BABYHOOD.

BABY HOOD.

Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth,
What joy is welcomed like a new-born child?

A babe is a Mother's anchor.

MRS. NORTON.

H. W. BEECHER.

A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

VERY woman has a right to think her child the "prettiest

EVERY

little baby in the world," and it would be the greatest folly to deny her this right, for she would be sure to take it.

Punch.

THE clue of our destiny, wander where we will, lies at the

cradle-foot.

WHERE children are, there is the Golden age.

My Early Days.

Novalis.

I LOVE God, and every little child.

Jean Paul.

How

OW infinite the wealth of love and hope,
Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses!

E that hath a wife and children hath given hostages to

HE

Fortune.

THERE is even a happiness

That makes the heart afraid.

Lord Bacon.

T. Hood.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

THERE are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,

For her new-born infant before her lies.

Oh, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows;

Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;

Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

Henry Ware.

THE heart that we have lain near before our birth is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us.

THE BABY.

ANOTHER little wave upon the sea of life;

Another soul to save amid its toil and strife.

Two more little feet to walk the dusty road;

To choose where two paths meet, the narrow and the broad.

Two more little hands to work for good or ill;
Two more little eyes, another little will.

Another heart to love, receiving love again;
And so the baby came, a thing of joy and pain.

MY BIRD.

'RE last year's moon had left the sky,

FRE

A birdling sought my Indian nest,

And folded, O, so lovingly!

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose leaves with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird,
Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more may rest.

This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from Heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, to me thy hand hath given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine;
This life which I have dared invoke,

Henceforth is parallel with thine.