And you lie there and eat that gruel! and pick the fuzz all off the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ate that apple-Genesis iii. 16; or that you were "Abel to Cain" for doing it!
ON tip-toe I entered the bed-room of baby;
And trembling I parted the gossamer curtains
Where baby lay, fair as a fresh morning glory.
Like petals of purest and pinkest petunias,
Four delicate fingers crept out of their nestling,
Transparent and chubby, they rest on the crib's edge,
And draping the fingers, a fringe of crochet-work,
As flossy and light as a net-web of snow lace,
Lay, kissing them daintily-ever so daintily!
Nails soft and so tiny, and tinted like pink-buds,
Looked up to me temptingly-"ever so cunning;"
And asked me to kiss them, and oh! how I longed to,
But dare not, for baby was smiling so sweetly
I knew he beheld then an angel-face near him.
Loose ringed, on his temples of pure alabaster,
Lay curls of the softest and lightest of texture,
As sketched by a crayon of delicate gold-tint;
Such curls as the gods gave to Cupid and Psyche!
Those kissable curls, with their live, springing tendrils,
Came up to my lips, and went down to my heart-strings.
Those eyelids so filmy, translucent as amber,
Were colored and toned by the blue eyes beneath them,
To softest of purple. O, marvellous eyelids!
Ah! what is this clinging so close to my heart-string,
'Tis fear-that I know by the thrill in my bosom?
"Tis born of these ringlets and fingers and eyelids :
Born of this beauty too precious for mortals;
It tells me I look on the face of an angel
That lies there deceiving my soul by concealing
Its pinions beneath the blue waves of the velvet.
I'll wake him! the darling! with kisses I'll wake him.
There! there! I have reddened the white brow of baby,
Between those two limnings of delicate lace work—
The rarest of eyebrows; his laugh reassures me!
I'll crush him down hard, wings and all, on my bosom!
A VERSE FOR THE YOUNG MOTHER TO PARODY.
THERE'S not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him!
HAD a little baby once,
I called him "Wakeful Willie ;"
He would not go to sleep one night,
He was so very silly.
I went and asked the moolly cow,
If in her arms she'd lock him,
And if she could but spare the time,
Would just sit down and rock him?
She said she had no rocking-chair,
Else would she be quite willing;
But she'd give him supper of new milk,
And never ask a shilling.
I asked the horse to leave his oats,
The old horse in the stable,
And come and rock my boy to sleep,
And sing if he were able.
But he had been a journey long,
He said, and felt quite weary;
Else would he find his prettiest song,
And sing it to my deary.
I asked the cat, upon the mat,
To rock my babe to slumber;
Says Puss, "I never rocked a babe,
Though I've had quite a number.
"Besides, the rat is in his hole,
And I have got to watch him,
And there's a mouse, about the house,
And I have got to catch him!"
The croaking frog, down in the bog, Among the reeds was sprawling, "Come up," said I, "and hush my boy, For music is thy calling."
He shook his head, and sadly said,
"Though music my delight is,
Yet once I wet my feet, and since,
I'm troubled with bronchitis."
I went and asked the speckled hen,
Beneath her wings to fold him,
To sing him all the songs she knew,
And if he stirred, to scold him!
She said, "Her babies slept so well,
She never sang a quaver,
Nor could she even sing a song,
If from the cook 't would save her.
The white owl in the cypress tree,
Looked gentle as a lily,
I asked her to come in, and sing
A song to "Wakeful Willie."
She stared at me with two great eyes, And said, "She could not now sing, For wise folks were but just awake, And 't was her time for mousing."
I knew the song-birds were asleep, And sleep they would till morning; For Robin nodded as he sang,
And Whippoorwill was yawning.
I looked about in hope to see,
The nightingale and mavis,
When up stairs hopped a pretty bird,
'Twas Willie's sister Avis.
And Avis sang till Willie slept,
As well as she was able,
While mother went to pour out tea
For Father at the table.
THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE.
HAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt.
Unwritten history!
Unfathomable mystery!
But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphynx!
Warped by colic and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know
Where the summers go!
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!
Who can tell what the baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way,
Out from the shores of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shores of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony!
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls-
Barks that launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
And what does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
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