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Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours?

Oh those little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use. Oh, the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.

Rock-bye-baby on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the bough bends the cradle will fall, Down comes the baby, cradle and all.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent.

He smiles, and sleeps!--sleep on And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young: sleep on and smile! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering And innocent!

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks In their pure incarnation, vying with The rose leaves strewn beneath them. And his lips, too, How beautifully parted! No; you shall not Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon-- His hour of midday rest is nearly over.

There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked--and laughed. It seemed so curious that she Should cross the unknown water, And moor herself within my room-- My daughter! O my daughter!

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.

He is so little to be so large! Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge Couldn't carry the freight Of the monstrous weight Of all of his qualities, good and great. And tho' one view is as good as another Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother!

"The hand that rocks the cradle"--but there is no such hand. It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us understand; So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish days, When mothers reared their children in unscientific ways; When they jounced them and they bounced them, those poor dwarfs of long ago-- The Washingtons and Jeffersons, you know.

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise! Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saintlike air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer You learned above, Baby Louise.

Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing.

The morning that my baby came They found a baby swallow dead, And saw a something hard to name Fly mothlike over baby's bed.

What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt; Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! - Josiah Gilbert Holland ,

When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.

Sweet is the infant's waking smile, And sweet the old man's rest-- But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.

Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

The hair she means to have is gold, Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old, Plump are her fists and pinky. She fluttered down in lucky hour From some blue deep in yon sky bower-- I call her "Little Dinky."