness then — those mothers. I didn't. All these things I called confine- ment once. A manly figure stands before me now. He is taller than I ; has thick, black whiskers, and wears a frock-coat, bosomed shirt, and cravat. He has just come from 199 BOY LOST. college. He brings Latin and Greek in his countenance, and busts of the old philosophers for the sitting-room. He calls me mother, but I am rather unwill- ing to own him. He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says that he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of white trousers, with gay stripes at the sides, and asks if I didn't make them for him when he joined the boys' militia. He says he is the very boy, too, that made the bonfire near the barn, so that we came very near having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat, to show the red strip on the sail (it was the end of the piece,) and the name on the stern — " Lucy Low " — a little girl of our neigh- borhood, who, because of her long curls and pretty round face, was the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were long since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall, handsome girl. How the red comes to his face when he shows me the name on the boat ! Oh ! I see it all, as plain as if it were written in a book. My little boy is lost, and my big boy will soon be. Oh ! I wish he were a little tired boy in a long white night-gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, holding his hand in mine, pushing the curls back from his forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and listening to his deep breathing. If I only had my little boy again, how patient I would be ! How much I would bear, and how little I would fret and scold ! I can never have him back again ; but there are still many mothers who haven't yet lost their little boys. I won- der if they know they are living their very best days — that now is the time to really enjoy their children, I think if I had been more to my little boy, I might now be more to my grown-up one. 200 W HEN the baby died, we said, "With a sudden, secret dread : " Death, be merciful, and pass ; — Leave the other !" — but alas ! While we watched he waited there, One foot on the golden stair, One hand beckoning at the gate, Till the home was desolate. Friends say, " It is better so, Clothed in innocence to go;" Say, to ease the parting pain, That "your loss is but their gain." Ah ! the parents think of this ! But remember more the kiss From the little rose-red lips; And the print of finger-tips. Left upon the broken toy, Will remind them how the boy And his sister charmed the days With their pretty, winsome ways. Only time can give relief To the weary, lonesome grief: God's sweet minister of pain Then shall sing of loss and gain. NORA PERRY. — «t>»-^"^»— =>•— Let no fond sire a boy's ambition trust To make him study, let him see he must. C R AB B E . I T is with youth as with plants ; from the first fruits they bear we learn what may be expected of them in the future. DEMOPHILUS. v «s^~ USH, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! Holy angels guard thy bed ! HeaA^enly blessings without number, Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe! thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the son of God could be, When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee ! Soft and easy is thy cradle : Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay. Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, — Spotless fair, divinely bright I Must He dwell with brutal creatures ? How could angels bear the sight ? Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront the Lord ? Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard ; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arm shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story. How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing. See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky ! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His virgin mother by. See the lovely babe a-dressing ; Lovely Infant, how He smiled ! When He wept, His mother's blessing Sooth'd and hush'd the holy Child. Lo, He slumbers in a manger, Where the horned oxen fed : — Peace, nay darling, here's no danger : There's no ox a-near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Eedeemer came. May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days, Then go dwell for ever near Him ; See His face, and sing His praise ! I could give thee thousand kisses ! Hoping what I most desire, Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire ! ISAAC WATTS. GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE. A SONG FOR A CHILD. £T ING, I pray, a little song, /j\ Mother clear ! *TT Neither sad nor very long : It is for a little maid, Golden tressed Adelaide ! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, Mother dear ! Let it be a merry strain, Mother dear! Shunning e'en the thought of pain : For our gentle child will weep If the theme be dark and deep ; And we will not draw a single, single tear, Mother dear ! Childhood should be all divine, Mother dear! And like an- endless summer shine ; Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : Therefore bid thy song be merry: — dost thou hear, Mother dear ? BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 201 TWO SCHOOL BOYS. TWO SCHOOL BOYS. THE MOANING SONG. C^JrfWO school-boys on their way to *M 1 school \^y I day by day was meeting; • Yet though I met them day by day, We each and all pursued our way, Nor exchanged a friendly greeting. At last I got to nod and smile, To smile they, too, were willing ; And then I used to stop and stand, And often shake them by the hand, And sometimes tip a shilling. Till it became a daily treat To meet these morning scholars : I loved to see their merry looks, Though schoolward bound, with bag of books, Bright cheeks, and shining collars. Soon came the summer holidays, And when they were half over, I took a trip to Germany, And three months passed away ere I Recrossed the straits of Dover. Again I took that old, old walk — What time the leaves were yellow, The autumn day was very still — Just at the bottom of the hill I met one little fellow. He hailed me with a joyful cry Of joy fullest delectation : I laughed to see him laughing so. " But where's our friend ?" " What ! don't you know? He died in the vacation." How was it that I turned aside, With rough, abruptest bearing? No matter ; on the instant I Turned off, nor even said, " Good-bye," And left the youngster staring. S ING, little daughter, sing ; Sing me your morning song, Thanking our Father for His love And care the whole night long. Sing out with cheerful heart, Sing out with cheerful voice ; The tones of gratitude to God Will make my heart rejoice. Thank Him for parents dear, Thy father and thy mother ; Thank Him for little sister Bess, Thank Him for little brother. Thank Him for pleasant home, Thank Him for many a friend, For mercies which we can not count For mercies without end. Thank Him for health and strength, Thank Him for clothes and food, Thank Him for light and the fresh air, Thank Him for every good. Thank Him for pleasant days, For sunshine and for showers, For the green grass and lofty trees, And for the fair wild flowers. Thank Him, oh, most of all, For His most Holy Word, Wherein we read the wondrous love Of Jesus Christ our Lord. Thank Him that Christ has died That we might die to sin ; Thank Him that Christ is risen again, That we His heaven may win. Sing, little daughter, sing; Sing forth with heart and voice, Thanking the Lord for all His gifts ; Rejoice, my child, rejoice. 202 MY boy, do you know the boy I love ? I fancy I see him now ; His forehead bare in the sweet spring air, With the wind of hope in his waving hair, With sunrise on his brow. He is something near your height, may be, And just about your years ; Timid as you ; but his will is strong, And his love of right and his hate of wrong Are mightier than his fears. He has the courage of simple truth, The trail that he must bear ; The peril, the ghost that frights him most, He faces boldly, and like a ghost It vanishes in air. As wild-fowl take, by river and lake, The sunshine and the rain, With cheerful, constant hardihood, He meets the bad luck and the good, The pleasure and the pain. Come friends in need? With heart and deed He gives himself to them. He has the grace which reverence lends — Reverence, the crowning flower that bends, The upright lily-stem. Though deep and strong his sense of wrong, Fiery his blood and young, His spirit is gentle, his heart is great, He is swift to pardon and slow .to.hate, And master of his tongue. Fond of his sports ? No merrier lad's Sweet laughter ever rang ! But he is so generous and so frank, His wildest wit, or his maddest prank, Can never cause a pang. His own sweet ease, all things that please, He loves, like any boy ; But fosters a prudent fortitude ; Nor will he squander a future good To buy a fleeting joy. Face brown or fair ? I little care Whatever the hue may be, Or whether his eyes are dark or light ; If his tongue be true and his honor bright, He is still the boy for me. Where does he dwell? I can not tell; Nor do I know his name. Or poor or rich ? I don't mind which ; Or learning Latin, or digging ditch, I love him all the the same. With high, brave heart, perform your part, Be noble and kind as he ; Then, some fair morning, when you pass, Fresh from glad dreams, before your glass, His likeness you may see. You are puzzled? What! you think there is not A boy like him — surmise That he is only a bright ideal ? But you have power to make him real, And clothe him to our eyes. You have rightly guessed : in each pure breast Is his abiding-place. Then let your own true life portray His beauty, and blossom day by day With something of his grace. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. CHILDHOOD. C* f"N my poor mind it is most sweet to muse d| I Upon the days gone by; to act in thought yjl I Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; + To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled) "Would throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head. charles lamb. 203 o. PATCHWORK. sITTLE Miss Margery sits and sews ; Painfully creaking her needle »5FtTB3i^=ri goes, As the moist little fingers push it through. Such a long stint she has got to do ? "What is the good," she says with a sigh, " Of making more quilts to just lay by ? "Up in the press lies row on row; Who are they for? I should like to know> 'You'll be glad some day,' says Aunt Pauline, 'That you made so many.' What can she mean? Pretty white spreads, I think, look best ; And, anyway, little girls want some rest." The small brass thimble gleefully rolled (Margery likes to play 'tis gold). Scissors and spool with a clatter fell ; Solemn old clock, now don't you tell ! Over the sill see Margery lean, Heedless of patchwork and Aunt Pauline. Clover-heads with their horns of honey, Daisies with gold and silver money, Strings of strawberries yet to be, Yellow butterflies, gay and free, Sun and wind, and a chance to play, — All these scarcely a rod away. She knows she could find a four-leaved clover Before she has hunted the field half over; And, oh ! by the way that sparrow flew, She must have a nest there, certain true ! Only a thin white wall between !— When suddenly in walked Aunt Pauline. The high-backed chair grew straighter still, The clock began to tick with a will, Even the foolish half-moon face Checked itself in a broad grimace, While a vagrant bee who was buzzzing through Out of the window quickly flew. Guilty Margery, quite aghast, Straightens up and sews very fast, But all in vain, however she tries, To cheat for a moment those keen eyes Under their spectacles looking through Body and soul — and patchwork, too. "What is the matter," she asks, "to-day? You want to go out in the field and play? If I were so silly I wouldn't have told — A great big girl nearly twelve years old. Let me see your work. Well, I do declare, 'T would disgrace a baby, Margery Ware ! "It must all come out. Here, take this pin; Sit beside me, while you begin. Remember you must not leave your seat Until it is done all true and neat. You'll be thankful yet that you learned to sew," With a glance at Margery's face of woe. <' When I was a girl," says Aunt Pauline, "An idle minute was seldom seen; You've no idea of the pains we'd take, Our beautiful patchwork squares to make. For prints were precious and thread was high, And little enough could our parents buy. " You could sew if you only tried; AVhat in the world do you see outside ? Grass wants cutting ; the corn looks dry ; Signs of rain, I think, in the sky. Carefully, child, don't hurry so, Set your stitches exact and slow." Margery swings her restless feet, Clover blossoms do smell so sweet; Smooth little finger-tips grow rough, Won't she ever have done enough ? Well, she must bear it while she's small ; Grown-up folks needn't sew at all. LUCY D. WIGGIN. 204 fl ^LBA FOR THE Boy. him i in HE boy is an offence in him- self. He must have something to do, and as his hands are idle, the pro- verbial provider of occupation for idle hands is always ready with instructions for him. A boy makes noise in utter defiance of the laws of acoustics. Shoe velvet, and carpet your house as you will, your boy shall make such hub- bub with his heels as no watchman's rat- tle ever gave forth. Doors in his hands always shut with a violence which jars the whole house, and he is certain to ac- quire each day the art of screaming or whistling in some wholly new and excru- ciating way. Loving his mother so vio- lently that his caresses derange her attire and seriously endanger her bones, ready to die in her defence if need be, he never- theless torments her from morning to night, and allows her no possible peace until slumber closes his throat and eye- 205 A PLEA FOR THE BOY. lids, and deprives his hands and feet of In most of our dealings with him in cities their demoniac cunning. In public your boy is equally a nui- sance. Collectively or individually he offends the public in the streets. What- ever he does is sure to be wrong. He monopolizes space and takes to himself all the air there is for acoustical purposes. Your personal peculiarities interest him, and with all the frankness of his soul he comments upon your appearance, address- ing his remarks to his fellow on the next block. Nevertheless the boy has his uses. He is the material out of which men are to be made for the next generation. He is not a bad fellow, — that is to say, he is not intentionally or consciously bad. There are springs in his limbs which keep him in perpetual motion, and the devil of up- roar of which he is possessed utters the ear-piercing sounds which annoy his eld- ers, but the utterances of which he can no more restrain than he can keep his boots or trousers from wearing out. In a ten-acre lot, well away from the house, the boy is a picturesque and agreeable person ; it is only when one must come into closer contact with him that his pres- ence causes suffering and suggests a statue to King Herod. It is in cities that the boy makes himself felt most disagreeably, and we fancy that the fault is not alto- gether his. As the steam which bursts boilers would be a perfectly harmless vapor, but for the sharp restraint that is put upon it, so the effervescent boy be- comes dangerous to social order only when he is confined, when an effort is made to compress him into smaller space than the law of his expansive being ab- solutely requires. We send him upon the war-path by encroaching upon his hunting-grounds ; we drive him into hos- tility by treating him as a public enemy. our effort is to suppress him, and it is an unwise system. If his ball-playing in the streets becomes an annoyance, we simply forbid ball-playing in the streets, and it is an inevitable consequence that, deprived of his ball, he will throw stones at street lamps or at policemen. What else is he to do ? In Brooklyn, for example, whose streets are long and wide, there was thought to be room enough for boys, and the inspir- ing rumble of the velocipede was heard there until somebody objected, when straightway the policemen were directed to arrest all machines of that character, whether with two, three, or four wheels, found upon sidewalks. Now this order we hold was not only cruel, but it was unwise as well. Without a doubt the velocipedes were a source of serious annoyance in crowded thoroughfares, but they are not so in streets in which pedes- trians are few, as they are in fully one- half of Brooklyn's thoroughfares. Velo- cipede riding might have been forbidden in the main thoroughfares, and permitted in less frequented ones, and the boy would have been content ; to forbid it where it offends nobody — merely for the sake of preventing it where it does offend — is illogical and unjust, and, worse still, it is unwise. The boy cannot be banished or confined, and, lacking his velocipede, he will resort to something more annoy- ing still. What it will be we do not pretend to guess, but for its capacity t child is of such pure and im- maculate strength as to be never violated except by those whose feelings are withered by the refin- ing of vitiated society. Holy, simple and beautiful in its construction, the emblem of all we can imagine of fidelity and truth, is the blessed tie whose value we feel in the cradle, and whose loss we lament on the verge of the very grave, where our mother moulders in dust and ashes. In all our trials, amid all our afflictions, she is our friend ; let the world forsake us, she is still by our side ; if we sin, she re- proves more in sorrow than in anger, nor can she tear us from her bosom, nor for- get we are her child. Wk$ l|iglttr purpose nfl AUtlret!. 'ELL me not of the trim, precisely arranged homes where there are no children ; " where," as the good Germans have it, "the flytraps always hang straight on the wall" ; tell me not of the never-disturbed nights and days, of the tranquil, unanxious hearts, where children are not ! I care not for these things. God sends children for another THE INFANT, ^(PATUPE'S best picture newly drawn, ~" ' which time and much handling dims and defaces. Whose soul's white paper is yet unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith at length it becomes a blurred note-book. AYho yet knows no evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. All the language he speaks is tears, aud they serve well to express his necessity. POOLE'S PARNASSUS, 217 The B&bjfs Fii$ Tooth, mBk * oooooooooooooooooooco-oooooooooo j ;R. and Mrs. Jones had just finished their breakfast. Mr. Jones had pushed back ||| his chair, and was looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones sat at the table, holding the infant Jones, and mechanically working her forefinger in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child on its back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open its mouth, and immediately gasped " Ephraim !" Mr. Jones, who was yet on his knees with his head under the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharply on the side of the lounge as he did so, and getting on his feet, inquired what was the matter. " Oh Ephraim," said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks and the smiles coursing up. " Why, what is it, Aramathea?" said the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing his head where it had come in contact with the lounge. " Baby !" she gasped. Mr. Jones turned pale and commenced to sweat. "Baby! O— O— O Ephraim! Baby has — baby has got — a little toOthey, oh ! oh ! " " No \" screamed Mr. Jones, spread- ing his legs apart, dropping his chin, and staring at the struggling heir with all his might. " I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Jones, with a slight evidence of hysteria. " Oh, it can't be ! " protested Mr. Jones, preparing to swear if it wasn't. " Come here and see for yourself," said Mrs. Jones. " Open its 'ittle mousy- wousy for its own muzzer; that's a toody- woody; that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump of sugar." Thus conjured, the heir opened its mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust in his finger, and that gentleman having con- vinced himself by the most unmistakable evidence that a tooth was there, immedi- ately kicked his hat across the room, buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much feeling that he could lick the individual who would dare to intimate that he was not the happiest man on the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a hearty smack on the mouth and snatched up the heir, while that lady rushed tremblingly forth after Mrs. Sim- mons, who lived next door. In a momeut Mrs. Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out of a gun, and right behind her came Miss Simmons at a speed that indicated that she had been ejected from two guns. Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the heir from the arms of Mr. Jones and hurried to the window, where she made a careful and critical examina- tion of its mouth, while Mrs. Jones held its head, and Mr. Jones danced up and down the room, and snapped his fingers to show how calm he was. It having been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that the tooth was a sound one, aud also that the strongest hopes for its future could be entertained on account of its coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Jones got out the necessary material, and Mr. Jones at once proceeded to write seven different letters to as many persons, unfolding to them the event of the morning, and in- viting them to come on as soon as pos- sible. M. BAILEY. 218 gooKS and Reading. REALLY am in doubt whether or not the young folks ought to be congrat- ulated in consequence of the great number of juve- nile books which are be- ing placed before them about this time. An ex- cellent book is certainly- excellent company; but there is a limit to all things ; and so we may have too many books, taking it for granted that all are good ones. You all know, that, as a general rule, people in America read too much, and think too little. Reading is a benefit to us only when it leads to reflection. It is useless when it leaves no lasting impres- sion on the mind ; it is worse than useless if the lesson it conveys be not a really good one. Suppose you sit down to a well-furnished table at a hotel to eat your dinner. The waiter hands you a bill of fare, upon which is printed a long list of good and wholesome dishes, and then quietly waits until you order what you wish. You are not expected to eat of every one, however attractive they may be, but rather to select what you like best, — enough to make a modest meal, — and let that suffice. But the selection is not all. If you expect to gain health and strength by your dinner, you must eat it in a proper man- ner ; that is, slowly. Other-wise nature's work will be imperfectly done, and your food become a source of bodily harm, in- stead of a benefit. Now, it is precisely so with the food of the mind, which comes to you through books. You are not expected to read everything which comes within your reach. You should rather select the best, and, having done so, read them slowly and care- fully. You may read too much as well as eat too much ; and while the one will in- jure your body, the other will as certainly harm your mind. One of the worst evils which too much reading leads to is a habit of reading to forget. You know what a bad habit is, how it clings to us, when once contracted, and how hard it is to be shaken off. Some boys and girls read a book entirely through in a single evening, and the next day are eagerly at work on another, to be as quick- ly mastered. No mind, however strong, can stand such a strain. You see at once that it would be absolutely impossible for them to remember what they read. And so they read for a momentary enjoyment, and gradually fall into the habit I have spoken of — reading to forget. I need not tell you that such a habit is fatal to any very high position in life. How often we hear parents boast that their children are " great readers," just as if their intelligence should, in their opin- ion, be measured by the number of books and papers which they had read ! Need I say, that, on the contrary, they are ob- jects of pity ? But how much may we read with profit ? That is a question not always easy to an- swer. Some can read a great deal more than others. Yet, if young people read slowly, and think a great deal aboujt the subject, there is very little danger of their reading too much, provided they select only good books ; because good books are 219 BOOKS AND READING. very scarce — much more so in proportion to the number printed than they were twenty years ago ; and there are very few young persons who have too great a sup- ply of good works placed within their reach. I have mentioned one evil which results from too much reading, and will only briefly allude to another equally import- ant. Children who attend school have no time to devote to worthless books. Their studies consume many hours. If, aside from the time which should be devoted to play, to their meals, and the various duties of home, they will read a useless book every day or two, their health is sure to suffer. The evil consequences may not be at once apparent, but in later years the penalty will certainly have to be paid. This reflection alone, if there were no other reason, should induce the young to discard all useless books, and read only such as shall have a tendency to make them wiser and better. 'IhHE were crowded in the cabin, *°n Not a soul would dare to sleep,- It was midnight on the waters And a storm was on the deep. 'T is a fearful thing in Winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder : " Cut away the mast ! " So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost ! " the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand : " Is n't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. JAMES T. FIELDS. WE IRE SEYEN. SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old she said, Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ? " "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell. She answered : " Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. " Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother ; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be." 220 WE ARE SEVEN. Then did the little maid reply : " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid ; Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied : "Twelve steps or more from rny mother's door, And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir. "WTien it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. " The first that died was sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. " And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven ?" Quick was the little maid's reply : " Master ! we are seven." " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! Their spirits are in heaven ! " 'T was throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said : "Nay, we are seven ! " WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. £▼ HE bounded o'er the graves, ^\ With a buoyant step of mirth ; ^r She bounded o'er the graves, Where the weeping -willow waves, Like a creature not of earth. Her hair was blown aside, And her eyes were glittering bright , Her hair was blown aside, And her little hands spread wide, With an innocent delight. She spelt the lettered word That registers the dead ; She spelt the lettered word, And her busy thoughts were stirred With pleasure as she read. She stopped and culled a leaf Left fluttering on a rose, She stopped and culled a leaf, Sweet monument of grief, That in our churchyard grows. She culled it with a smile — 'T was near her sister's mound : She culled it with a smile, And played with it awhile, Then scattered it around. I did not chill her heart, Nor turn its gush to tears ; I did not chill her heart, Oh, bitter drops will start Full soon in coming years. CAROLINE GILMAN. TO A CHILD. Written in her album. ©MALL service is true service while it lasts : J© Of humblest friends, bright creature ! scorn not one : The daisy, by the shadow tha>t it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 221 -fc-j- G^-. Ig -s-a- -C_r^aJfa-^iJ>-- ABIES iluv with all mi heart. They krawl into me and nestle by the side ov mi soul like a kit- ten under a cook-stove. I hav raized babies miself, and kno what i am talking about. I hav got grand-children, and they are wuss than the fust krop tew riot amung the feelings. If i could hav mi way, i would change all the human beings now on the face ov the earth back into babys at once, and keep them thare, and make this footstool one grand nussery ; but what i should do for wet-nusses i don't kno, nor don't care. I would like tew hav 15 babys now on mi lap, and mi lap ain't the handyest lap in the world for babys, neither. Mi lap iz long enuif, but not the widest kind ov a lap. I am a good deal ov a man, but i kon- sist ov length principally; and when i make a lap ov miself, it iz not a mattress, but more like a couple ov rails with a jint in them. I can hold more babys in mi lap at once than any man in Ameriki, without spilling one, but it hurts the babys. I never saw a baby in mi life that i didn't want tew kiss. I am wuss than an old maid in this re- spekt. I hav seen babys that i hav refused tew kiss until they had been washt ; but the baby want tew blame for this, neither waz i. Thare are folks in this world who say they don't luv babys, but yu kan depend upon it, when they waz babys sumboddy luved them. Babys luv me, too. I kan take them out ov their mothers' arms just az easy az i kan an unfledged bird out ov his nest. They luv me bckauze i luv them. And here let me say, for the comfort and consolashun ov all mothers, that when- ever they see me on the cars or on the steambote, out ov a job ; they needn't hesi- tate a minnit tew drop a clean, fat baby into mi lap. I will hold it, and kiss it, and be thankful besides. Perhaps thare iz people who don't envy me all this ; but it is one ov the sharp-cut, well-defined joys ov mi life — my luv for babys and their luv for me. Perhaps thare iz people who will call it a weakness. I don't kare what they call it — bring on the babys. Unkle Josh haz always a kind word and a kiss for the babys. I luv babys for the truth thare iz in 'em. I ain't afraid their kiss will betray me — thare iz no frauds, ded beats, nor counterfits amung them. I wish i waz a baby, not only once more, but for evermore. 222 JOSH BILLINGS. Babvs Cradle Song. WHEN sets the sun, and day is done, And peaceful eve hides all our care, When screech-owls cry and brown bats fly Through the flow'r-fragrant evening air; When the purple hills grow dark Far over the dusky moor, And the noisy sheep-dogs bark By the vine-hung cottage door — Then, tenderly, oh, tenderly, While the faint lights fade and die, Mother, sitting baby nigh, Softly sings her lullaby. When black is night and stars shine bright, And wolves are howling round the fold, Where all asleep lie lambs and sheep, And winds are blowing chill and cold : When nought in the world is awake But the little tinkling rill, Babbling through bush and brake, Dancing down from the hill — Then wearily, oh, wearily, While the lands in slumber lie, Mother, sitting baby nigh, Watches her with sleepless eye. When darkness dies from all the skies, And streaks of amber paint the east, When ripples wake along the lake, And e'en the cricket's chirp has ceased: When the white moon fades from view, And over the hills afar, In the slowly brightening blue, Wanes the dim sweet morning star — Then lovingly, oh, lovingly, While the dawn breaks o'er the sky, Mother, sitting baby by, Rocks the cradle carefully. When full day breaks, and earth awakes, And all the birds burst into song, And deep and clear, past pool and mere, The little streamlet flows along, Amber, and crimson, and gold, Flood all the morning sky ; The lambs awake in the fold, The sparrows chirp and fly; While happily, oh, happily, As the morning wind floats by, Mother watches baby's eye Open slowly, drowsily. 223 V » LITTLE BELL. He prayeth well, 'who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. Ancient Mariner. :^Ji?IPED the blackbird on the beechwood JK? spray : " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name ? " quoth he — "What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — " Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — " Bonny bird," quoth she, " Sing me your best song before I go." " Here 's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. And the blackbird piped ; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird — Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — " Little Bell," piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern — " Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, ^ In the little lap, dropped one by one — Hark, how blackbird pipes to see tbe fun ! " Happy Bell," pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade — " Squirrel, squirrel, if you 're not afraid, Come and share with me! " Down came squirrel eager for his fare — Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; Little Bell gave each his honest share — Ah the merry three ! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow, From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray — Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear — " What good child is this," the angel said, " That with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly ? " Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, " Bell, dear Bell?" crooned he. " Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts be- hind, Little Bell, for thee!" T. WESTWOOD. Jjittle JJaggage. 'AITING at a wayside station For a weary hour's duration, Lost in anxious cogitation, Over this and that ; 224 LITTLE BAGGAGE. In there tripped a little maiden, Box and bag and basket laden, And beside me sat. Little baggage ! rich in treasure ; Youth and hope, and heart for pleasure, Sweet contentment without measure, All I once possessed. Small, fair fingers, folded quaintly, Blue eyes very calm and saintly, Very full of rest. Little dove of peace, I thought her, Bless the happy stars that brought her ! To my care-worn heart I caught her, Though she never knew. And the dark cloud of repining Sudden showed its silver lining Bright against the blue. Oh, the charm of childhood's graces ! Changing earth 's most desert places Into such a fair oasis, Fresh with morning dew ; That the world, grown old and dreary, Seems less work-a-day and weary, And hope wakes anew. Sooner can their freshness free us From the cares that years decree us, Than the fabled child of Zeus Could to youth restore. Happy who the myth believing, And the nectar cup receiving, Lives a child once more. EMMA SMULLER. THE MITHERLESS BAIBH. An In verary correspondent writes : ' ' Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn': I quote his own words. 'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Yehussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn ! " I hobbled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'." WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their liame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless bairn ! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 0, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn ! WILLIAM THOM. The Good- Night Kiss. LWAYS send your little child to bed happy. Whatever cares may trouble your mind, give the dear child a warm good-night kiss as it goes to its pillow. The memory of this, in the stormy years which may be in store for the little one, will be like Bethlehem's star to the bewil- dered shepherds ; and welling up in the heart will rise the thought : " My father, my mother — loved me!" Lips parched with fever will become dewy again at this thrill of useful memories. Kiss your lit- tle child before it goes to sleep. 225 15 THE SHEPHERD BOY. The Shepherd Boy. LIKE some vision olden Of far other time, When the age was golden, In the young world's prime, Is thy soft pipe ringing, O lonely shepherd boy : What song art thou singing, In thy youth and joy ? Or art thou complaining Of thy lowly lot, And thine own disdaining, Dost ask what thou hast not? Of the future dreaming, Weary of the past, For the present scheming — All but what thou hast. No, thou art delighting In thy summer home ; Where the flowers inviting Tempt the bee to roam ; Where the cowslip, bending With its golden bells, Of each glad hour's ending With a sweet chime tells. All wild creatures love him AVhen he is alone; Every bird above him Sings its softest tone. Thankful to high Heaven, Humble in thy joy, Much to thee is given, Lowly shepherd boy. L7ETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. T TO A CHILD. HY memory, as a spell Of love, comes o'er my mind- As dew upon the purple bell — As perfume on the wind ; — As music on the sea — As sunshine on the river ; — So hath it always been to me, So shall it be forever. I hear thy voice in dreams Upon me softly call, Like echoes of the mountain streams, In sportive waterfall. I see thy form as when Thou wert a living thing, And blossomed in the eyes of men, Like any flower of spring. Thy soul to heaven hath fled, From earthly thraldom free ; Yet, 't is not as the dead That thou appear'st to me. In slumber I behold Thy form, as when on earth, Thy locks of waving gold, Thy sapphire eye of mirth. I hear, in solitude, The prattle kind and free Thou utter'st in joyful mood While seated on my knee. So strong each vision seems My spirit that doth fill, I think not they are dreams, But that thou livest still. LITTLE TODDIE. «*- IS it bright with summer gladness, Tod die dear ; Is there nowhere any sadness, Toddie dear ; In that land of pleasant mountains, Crystal rivers, silver fountains, In that home to which you hastened From the home by sorrow chastened, Joyless here ? 226 LITTLE TODDLE. Do the seraph-bands surround you, Toddieboy? Do the angels gather round you, Toddie boy ? Do they keep your heart from grieving For the mother you are leaving, For the mother who is groaning With a broken-hearted moaning For her boy ? Yes, we know that love upholds you, Toddie dear ; That a wondrous love enfolds you, Toddie dear, With an infinite sweet pity. In that shining golden city Little ones are crowned with blessing, All the Saviour's care possessing, There as here. But we loved you very dearly, Toddie boy ; And we held you very nearly, "Toddieboy! Many, many tender mothers, Little sisters, little brothers, Would be sorely grieved in spirit, But they know that you inherit Peace and joy. PELEG ARK WRIGHT. "r^ ESrVs WHEN the corn-fields and meadows Are pearled with the dew, With the first sunny shadow Walks little Boy Blue. Oh the Nymphs and the Graces Still gleam on his eyes, And the kind fairy faces Look down from the skies ; And a secret revealing Of life within life, When feeling meets feeling Tn musical strife; A winding and weaving In flowers and in trees, A floating and heaving In sunlight and breeze ; . A striving and soaring, A gladness and grace, Make him kneel half adoring The God in the place. Then amid the live shadows Of lambs at their play, Where the kine scent the meadows With breath like the May, He stands in the splendor That waits on the morn, And a music more tender Distils from his horn ; And he weeps, he rejoices, He prays ; nor in vain, For soft loving voices Will answer again; And the Nymphs and the Graces Still gleam through the dew, And kind fairy faces W r atch little Boy Blue. Deathlessness of the Innocent and Good. THERE is nothing, no, nothing in- nocent and good that dies, and is forgotten : let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a prattling child, dying in the cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it ; and play its part through them, in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burned to ashes, or drowned in the deep sea. Forgotten ! Oh if the deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear; for how much charity, mercy and purified affection would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves. CHARLES DICKENS. 227 =o<3^S>o<<> ffly Baby, WITH frolicsome freaks, And rosy, red cheeks, My baby lies waiting for me; He thinks not of crying, But ever is trying To sing a glad song in his glee. His parted lips show Three teeth in a row, As white and as precious as pearls : And his soft, silken hair O'er his forehead so fair Falls in dark, thick-clustering curls. His eyes, like two stars, Peep out from the bars Of his crib, as he watches for me, And his pink little toes, Down under the clothes, Are kicking about to be free. I'm coming, my boy ! My treasure, my joy ! You shall wait no longer for me ; But we'll up and away, And be merry and gay, Out under the old maple tree. ELIZABETH OLMIS TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. gOVE thy mother, little one ! Kiss and clasp her neck again, — Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one ! osnyw^T^i Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee, — Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes ! Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told, — Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow ! Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray — Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer — For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn ! THOMAS HOOD. 229 zk3k)P®- oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo BEFORE AND AFTER SCHOOL. oooooooocooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Q BEFORE SCHOOL. ,UARTER to nine! Boys and girls, do yon hear " One more buckwheat, then- Be quick, mother deal', Where is my luncheon-box ? " — " Under the shelf, Just in the place You left it yourself ! " " I can't say my table ! " — " Oh, find me my cap ! " " One kiss for mamma, And sweet Sis in her lap." " Be good, dear !"— " I'll try." "9 times 9's 81." " Take your mittens ! "— " All right."- " Hurry up, Bill; let's run." With a slam of the door They are off, girls and boys, And the mother draws breath In the lull of their noise. AFTER SCHOOL. " Don't wake up the baby ! Come gently, my dear ! " Oh, mother, I've torn my New dress, just look here ! I'm sorry, I only was Climbing the wall." " Oh, mother, my map Was the nicest of all ! " " And Nelly, in spelling, Went up to the head ! " " Oh, say ! can I go out On the hill with my sled ? " "I've got such a toothache." — " The teacher's unfair ! " " Is dinner most ready ? I'm just like a bear ! " Be patient, worn mother They're growing up fast, 9> j These nursery whirlwinds, Not long do they last ; A still, lonely house would be Far worse than noise ; Rejoice and be glad in Your brave girls and boys ! SCHOOLMASTER Baby's First Step. | WAS a very simple lesson, So simple — yet deep and sweet. 'Twas taught by our year-old baby, Whose wee little dancing feet Were tottering on the threshold Of the open nursery door, His bright eyes intently watching A new toy upon the floor. All untried and untested Were those tiny, active feet ; Never one step had they taken In nursery or on the street; But the toy lay far beyond them, And our baby's eager eyes Danced, and he crowed in his gladness As he saw the glittering prize. "Come, little boy; come and take it; Father will not let you fall." He lifted his face and listened, As he heard the gentle call; Turned his sweet blue eyes, and seeing A strong hand on either eide, Gathered all his faith and courage, And his first weak footstep tried. 230 fi[HE turns her great grave eyes toward *\ mine, y^ While I stroke her soft hair's gold ; We watched the moon through the window shine ; She is only six years old. "Is it true," she asks, with her guileless mien, And her voice in tender tune, " That nobody ever yet has seen The other side of the moon?" I smile at her question, answering "Yes;" And then, by a strange thought stirred, I murmur, half in forgetfulness That she listens to every word : " There are treasures on earth so rich and fair That they can not stay with us here, And the other side of the moon is where They go when they disappear ! " There are hopes that the spirit hardly names, And songs that it mutely sings ; There are good resolves, and exalted aims There are longings for nobler things ; There are sounds and visions that haunt our lot, Ere they vanish, or seem to die, And the other side of the moon (why not?) Is the far bourne where they fly ! "We could guess how that realm were passing sweet, And of strangely precious worth, If its distant reaches enshrined complete The incompleteness of earth ! If there we could find, like a living dream, What here we but mourn and miss, Oh, the other side of the moon must beam With a glory unknown in this ! " " Are you talking of Heaven ? " she whis- pers now, While she nestles against my knees. And I say, as I kiss her white wide brow, " You may call it so, if you please .... For whatever that wondrous land may be, Should we journey there, late or soon, Perhaps We may look down from Heaven and see — The other side of the moon ! " EDGAR FAUCETT. The Wee Bit Shoon. THE wee bit shoon she used to wear They gav me aften greet ; At gloamin' time could I aince mair But haud those pink-white feet. But haud those feet within my han's, An' hear her ripplin' glee, A warl' o' houses an' o' lan's, Hoo empty wad they be. Those tiny palms, could I but taste, Sae aft to me stretched out, The earth wad be nae mair a waste, My heid nae whirl about. The curls, hauf-grown, that graced her broo, The glintin' o' her een, The tremblin' o' her matchless mou', Still haunt me, though unseen. Wad death gie back, for ane short hour, The lapfu' that was mine ; But, ah ! but, ah ! I'd hae nae power The treasure to resign. J. C. RANKIN, D. D. 231 FA THER A T PL A Y. father at play. — •<>— =$-^-*— — SUCH fun as we had one rainy day, When father was home and helped us play ! We made a ship and hoisted sail, And crossed the sea in a fearful gale — But we hadn't sailed into London town, When captain and crew and vessel went down. Down, down in a jolly wreck, With the captain rolling under the deck. But he broke out again with a lion's roar, And we on two legs, he on four, Ban out of the parlor and up the stair, And frightened mamma and the baby there. So mamma said she'd be p'liceman now, And tried to 'rest us. She didn't know how ! Then the lion laughed and forgot to roar, Till we chased him out of the nursery door ; And then he turned to a pony gay, And carried us all on his back away. Whippity, lickity, hickity ho ! If we hadn't fun, then I don't know ! Till we tumbled off and he cantered on, Never stopping to see if his load was gone. And I couldn't tell any more than he Which was Charlie and which was me, Or which was Towzer, for all in a mix You'd think three people had turned to six. Till Towzer's tail was caught in the door; He wouldn't hurrah with us any more. And mamma came out the rumpus to quiet, And told us a story to break up the riot. SOWING IN TESRS. ^PTRAIGHT and still the baby lies, %?K No more smiling in his eyes, Neither tears nor wailing cries. Smiles and tears alike are done; He has need of neither one — Only, I must weep alone. Tiny fingers, all too slight, Hold within their grasping tight, Waxen berries scarce more white. Nights and days of weary pain, I have held them close — in vain ; Now I never shall again. Crossed upon a silent breast, By no suffering distressed, Here they lie in marble rest ; They shall ne'er unfolded be, Never more in agony Cling so pleadingly to me. Never ! Oh, the hopeless sound To my heart so closely wound All his little being round ! I forget the shining crown, Glad exchange for cross laid down, Now his baby brows upon. Yearning sore, I only know I am very full of woe — And I want my baby so ! Selfish heart, that thou shouldst prove So unworthy of the love Which thine idol doth remove ! Blinded eyes, that cannot see Past the present misery, Joy and comfort full and free ! O ! my Father, loving Lord ! I am ashamed at my own word ; Strength and patience me afford. I will yield me to thy will ; Now thy purposes fulfil ; Only help me to be still. Though my mother-heart shall ache, I believe that for thy sake It shall not entirely break. And I know I yet shall own, For my seeds of sorrow sown, Sheaves of joy around thy throne ! 232 OME bCENE. LOVE with your whole soul, — father mother and sister, — for these loves shall die! — Not indeed in thought, — God be thanked ! Nor yet in tears, — for he is merciful ! But they shall die, as the leaves die, — die, as Spring dies into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each one of them dig graves for your affections ; but this you do not know, nor can know till the story of your life is ended. The dreams of riches, of love, of voy- age, of learning that light up the boy age with splendor, will pass on and over into the hotter dreams of youth. Spring buds and blossoms, under the glowing sun of April, nurture at their heart those first- lings of fruit which the heat of summer shall ripen. You little know — and for this you may well thank Heaven — that you are leaving the Spring of life, and you are floating fast from the shady sources of your years into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies in the coppices of leafy- June. They have no rule but the rule of infantile desire ; they have no joys to pro- mise greater than joys that belong to your passing life ; they have no terrors but such terrors as the darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not take hold on your soul as the dreams of youth and manhood will do. Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish home. You wish no friends but the friends of boyhood; no sister but your fond Nelly ; none to love better than the playful Madge. Y^ou forget Clarence that the Spring with you is the Spring with them, and that the storms of summer may chase wide shadows over your path and over theirs. And you forget that Summer is even now lowering with mist, and with its scorching rays, upon the hem of your flowery May. DONALD G. MITCHELL. v!/ , ^ nit %\*wm 233 AIR budding age, Which next upon life's stage Passest a fairy dream before the eyes, High health and bounding limb, Eager and stretching towards the wished-for prize ; Whate'er the passing care that takes thy thought, I catch the sweet brisk scent of trodden grass When through the golden afternoon Of a long day in June, Until the twilight dim, The playfield echoes with the joyous noise Of troops of agile boys, Who, bare-armed, throw the rapid-bounding ball; Who shout and race and fall. I see the warm pool fringed with meadow- sweet, Where stream in summer, with eager feet Through gold of buttercups and crested grass, The gay processions stripping as they pass. I hear the cool and glassy depths divide As the bold fair young bodies, far more fair Than ever sculptured Nereids were, Plunge fearless down, or push,with front or side, Through the caressing wave. I mark the deadly chill, thro' the young blood, When some young life, snatched from the cruel flood, Looks once upon the flowers, the fields, the sun, — Looks once, and then is done ! Or the grey, frosty field, and the great ball Urged on by flying feet. Or when the skate rings on the frozen lake, The gliding phantoms fleet, Eosy with health, and laughing though they fall. Or by the rapid stream or swirling pool, The fisher, with his pliant wand. Or by the covert-side, taking his stand, The shooter, watching patient hour by hour With that hard youthful heart that young breasts hold, Till the fur glances through the brake ; As when our savage sires wandered of old, Hungering through primal Avastes. I see them all, The brisk, swift days of youth, which cares for nought But for the joy of living ; scarce a thought Of Love, or Knowledge, or at best Such labor as gives zest To the great joy of living. Oh, blest time ! For which each passing hour rings out a chime Of joy-bells all the year ; ay, tho' through days Of ill thou farest, and unhappy ways ; Or whether on the sun-struck lands thy feet Are the young savage hunter's, lithe and fleet, Turning at night-fall to thy father's cot, 234 ODE OF CHILDHOOD. Bathed in the full white moonlight ; or dost And now thyself immersed in slumbers, deep stand 'Mid the hushed plains of some forsaken land ; — Where'er thou art, oh, boyhood! thou art free And fresh as the young breeze in summer born On sun-kissed hills or on the laughing sea, Or gay bird-music breathing of the morn, Or some sweet rose-bud pearled with early clew, As brief and fair as you. GIRLHOOD. ||R in another channel still more sweet, Life's current flows along, Ere yet the tide of passion, full and strong, Hurries the maiden's feet. Oh, sweet and early girlish years Of innocent hopes and fears ! Busied with fancies bright and gay, Which Love shall chase away, When, with the flutter of celestial wings, He stirs the soul forth from its depths, and brings Healing from trouble. Oh, deep well Of fairy fancies undefiled ! Oh, sweet and innocent child ! Now with thy doll I see thee full of care, Or filled already with the mother's air, Hushing thy child to sleep. Yet light, I see thee lie. And now the singer, lifting a clear voice In soaring hymns or carols that rejoice, Or busied with thy seam, or doubly fair For the unconscious rapture of thy look Lost in some simple book. Whate'er the color of thy face, Thou art fulfilled with grace. Oh, little maiden, fair or brown ! Thine is the simple beauty which doth crown The dreams of happy fathers, who have past By Love and Passion, and have come To know pure joys of home ; And for the hurry and haste of younger years, Have taken the hearth that cheers, And the fair realm of duty, and delight Of innocent faces bright, And the sweet wells of feeling and white love, A daughter's name can move. In every climb and age I see thee still, Since the rude nomads wandered forth at will Upon the unbounded Aryan pastures wild — There thou wert, oh, fair child ! " The milker " 'twas they called thee ; all day long Tending the browsing herds with high-voiced song ; Or on some sun-warmed place Upon the flower-faced grass, Watching the old clouds pass, And weaving wreaths with such wild grace And sprightly girlish glee As Proserpine did once in sunny Sicily. Or maybe by some widowed hearth — The fairest, saddest sight on earth, Filled too soon with sweet care, And bringing back the voice and air Of thy dead mother ; thou art set An innocent virgin-mother, childlike yet. Thy baby sisters on thy loving arm Sleep fast, secure from harm. Thou hast no time for game or toy, Or other thought but this ; 235 ODE OF CHILDHOOD. Who findest thy full reward, thy chief est joy, Forlorn in haunts of misery ; In thy fond father's kiss. Thou keepest on thy rounded face Or under palms to-day, Some unforgotten trace Thy childhood fleets away ; Of the old primal days unsung, Or by the broadening shadow hid, Of the fresh breezes of pure morn Of tomb or pyramid ; When the first maiden child was born, In stainless whiteness ; or maybe And Time was young. 6 — EELj •*> HEEl — £ 4 AIR streams which run as yet Each in its separate channel from the snows ; Boyhood and girlhood ; while Life's banks are set With blooms that kiss the clear lymph as it flows, One swift and strong and deep, One where the lilies sleep ; — Fair streams, which soon some stress of Life and Time Shall bring together, Under new magical skies and the strange weather Of an enchanted clime. 236 SPRINGTIME OF LIFE. A Better Way .... A Child A Child Praying A Child's Dream of a Star A Child's First Impression of a Star A Child's Mood A Child's Thought A Description of Two Babies . A Dinner and a Kiss . Advantage of Children Advice to Children A Farewell .... A Father's Wish Against Boys .... A Graphic Description of a Baby A Hint . • . . . A Home Scene A Moloch of a Baby A Mother, but no Child A Mother's Joys A Mother's Morning Prayer A Mother to her New-born Child An April Day Angel Charlie .... Angels Unawares Anita and Her Dolls Annie .... Annie in the Graveyard Answer to a Child's Questions An Unfinished Prayer A Parent's Prayer A Patient Baby, A Plea for the Boy A Portrait .... A Question Are all the Children In ? . , A Remarkable Baby Are the Children at Home A Son's Kiss in the Sunshine A Spring Snow Storm Page. 33 A Sunbeam and a Shadow 44 A Thought Over a Cradle 136 A Wee Sang on a Wee Subject 67 187 Babies and Their Rights 104 Baby 77 Baby 72 Baby . 181 Baby Bell 42 Baby Bye 159 Baby May 119 Baby Louise 11 Babys 33 Baby's Cradle Song 12 Baby's Day 60 Baby's First Step . 233 Baby's Shoes 184 Baby's Toes 213 Baby Thankful 157 Baby Zulmas' Christmas Carol 128 Ballad of the Tempest 155 Baptism .... 31 Bed-Time 162 Before and After School 16 Be Gentle . . . 66 Be Kind Boys 164 Benefit of Children 221 Benny's Questions 153 Blessings on Children 84 Books and Reading 97 Boyhood . 76 Boyhood .... 205 Boyhood 214 Boyish Habits 33 Boy Lost 20 Boy Religion 140 By the Alma River 24 Calling a Boy in the Morning 215 Capacity of Children 55 Casa Wappy PAGE 130 177 133 46 5i 82 86 87 27 156 222 223 63 230 198 5i 105 HS 220 137 96 230 171 181 3 2 193 61 219 27 171 234 184 199 47 162 109 183 195 237 INDEX. Castles in the Air Castles in the Fire Childhood Childhood .... Childhood Childhood .... Childhood Childhood and His Visitors Childhood Eternal Children .... Children .... Children .... Children a Loan Children of the Rich and Poor Children's Hour Child's Morning Hymn Choosing a Name Christ and the Little Ones Christ Blessing Childi en . Christ Blessing Little Children Country Children Cradle Song Cradle Song Cradle Song Cradle Song Cradle Hymn Crown of Childhood Danae .... Daisy Among the Daisies Death in the Cradle . Deathlessness of the Innocent Death of a Babe Death of a Baby Death of Little Paul . Demeanor Toward Children Devotion in Childhood Dewdrops Reset Dirge for a Young Girl Domestic Bliss Dot's Baby Dream My Baby . . Dull Boys . Early Days Early Spring Education Eva and Topsy Fanny's Mud Pies Father at Play Father is Coming For Chailie's Sake For the Children Four Years Old Gates Ajar Girlhood Going to Bed Going Up Golden Tiessdd Adelaide Good Life, Long Life . Good Night Good Night and Good Morning Grandfather's Barn Hare and Hounds Harry's Letter Con raste PAGE. 52 ■38 19 73 144 165 2 '3 S3 147 10 160 114 • 85 182 94 70 97 44 21 26 108 8 90 95 144 201 147 91 188 21 227 103 39 1 10 102 37 40 '97 38 41 53 140 1S2 43 208 85 65 232 143 209 139 193 74 235 7i 62 201 158 109 60 212 190 76 Help Yourselves Honey Nellie How Mamma Plays How the Gates Came Ajar How to bring Up Children Human Nature If I could keep Her So Illusions Importance of A Child Influence of Early Training In Memoriam In the Cradle Boat Introduction to the Songs of Innocer.ce Is There Room in Angel Land ? Jimes Melville's Child Kittie is Gone . . . Lady Annie Bothwell's Lament Letter to a New-born Child Life's Happiest Period Lines on the Death of a Child Little Baggage Little Bell Little Boots Little Boy Blue Little Brown Hands L ttle Charlie . Little Children Little Children Little P"eet . Little Golden Hair Little -Home-Body Little Mary"s Secret Little Miss Meddlesome Littleness Little Red Riding Hood Little Toddie Little Tyrant Little Willie Waking Up Loss and Gain Lucy Lullaby Lulu's Complaint Mamma's Kisses . Mamma's Story May . May Day Measuring the Baby Memories of Childhood Mother and Child Mother and Child Mother Goose Mother's Love . Mr. Meek's Baby My Baby . My Baby My Baby My Beautiful Child My Bird . . . My Boy My Boy . My Child . My Mother My Mother's Stories 238 INDEX. My Playmates .... My Sermon .... No Age Content with Its Own Estate No Baby in the House "Not Lost, but Gone Before". Nurse's Wateh .... Ode of Childhood, Off for Boyland .... One by One .... Only a Boy ..... On the Death of Child On the Death of an Infant On the Picture of a Child Tired of Play On the Picture of an Infant Playing near Precipice . On Witnessing a Baptism Our Babes Our Baby Our Baby Our Baby Our Dear Ones Our First Born Our Lambs Our Wee White Rose Patch Work .... Paying Her Way Philip My King Pictures of Memory Planting Himself to Grow Precocity of Intellect in Childi en Prayers of Children Recollections of Boyhood Romance of a Swan's N( st Sad Remembrance of Childhood Safe Folded Sailing the Boats Season Divine . Seasons of Prayer Seven Times One Shadows on the Wall Shall the Baby Stay She Came and Went Slumber Song Some Mother's Child Sowing in Tears Stormy Day Party Such Fun Sufferings of Childhood Suffer Them to Come . Sunday Night Sunshine in the House Sweet and Low Sweet Babe Sweet Baby Sleep Swinging on a Birch Tr< e . Take Care of the Children Telling a Story Thanks to You That Little Hat The Adopted Child The Angel's Whisper The Babe The Babie The Baby I Love The Baby's First Tooth PAGE. 72 91 112 I49 191 152 234 33 80 28 131 62 157 97 187 13 6 18 122 165 S3 36 161 204 29 13 138 73 153 104 188 150 181 94 148 208 25 180 137 59 198 in 130 232 79 195 141 19 70 80 82 161 99 34 153 69 64 100 88 50 7 102 50 218 The Bald-headed Tyrant The Bare Foot Boy The Battle of Life The Bird Catcher The Blind Boy . The Boy I Love The Boy's Appeal The Charge of Infantry The Child Asleep The Child and the Mourners The Child Poet . The Children . The Children The Children's Bed-Time The Christening The Comfort of a Child The Cry of the Children . The Dead Boy The Dearest Baby The Deaf Child The Death of Children . The Education of Children The Fairy Child The Faults of Children The Gambols of Children . The Golden Age The Goodnight Kiss . The Good Ship " Never Fai The Greek Boy . The Hallowed Drawer The Higher Purpose of Children The Household Sovereign The Idle Shepherd Boys The Infant . The Infant .... The Kitten and the Falling Leaves The Lesson The Little Black Boy The Little Boy That Died The Little Cavalier The Little Children The Little Clothes in the Drawer The Little Girl's Wonder The Lost Little One The Minuet The Mitherless Bairn The Mother as Teacher The Mother's Cradle Song The Mother's Heart The Mother's Hope The Mother's Sacrifice The Mother to Her Child The Morning Glory The Morning Song The Naughty Bairn The New Comer The Nursery The Nurse's Song The Ode of Infancy The Open Window . The Origin of Dimphs The Other Side of the Moon The Pet Name The Pet Lamb The Play House The Poor Man's Riches The Queen in Her Carriage Is Riding The Reconciliation . PAGE. By 239 INDEX. The Ride in a Wheelbarrow The Rights of Children The School Boy . "These are My Jewels" The Shepherd Boy The Sportive Boy The Sunday Baby The Sweetest Spot The Three Sons The Torn Hat The Two Year Old The Wee Bit Shoon The Widow an I Child The Widow's Lullaby They Planted Her This Baby of Ours Thoughts while Making New-born Child Thoughts while She Rock Threnodia Threnody To a Child To a Child To a Child To a Child During Sickness To a Child Embracing His Mother To Arthur Asleep To a Sleeping Child . . To Ferdinand Seymour To George . . . . . the Grave of s the Cradle PAGE. 92 29 190 20 2-6 157 92 8 45 56 7 160 178 64 28 IS 129 125 119 221 226 16/ 229 39 117 23 114 To H. C To J. H. ... To Laura, Two Years of Age To My Daughrer To the Cuckoo Touch Not Two School Boys Two Years Old Under My Window Vacation .... We Are Seven Wh^t Are Children . What Does Little Birdie Say ? What Education Comprises What's a Boy Like ? What the Christ Spirit Said to the Children When We were Children . Which shaU it Be ? Whom the Gods Love Die Young Who Would be a Boy Again . Willie's Prayer Willie Winkie Woman's Crown Woman's Rights Ye Ballad of Christmas PAGE 23 88 79 135 98 148 202 H 187 132 220 173 159 158 34 187 93 78 213 168 156 102 10 25 65 240 C ?h %<♦♦ .-sss&i-. \/ smb. %j> V .M;\/ w ** v \ 0««„ ^ v. **^. ". A •^cr ^> <£* •VSK*. ^ A * ' -*-^>- ^ ^t* °o -> v °o ,* r ..\»f. ** o V .4* Sje>02zL*_ % 4 %A A> O , A^*V ^\^ ^^» « ° w >*.*2m. <$> s»«' Jp "*•» °^ *•. * .0 a0 r .*»VL'* ^> C V » " • »» ^v '»^»*° a* v, v l ¥ « »«^iflk* ° sr Jem*: %■ c° .lS^:* °o u * * w& tmmJSX* 0F CONGRESS 021 100 792 8 IIHH ■'.,'■'■ 'i ''■''■ "'■'■'';' ■"■;>' '■' EH H, ...... HH9H HbHh 1911