MY BABY.

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 so the baby came,
A thing of joy and pain.

PROVIDENCE JOURNAL.

MY BABY.

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches,-
Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness, — round, large 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,

MY BABY.

Ever some new tiny notion,
Making every limb all motion,
Catchings up of legs and arms,
Throwings back and small alarms,
Clutching fingers, - straitening 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 smiled 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,

6

A ROCKING HYMN.

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.

W. C. BENNETT.

THE BABIE.

NAE shoon to hide her tiny tae,
Nae stocking on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snaw,
Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,
Her double dimpled chin,
Her puckered lip and baumy mow,
With na one tooth between.

Her een, sae like her mither's een,
Two gentle liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face,-
We're glad she has no wings.

She is the budding o' our love
A giftie God gie'd us;

We munna luve the gift ow'r weel,

'T wad be nae blessing thus.

A CRADLE SONG.

7

A CRADLE SONG.

SOFT be the hour of thy sleeping,

Little one mine, dear little one mine;
Safe, gentle lamb, be thy keeping,
In the arms of the Shepherd divine;
Fond as thy mother's love,

Yet there is One above

Loves thee still dearer,

And- when for thee she prays

Grace, peace, and happy days

Bends down to hear her.

Glad be the hour of thy waking,

Little one mine, dear little one mine, God grant that the pangs of heart-breaking Never visit that bosom of thine.

God grant thy stream of life,

Unvexed by guilt and strife,

Gently may flow;

And when the time shall come,

To thy eternal home

"Tis thine to go,

Calm be the hour of thy dying,

Loved one of mine, dear loved one of mine;
Untrammelled thy spirit, when flying

To the land where the holy ones shine.

REV. W. CALVERT.