With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,- (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; (I'll tell you what, my love, (I cannot write unless he's sent above.) -Thomas Hood. ?" 44 But we'll be good, won't we, moder? Where a tempting goblet stood, Slapping off the shining froth; Thrust him out into the street. Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled ! He had busily been pouring With a generous look that shamed me, Benny. Sprang he from the carpet bright, Showing by his mien indignant, All a baby's sense of right. "Come back, Harney," called he loudly, As he held his apron white, "You shall have my candy wabbit "; But the door was fastened tight. So he stood, abashed and silent, In the center of the floor, Then, as by some sudden impulse, Watched the flames go high and higher, "Santa Caus, come down de chinney, Make my moder 'have herself." "I will be a good girl, Benny," Said I, feeling the reproof; Laughter chased away the frown, And my play-worn boy beside me Knelt to say his evening prayer. He is sleeping; brown and silken Like caressing, clinging shadows On his plump and peachy cheek; And I bend above him, weeping Thankful tears, O Undefiled! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessing of a child. -Annie C. Ketchum. I A Thought Over a Cradle. SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 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! Take Thou its love, I pray Thee! Give it light- Ο The Bald-Headed Tyrant. H! the quietest home on earth had I, And Peace had folded her pinions there. Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; But his abject slaves they turned on me; For Peace had fled from my dwelling now, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land ?" Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned, Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land. Harry Ashland, One of My Lovers. HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the grass and plays in the clover; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and makes sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has a clean collar and goes to church, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, and live in a house "like that." He wears a great apron like a sack,-it's hard they don't put him in trousers and jackets; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hope for the future o'ershoots them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without any visible means of support, And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he doesn't know where to put them. All day he's tumbling, and leaping and jumping,-run- But at twilight around my chair he lingers, clasping my men that "annex" you in stately fashion,— And I look in the honest eyes of this baby, and wonder what would have happened, maybe, if Heaven had not made me be twenty now, while Harry is only four. I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a promise that Harry made her, "To build her a house all full of doors, and live with her there some day;" But Ada is growing lank and thin,-they say she will have a peaked chin, And I think had nearly outgrown her first love" before I came in the way. She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can make her, And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it doesn't matter how she is dressed, For Harry-sweetest of earthly lispers-has said in my ear, in loudest whispers, With his dear short arms around my neck, that he "likes the grown-up bonnets best." He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his private preference is a sawyer, And counselors, not less than carpenters, live by "sawdust" and by bores. It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial blockhead through. Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and stand at the head of you men! I say to him sometimes, "My dearest Harry, we haven't money enough to marry;" He has sixty cents in his little tin "bank," and a keepsake in his drawer; But he always promises, "I'll get plenty-I'll find where they make it, when I'm twenty; I'll go down town where the other men do, and bring it out of the store." And then he describes such wonderful dresses, and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses, With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk cushions and rings of gold, And I think what a fond, true breast to dream on, what a dear, brave heart for a woman to lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for some baby a twelvemonth old! Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry a young man, gay and naughty. Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driving fast horses and cracking whips, The handsomest fellow!-Heaven bless him!--setting the girls all wild to possess him,— With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and cigars in those pretty lips! And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can always panel O, do you think he will quite forget me,—do you believe doors. It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if his hammer and will be good, If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy then, Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's needing, whether his business is planing or pleading, he will ever regret me? [an idle myth, Will he wish the twenty years back again, or deem this While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, and sigh as my baby lover passes And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as I look at Mr. Smith! -Anonymous. I WAS sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard, "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. "But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? "Not now, Papa's Letter. "No, no, mamma; me wite letter, I would paint my darling's portrait So I parted back the tresses 'Mid its waves of golden light. Then I said, "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair. No one heard the front door open, Down the street the baby hastened Is there room for any more? Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man." "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must do if I tan." Fain the clerk would have detained him, Suddenly the crowd was parted, No one saw the baby figure- Stood the beauteous vision there, Covered o'er with golden hair. Not a mark the face disfigured, A Good-Night and Good-Morning. FAIR little girl sat under a tree Sewingas long as her eyes could see, Such a number of rooks came over her head, The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, She did not say to the sun, Good-night!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, |