THE OLDEST STORY.

129

That is the baby: he came to town

Only a day or two ago;

But he looks as wise as if he knew

All that a baby can ever know.

There he lies in a little heap,

As soft as velvet, as warm as toast, As rosy-red as the harvest moon

Which I saw so big on the hazy coast.

Hear him gurgle and sputter and sigh,
As if his dear little heart would break,
And scold away as if all the world

Were only meant for his littleness' sake.

Blink, little eyes, at the strange new light;
Hark, little ears, at the strange new sound:
Wonderful things shall you see and hear

As the days and the months and the years go round.

Hardly you seem a Life at all;

Only a Something with hands and feet, Only a Feeling that things are warm, Only a Longing for something to eat.

Have you a thought in your downy head?
Can you say to yourself so much as “I”?
Have you found out yet that you are yourself?
Or has God, what you will be by and by?

It's only a little that we can guess,

But it's quite as much as we care to know,
The rest will come with the fleeting years,
Little by little,— and better so.

Enough for the day is the good thereof:
The speck of a thing that is lying there,
And the presence that fills the silent house
With the tender hush of a voiceless prayer.
JOHN W. CHADWICK.

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD.

Y

My pretty budding, breathing flower,

Methinks, if I to-morrow

Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,

I might immortalize a few

Of all the myriad graces

Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes ;
I'd draw with most fastidious care

One eyebrow, then the other,

And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.

A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD. 131

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek

Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in school-boy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.

Not less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,

Nor less upon the rosy charms

Of every tiny finger;

Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever

That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they'd jump forever.

But then your odd endearing ways

-

What study e'er could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays—

What canvas e'er could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,

Your murmur of petition,

Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,

For Art's most fine creations!
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,

To note your transformations,