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THE BABY.

WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? Something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss! Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get that pearly car? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought of you, and so I am here.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE BABY.

Ox parents' knees, a naked, new-born child,
Weeping thon sat'st when all around thee smiled:
So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Thou then mayst smile while all around thee
weep.

From the Sanscrit of CALIDASA, by
SIR WILLIAM JONES.

SILENT BABY.

THE baby sits in her cradle, Watching the world go round, Enwrapt in a mystical silence,

Amid all the tumult of sound.

She must be akin to the flowers,

For no one has heard

A whispered word

From this silent baby of ours.

Wondering, she looks at the children,
As they merrily laughing pass,
And smiles o'er her face go rippling,
Like sunshine over the
grass
And into the heart of the flowers;

But never a word

Has yet been heard
From this silent darling of ours.
Has she a wonderful wisdom,

Of unspoken knowledge a store,
Hid away from all curious eyes,
Like the mysterious lore

Of the bees and the birds and the flowers?
Is this why no word

Has ever been heard
From this silent baby of ours?

Ah, baby, from out your blue eyes
The angel of silence is smiling,
Though silvern hereafter your specch,
Your silence is golden, beguiling
All hearts to this darling of ours,
Who speaks not a word

Of all she has heard,

Like the birds, the bees, and the flowers.

ELLEN BARTLETT CURRIES

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THE BABIE.

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

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimplit chin,
Her puckered lips an' baumy mou',
With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither's een,

Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face, We're glad she has nae wings.

She is the buddin' o' our luve,

A giftig God gied us : We man na luve the gift owre weel, 'T wad be nae blessing thus.

We still maun lo'e the Giver mair,
An' see Him in the given;
An' sae she 'll lead us up to Him,
Our babic straight frae Heaven.
J. E. RANKIN.

"THE HOUSEHOLD SOVEREIGN." FROM "THE HANGING OF THE CRANE."

SEATED I see the two again,
But not alone; they entertain
A little angel unaware,

With face as round as is the moon;
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.
Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please?
Ah, yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not, and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,

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O, Baby, dainty Baby Bell,
How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay!
Those deep and tender twilight eyes,

So full of meaning, pure and bright
As if she yet stood in the light
Of those oped gates of Paradise.
And so we loved her more and more:
Ah, never in our hearts before

Was love so lovely born:
We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen-
The land beyond the morn;

And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When Baby came from Paradise), -
For love of Him who smote our lives,

And woke the chords of joy and pain,
We said, Dear Christ! — our hearts bent down
Like violets after rain.

She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair,
We wove the roses round her brow,
White buds, the summer's drifted snow,
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers!
And thus went dainty Baby Bell
Out of this world of ours!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

And now the orchards, which were white
And red with blossoms when she came,
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime;
The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,

The grapes hung purpling in the grange;
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Baby Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew,

And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too :

We thought her lovely when she came,
But she was holy, saintly now:-
Around her pale angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame !

God's hand had taken away the seal

That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things:

She was Christ's self in purity.

--

It came upon us by degrees,
We saw its shadow ere it fell,
The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Baby Bell.

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,
And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.
We cried aloud in our belief,
"O, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief."
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;
Her heart was folded deep in ours.
Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

At last he came, the messenger,

The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed ner little hands,

NO BABY IN THE HOUSE.

No baby in the house, I know,
"T is far too nice and clean.
No toys, by careless fingers strewn,
Upon the floors are seen.
No finger-marks are on the panes,
No scratches on the chairs;
No wooden men set up in rows,
Or marshalled off in pairs;
No little stockings to be darned,
All ragged at the toes;
No pile of mending to be done,
Made up of baby-clothes;
No little troubles to be soothed;
No little hands to fold;

No grimy fingers to be washed;
No stories to be told;

No tender kisses to be given;

No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse; No merry frolics after tea,

No baby in the house!

CLARA G. DOLLIVER

WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?

FROM "SEA DREAMS.'

WHAT does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby sleep, a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger,
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

ALFRED TENNYSON

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