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In part transfigured through the open door

Appears the selfsame scene.

Seated I see the two again,
But not alone; they entertain

A little angel unaware,

With face as round as is the moon;
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.
Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please?
Ah, yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not, and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.

And now, O monarch absolute,
Thy power is put to proof; for lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the sea,
And pushes back thy chair and thee,
And so good night to King Canute.

As one who walking in the forest sees
A lovely landscape through the parted trees,
Then sees it not for boughs that intervene,
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed
Through drifting clouds, and then again con-

cealed,

So I beheld the scene.

There are two guests at table now;
The king, deposed, and older grown,
No longer occupies the throne,
The crown is on his sister's brow
A princess from the Fairy Tales ;
The very pattern girl of girls,
All covered and embowered in curls,
Rose tinted from the Isle of Flowers,
And sailing with soft silken sails
From far-off Dreamland into ours.
Above their bowls with rims of blue
Four azure eyes of deeper hue
Are looking, dreamy with delight;
Limpid as planets that emerge
Above the ocean's rounded verge,

Soft shining through the summer night,
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ;
Nor care they for the world that rolls
With all its freight of troubled souls
Into the days that are to be.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BABY LOUISE.

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies,

And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the

skies,

God's sunshine, Baby Louise.

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air,

Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer

You learned above, Baby Louise?

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! Why you never raise your beautiful head! Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, "I love you," Baby Louise.

Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?

I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower, Ungrateful Baby Louise!

MARGARET EYTINGE.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

[In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."]

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling;

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : "O, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee.

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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,
'Tis 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.

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See the kindly shepherds round him,

Telling wonders from the sky!

WILLIE WINKIE.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
"Are the weans in their bed?. for it's now ten
o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
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 wauknin' sleepin'

cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what

folk!

Where they sought him, there they found him, Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!

With his Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing:
Lovely infant, how he smiled!
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy child.

Lo, he slumbers in his manger,

Where the hornèd oxen fed;

- Peace, my darling! here's no danger! Here's no ox anear thy bed!

May'st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days:
Then go dwell forever near him;
See his face, and sing his praise.

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire :
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

ISAAC WATTS.

Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her

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