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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 hundreds in garrets and cellars, and close tenement rooms. When the rich and charitable shall devise some way to care for the babies of the poor, when New York shall imitate Paris in founding an institution akin to La Creche, we shall have taken a long step forward in the direction of social and moral elevation.
-M. E. Sangster.
A Description of Two Babies.
One of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone !
Second. A weazen little baby, with a heavy head that it couldn't hold up, and two weak, staring eyes, with which it seemed to be always wondering why it had ever been born.
Of manhood's fullest crown;
The heart, which hardly thought of passion fires;
The mind, which opens like a flower in spring
To all the wanton airs the seasons bring;—
The young existence self-contained no longer,
But pressing outward hour by hour,
Fired with a thirst continually stronger,
For some supreme white flower
Whatever be the prize-
Whether upon the difficult heights of Thought,
Or 'midst the white laborious dust of Duty,
Or on the peaks of Power, tie bloom be sought,
Or in the Aush and thrill of the new Beauty
Born of a maiden's eyes.
Oh, happiest age of all!
When hope is without measure,
And life a thrill of pleasure,
And health is high, and force unspent,
Nor Disappointment yet, nor sordid Care,
Nor yet Satiety, nor the cold chill
Which creeps upon the world-worn heart to kill
All higher hope, and leaves us to despair.
No doubt of God or men can touch, but all
The garden ground of Life is opened wide;
And lo! on every side
The flowers of spring are blooming, and the air
Is scented, and sweet song is everywhere,
And young eyes read from an enchanted book,
With rapt entranced look,
Love's legend and the dream of days to be,
And fables fair of Life's mythology,
Rapt hour by hour till dewy twilight fall.
Whatever be the page-
Whether on metaphysical riddles faint,
Or the rapt visions of some far-off seer,
The burning thoughts of saint,
Or maxims of the sage-
Thou comest, oh youth, with thought as sure,
With mind severe and pure;
Thou takest afresh, with each returning year,
The fair thin dreams, the philosophic lore
Of the great names of yore-
Plato the wise, Confucius, Socrates,
The blest Gautama-all are thine-
Upon thee year by year the words divine
Of our great Master, falling like the dew,
Fill thee, to hate the wrong, to love the true;
For thee the fair poetic page is spread
Of the great living and the greater dead;
For thee the glorious gains of Science lie
Stretched open to thine eye;
And to thy fresh and undimmed brain,
The mysteries of Nature and of Space
Seem easy to explain;
Thou lookest with clear gaze upon the long
Confusions of the Race, the Paradox of Wrong;
And dost not fear to trace,
With youth's strong fiery faith that knows no chill,
The secret of Transgression, the prime source
Of Good and Evil, and the unfailing course
Of the Ineffable Will.
And sometimes life, glowing with too fierce fire,
O'er sea and land in rapid chase,
Snatches thee with tumultuous will,
And careless, breathless pace.
Sometimes a subtle flame
Comes on thee, as a shadow of night,
Marring thy young life's white,
And some strange thrill thou knowest without a
And at thy side shame fast Desire
Stands unreproved, and guides thy bashful feet
To where, girt by dim depths of solitude,
Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood;
And oh, but thy youth runs swift and pleasure is
sweet! And sometimes, too, looking with too bold eye Upon the unclouded sky, Sudden the heavens are hidden, and the great sun Sinks as if day were done, And the brain reels, and all the life grows faint, Smitten by too much light; or a thick haze Born out of sense doth overcloud The soul, and leaves it blind and in amaze, And the young heart is dull, and the young brain Dark till God shine again.
Oh, fairest age of all!
Whate'er thy race or clime,
To-day ten thousand cities on thee call,
Broad plain and palm-fringed isle
Thine is the swelling life, the eager glance and
Oh, precious fruit of Life and Time!
Oh, worker of the world! to whose young arm
The brute earth yields, and wrong, as to a charm;
Young seaman, soldier, student, toiler at the
plow, Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art
thou! Where'er thou art, though earthly oft and coarse, Thou bearest with thee hidden springs of force, Creative power, the flower, the fruitful strife, The germ, the potency of Life,
Which draws all things to thee unwittingly
The Future lies within thy loins, and all the Days
To thee time givethi to beget,
The Thought that shall redeem and lift man higher
We may not blame nor hold them wrong
Who through their lives their liturgies prolong,
Even though the prize of motherhood be great,
But always thine, oh blest estate!
Thine it is, even in youth's hot sun to keep
Celestial snows and pure abysses deep.
I see thy fair expanding mind,
A precious blossom parcel-blown,
Not with the young man's ardent rage,
But with a gentler radiance all thy own,
Fixed now on history's fabled page,
Now on the bard's diviner thought,
And now by some deep music stirred
Deeper than any spoken word,
Or sweet love-story soft as southern wind.
UT lo! another form appears
Upon the glass. Oh, pure and white: Oh, delicate and bright! Oh, primal growth of time! Sweet maidenhood! that to a silvery chime Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled, And modest grace and mild, Comest, best gift of God to men, As fair to-day as when The first man waking from his deep And fancy haunted sleep, Found his strength spent, and at his side His fair dream glorified; High-soaring note, keeping the eternal song Through secular discords long. Oh, lily of life's garden! fair of hue And sweet of scent, watered with heaven's own dew, Fair being, that holdest hidden motherhood And undeveloped good Implicit in thee, even as white blooms hold Their fragrant globes of gold. Men know no praise they can withhold from thee, Oh, sweet virginity! Since Artemis first trod the youngling earth Thou glorious and surpassing birth! The vestal fires were thine, the convents cold Are thine as those of old. To thee, when strong sweet flowers of Life and Sense, Scent gross we turn, oh, white and gracious innocence! Yea, still, while life grows fast and free To thee we turn a world worn eye. Throbbing delights are youth's and pulses high; Yet sometimes these will pall, and then to thee We turn, oh fair pale lily, clothed with purity!
Dear flower, and fair to mortal eye,
Whatever be thy age, thy clime, thy race,
Whether the gentle curve of thy young breast
Be hidden in white lawn or stand confest
In innocent brown nakedness and grace,
Thou art the high and unattained prize
Of all the generations that have been;
Upon life's throne thou sittest as a Queen,
And at thy gracious feet
The ages kneel to thy eternal Truth,
Thy pure and spotless innocence,
And free from stain of Time and Sense,
Thy undefiled youth.
For sure it is indeed
Two streams through life's ground flow, and both are
The one whose goal is gracious motherhood,
The other in the cloister pale and dim
Finding sufficient meed
In pure observance, rite, and soaring hymn.
White flower of Life's tree
Love like a wanton bee,
Shall fly to thee, and from thy deep cold cells
Rifle the honey. Tranquil stream,
That from the chill heart of the untrodden snow,
So calm and clear dost flow;
Spring wakes beneath the gleam
Of a new sun which swells
A warm and rapid torrent strong,
Soon in the sunny, balmy weather,
To break its banks and bear together
Your mingled streams along.
HO shall guess what I may be ?
Who can tell my fortune to me?
For bravest and brightest that ever was sung May be—and shall be-the lot of the young.
Hope, with her prizes and victories won,
Shines in the blaze of my morning sun-
Conquering Hope, with golden ray,
Blessing my landscape far away.
Rich in the present, though poor in the past,
I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
And lo, what treasure of glorious things
Giant Futurity sheds from his wings?
Pleasures are there like dropping balms,
And glory and honor with chaplets and palms,
And mind well at ease, and gladness and health,
A river of peace, and a mine of wealth!
Away with your counsels, and hinder me not,
On, on let me press to my brilliant lot;
Young and strong, and sanguine and free,
How knowest thou what I may be ?
All my meadows and hills are green,
And rippling waters glance between-
All my skies are rosy bright,
Laughing in triumph at yesternight.
HE Connecticut editor who wrote the following evidently knew what he was talking about:
Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly 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 getting him into it. There is rarely a mother that is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys.