POEMS OF CHILDHOOD.

WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE!

OVER the cradle the mother hung,

Softly cooing a slumber song,

And these were the simple words she sung
All the evening long :

"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,
Where shall the baby's dimple be?
Where shall the angel's finger rest

When he comes down to the baby's nest!
Where shall the angel touch remain

When he awakens my baby again?"

Still as she bent and sang so low,

A murmur into her music broke,

And she paused to hear, for she could but know
The baby's angel spoke :

"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,
Where shall the baby's dimple be?
Where shall my finger fall and rest
When I come down to the baby's nest?
Where shall my finger's touch remain
When I wake your baby again?"

Silent the mother sat and dwelt

Long on the sweet delay of choice; And then by her baby's side she knelt, And sang in a pleasant voice :

"Not on the limb, O angel dear!

For the charms with its youth will disappear;
Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,
For the harbouring smile will fade and flee:
But touch thou the chin with impress deep,
And my baby the angel's seal shall keep."

-Dr J. G. Holland.

"TOO MANY OF WE."

"MAMMA, is there too many of we?" The little girl asked with a sigh;

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Perhaps you wouldn't be tired, you see,
If a few of your childs should die."

She was only three years old—this one
Who spoke in that strange, sad way,
As she saw her mother's impatient frowa
At the children's boisterous play.

There were a half-dozen who round her stood,
And the mother was sick and poor,

Worn out with the care of the noisy brood,
And the fight with the wolf at the door.

For a smile or a kiss no time, no place,
For the little one least of all;

And the shadow that darkened the mother's face
O'er the young life seemed to fall.

More thoughtful than any, she felt more care,
And pondered in childish way

How to lighten the burden she could not share
Growing heavier every day.

Only a week, and the little Claire

In her little white trundle-bed,

Lay with her blue eyes closed, and the sunny hair
Čut close from the golden head.

"Don't cry," she said-and the words were low,
Feeling tears that she could not see-

"You won't have to work and be tired so,
When there ain't so many of we."

And the dear little daughter who went away
From the home that for once was stilled,

Showed the mother's heart, from that dreary day,
What a place she had always filled.

-"Woman's World."

"THE LITTLE COAT."

HERE's the little coat-but oh!
Where is he we've censured so?
Don't you hear us calling, dear,
Back-come back and never fear;
You may wander where you will,
Over orchard, field or hill,
You may kill the birds, or do
Anything that pleases you!
Ah! this empty coat of his,
Every tatter worth a kiss;
Every stain as pure instead,
As the white stars overhead.
And the pockets-homes were they
Of the little hands that play
Now no more-but absent, thus
Beckon us.

-James Whitcomb Riley.

THE NEW BABY.

WHAT strange little man can this be,
So weird and so wizened and wise?
What mystical things has he seen
With those wide open wondering eyes?

What treasures untold, from what lands,
Do his soft baby fingers enfold?
What word does he bring from afar,
This stranger so young, yet so old?

Does he bring us some message from spheres
Unheard of, from worlds we know not-
Starry countries we dwelt in, mayhap,
As babies, and now have forgot?

Who can tell what he knows, what he thinks
He says not a word, but he looks,

In a minute, more wisdom, I'll swear
Than is shut in the biggest of books.

A GRAND PARTY.

MISS NELLIE M'CARTY gave a grand party,
And who do you think were there?
Marigold Mary and Viscount Canary,
Red Tiger Lily and Joe Daffodily,
And Violet fragrant and fair;

Saucy Miss Buttercup and Johnny Jump-up,—
A boat load from over the bay.

They danced to a fiddle with "hands down the middle,”
Ate oysters and ices, rich sauces and spices,

And went to bed sick the next day

-Frank H. Stauffer.

CRADLE SONG.

SLEEP, my pretty one,

Sleep, my little one,

Rose in the garden is blooming so red;
Over the flowers the fleet-footed hours

Dance into dreamland to melody wed,

To the voice of the stream-to a song in a dream, Sung low by the brook to its stone-covered bed. Sung soft as it goes,

And the heart of the rose
Gives a tremulous leap
As the melody flows.
Ah, little one, sleep,
Sleep.

Peace, my little one,

Peace, my pretty one,

Lilies bend low to the breath of the breeze;
Lithe as a willow, the boat on the billow
High tosses the spray for the sunlight to tease,
With a kiss and a tear-with a rainbow, a fear,
For the light is the sun's and the spray is the sea's;
And the wind o'er the lea
Breaks to melody free,
As the waves that release
The low laugh of the sea.
My pretty one, peace,
Peace.

Joy, my pretty one,
Joy, my little one,

Fairies of night from their bright jewelled cars

Fling a faint sheen and shimmer on ripples where glimmer The up-gazing eyes of the down-gazing stars;

And the boat, while it glides, sings the songs of the tides As they kiss into languor the sand of the bars. Oh, river, flow fleet,

Ere the melody meet

The sea's breath to destroy
What the echoes repeat:

My little one, joy,

Joy!

-Francis Howard Williams.

A SLUMBER SONG.

BABY, you stand by a gate that leads
Into a land of dreams;

There's a drowsy watchman here who Leeds
Never the straggling gleams

Of light that stray from the far-off sur-
Always for him its twinkling begun-
And we stand by the gate,

And watch and wait,

And watch-and wait!

Little one, hear what the stream sings or,
Here in this quiet land;

It sings of the joy of mother love

Sings to birds in the sand

To the strange, tall birds, with dreamy eyes
That look at you, dear, in mute surprise,
While we stand by the gate,

And watch and wait,

And watch-and wait!

If you open the gate no one will know;
The guard will never guess.

You must open it gently, slowly-so!
No one has heard, unless

Those dreamful birds, or the dreamland sheep,
Heard you stealing through their land of sleep