WHAT is the pretty little thing
That nurse so carefully doth bring,
And round its head her apron fling?
A baby.

Oh, dear, how very soft its cheek:
Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak,
And it can't walk, it is so weak,

Poor baby.

Here take a bite, you little dear,
I've got some cake and sweetmeats here,

'Tis very nice, you need not fear,

You baby.

Oh, I'm afraid that it will die,
Why can't it eat as well as I,
And jump, and talk? do let it try,
Poor baby.

Why, you were once a baby too,
And could not jump, as now you do,

But good mamma took care of you,

Like baby.

And then she taught your pretty feet
To pat along the carpet neat,

And called papa to come and meet
His baby.

Oh, good mamma, to take such care,
And no kind pains and trouble spare,
To feed and nurse you when

you were

A baby.

Jane and Ann Taylor

GETTING UP

BABY, baby, ope your eye,
For the sun is in the sky,
And he's peeping once again
Through the frosty window pane;
Little baby, do not keep
Any longer fast asleep.

There, now, sit in mother's lap,
That she may untie your cap,

For the little strings have got
Twisted into such a knot;

Ah! for shame,-you've been at play

With the bobbin, as you lay.

There it comes, now let me see

Where your petticoats can be ;

Oh, they're in the window seat,
Folded very smooth and neat:
When my baby older grows
She shall double up her clothes.

Now one pretty little kiss,
For dressing you as neat as this,
And before we go downstairs,
Don't forget to say your pray❜rs,
For 't is God who loves to keep
Little babies in their sleep.

Jane Taylor

MAMMA!

(From "The Floweret ")

My own mamma!
My dear mamma!
How happy I shall be,
To-morrow night,

At candle-light,

When she comes home to me.

To-morrow night,

At candle-light,

Yes, that's the time, they say,

That she 'll be here,

Our mother dear,

How long she's been away.

She pressed the parting kiss;

It seems like two,

I never knew

So long a week as this.

My tangled hair

She smoothed with care, With water bathed my brow; And all with such

A gentle touch,

There's none to do so now.

I cannot play

When she's away;

There's none to laugh with me;

And much I miss

The tender kiss,—

When up to bed

I'm sorrowing led,

I linger on the stairs;

I lie and weep

I cannot sleep

I scarce can say my prayers.

But she will come,

She 'll be at home

To-mcrrow night, and then

I hope that she

Will never be

So long away again.

Anna M. Wells

TO MY MOTHER

THEY tell us of an Indian tree

Which howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth From which the life, that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'T is thus, though wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be),

This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!

Thomas Moore

CUDDLE DOON

THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi' muckle faught an' din;

"Oh try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither 's comin' in."