Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint!)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those 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,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk,

(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!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

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.

FOUR YEARS OLD.

A Nursery Song.

Pien d'amor,

Pien di canto, e pien di fiori.

AH, little ranting Johnny,

For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes,
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so;
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And army as sunny shining
As if their veins they'd wine in,
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heaven seems to have made it newly;
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipped completeness;
Ah, Jack, ah, Giovanni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio!

FRUGONI.

Sir Richard, too, your rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little cor di fiori,

My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolics as
That fibbing rogue, Antolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother, Oberon;
Ah, Dick, ah, che dolce riso,
How can you, can you be so?

One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief-there you're in it;
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,

In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,

No matter how unstable,

And turning up your quaint eye

And half-shut teeth with, "Mayn't I?"
Or else you're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not as happens;

And there you dance, and clap hands,

Or on the grass go rolling,

Or plucking flowers, or bowling,

And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;

Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies

With, "What a young rogue this is!"
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately fearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When, lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.

Ah, rogue! and do you know, John,
Why, 'tis we love you so, John?
And how it is they let ye

Do what you like, and pet ye,
Though all who look upon ye,
Exclaim, "Ah, Johnny, Johnny!"
It is because you please 'em

Still more, John, than you teaze 'em;
Because, too, when not present,
The thought of you is pleasant;
Because, though such an elf, John,
They think that if yourself, John,
Had something to condemn, too,
You'd be as kind to them, too;
In short, because you're very
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry;
And are as quick at giving
As easy at receiving;

And in the midst of pleasure
Are certain to find leisure
To think, my boy, of ours,
And bring us heaps of flowers.

But see, the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,

And we'll among the bushes,

And hear your friends, the thrushes;
And see what flowers the weather
Has rendered fit to gather;

And, when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue you—
Your hat adorned with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.

Leigh Hunt.

WHO

THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW.

HO does not remember the keen relish of the rapid run in the wheel-barrow of early youth, bumping and rolling about, and finally turning a corner at full speed and upsetting? Who does not remember the delight of the little springless carriage that threatened to dislocate and grind down the bones? Luxury destroys real enjoyment. There is more real enjoyment in riding in a wheel-barrow than in driving in a carriageand-four.

Boyd.

AMANTIUM IRÆ AMORIS REDINTEGRATIO EST.

IN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept,

I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept. She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still in sucking at her breast.