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'Twas an odd thing, now, for a lark to do-
The children were drawing with caution and care,
“You'll be quite surprised and astonished, maybe,
'They'll take care of themselves in another week,
All babies are that are born without wings ;
Moo, Moo!” said a cow, coming up. “Moo, Moo!
thumb) “For all the babies, and kittens, and birds, that come In the course of a year! It does make me laugh To look at them all, by the side of a calf !
* Why, my little Brindle as soon as 'twas born
'Poor shivering things! I have pitied them oft,
The dear baby, asleep, in its crib she laid,
- Helen Hunt Jackson.
An Unfinished Prayer.
TOW I lay me”-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 thee Lord," I gently added,
“ You can say it all, I know."
N the quiet nursery chambers,
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." On the meadow and the mountain
Calmly shine the winter stars, But across the glistening lowlands
Slant 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 drops 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,
Of the tumult and the strife ;
Meeting ranks of foemen there,
In your simple vesper prayer. When your hands shall grasp this standard,
Which to-day you watch from far,
In this universal war :
Whose strong eye can never sleep,
Firm and true your souls to keep. When the combat ends, and slowly
Clears the smoke from out the skies,
All the noise of battle dies.
Settle down on you and me,
Take our souls eternally.
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:
My pretty birthday ring;
For he likes to hear me sing;
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 guess I've got to cry.
I wonder what he'll think;
I want to get a drink.
My little silver cup-
When you are staying up?".
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.
Babies and Their Rights.
A , let
nursery never to disturb 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 cooing, 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 wanted it to be quiet, they were surprised that it refused to be so. It is habit and training which make little children restless and fretful, rather than natural disposition, in a multitude of cases, A healthy babe, coolly and loosely dressed, judiciously 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 apparently worthy of trust a nurse or servant may be, unless she has 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 lifelong happiness may depend on the way its babyhood is passed. Who has not seen in the city parks the beautifully dressed infants, darlings evidently 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 resent stories of the neglect or cruelty of their employes, and cannot be made to believe that their own children are sufferers. And the children are too young to speak.
The lover of little ones can almost always 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 Valenciennes lace and embroidery, and fashion 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