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POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.
PIPING 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.
" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.” So I sung 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 vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed;
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ;
And I made a rural pen;
And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
Baby May. CHEEKS as soft as July peaches; Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise ;
Wealth for which we know no measure;
William Cox BENNETT.
Jane's a prettier name beside;
Wind of the western sea,
Wind of the western sea !
Blow him again to me; .
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest;
Father will come to thee soon.
Father will come to thee soon.
Under the silver moon;
Choosing a Name.
stain of Adam's sin.
I HAVE got a new-born sister:
Now I wonder what would please her —
I shall say :
But I know that she knew it now, and I just beThe Wead Woll.
lieve, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her You need n't be trying to comfort me - I tell you head broke too. my dolly is dead!
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head There's no use in saying she is n't, with a crack like
had been hit! that in her head.
For I've hit it over and over, and it has n't cracked It's just like you said it would n't hurt much to
have my tooth out, that day; And then, when the man ʼmost pulled my head off, But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be you had n't a word to say.
buried, of course :
be the horse; And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when
And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in you say you can mend it with glue:
this, you see — As if I did n't know better than that! Why, just This dear little box - and we'll bury her there out suppose it was you
under the maple-tree. You might make her look all mended - but what do I care for looks?
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys and the he made for my bird ; backs of books !
And he'll put what I tell him on it - yes, every
single word! My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's
“Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, the awfullest crack !
who is dead; It just makes me sick to think of the sound when She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in
MARGARIT VANDEGRIFT. her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the
little shelf. Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me I
The Angel's Whisper. know that I did it myself !
A superstition prevails in Ireland that, when a child
smiles in its sleep, it is “talking with angels." I think you must be crazy - you'll get her an
A BABY was sleeping; other head!
Its mother was weeping; What good would forty heads do her I tell you For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; my dolly is dead!
And the tempest was swelling And to think I had n't quite finished her elegant
Round the fisherman's dwelling; new spring hat!
And she cried, “ Dermot, darling, oh come back to And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie
me!” on that horrid cat!
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered, When my mamma gave me that ribbon - I was
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: playing out in the yard —
Oh, blest be that warning, She said to me, most expressly, “Here's a ribbon
My child, thy sleep adorning, for Hildegarde."
For I know that the angels are whispering with And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde
thee, saw me do it; "But I said to myself, “Oh, never mind, I don't be- " And whild y are keeping lieve she knew it !"
Bright watch o'er thy sitejing