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THE baby sleeps and smiles.
What fairy thought beguiles
His little brain?
He sleeps and smiles again,
Flings his white arms about,
Half opes his sweet blue eye

As if he thought to spy,

By coyly peeping out,

The funny elf that brought
That tiny fairy thought
Unto his infant mind.

Would I some way could find
To know just how they seem,
Those dreams that infants dream.
I wonder what they are,
Those thoughts that seem to wear
So sweet a guise?

What picture, tiny, fair,
What vision, lovely, rare,

Delights his eyes?

See! now he smiles once more;

Perhaps there is before

His mental sight portrayed

Some vision blest

Of that dear land of rest,

That far-off heaven,

From whence his new-created soul

Has lately strayed;

Or to his ear, perchance, are given
Those echoes sweet that roll
From angel harps we may not hear,
We, who have added year to year,
And sin to sin.

As yet his soul is spotless. Why
Should not angelic harmony
Reach his unsullied ear?

Why not within

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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 marshaled 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.

BABY'S SHOES.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use!

O, the price were high

That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,

That, by God's good-will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,

So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,

And over them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore

Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,

There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O, wonder not that her heart

From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

THE MOTHER'S STRATAGEM.

AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE.

WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O, fly yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.

From the Greek of LEONIDAS of Alexandria,
by SAMUEL ROGERS.

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Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' len,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie
a cheep;

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue :- glow'rin' like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk!

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