"Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep." JOW I lay me down to sleep, "Now I pray thee Lord my soul to keep❞— So the baby learned her prayer "Now I lay me down to sleep-" She had said her simple prayer, "I pray thee Lord my soul to keep-" On life's golden afternoon Gay the bells, and sweet the tune, And upon her wedding day "Now I lay me down to sleep-" All alone with bended head, UR Fannie Angelina Didn't want to go to bed, Her reasons would you know? then Let me tell you what she said At eight o'clock precisely, At the close of yesterday, Her mamma in the trundle bed "It isn't time to go to bed, The clock goes round too quick; It hurts my back to lie in bed, And almost makes me sick: I want to show my Uncle George My dolly, Haddynewya,' Her yellow dress is thin, Going to Bed. And she's sitting on the horse-block, I forgot to bring her in; I want to go and get her, I want to get my nankachick, I said I'd wait till papa comes, I wonder what he'll think; There's something hurts me in my throat, I want to get a drink. I guess I'd rather get it in My little silver cup— What makes me have to go to bed So Fannie Angelina Was determined not to do it. Yet she drifted off to Nod land, Poor child, before she knew it. The queen who reigns in Nod land Shut her willful eyes so tight, They quite forgot to open Till the sun was shining bright. Babies and Their Rights. A BABY has a right, too frequently denied it, to be let alone. It ought to be a rule in the nursery never to disturb the infant when it is happy and quiet. Older children, too, two, three and four years of age, who are amusing themselves in a peaceful, contented way, ought not to be wantonly interfered with. I have often seen a little creature lying in its crib cooing, laughing, crooning to itself in the sweetest baby fashion, without a care in the world to vex its composure, when in would come mamma or nurse, seize it, cover it with endearments, and effectually break up its tranquility. Then, the next time, when these thoughtless people wanted it to be quiet, they were surprised that it refused to be so. It is habit and training which make little children restless and fretful, rather than natural disposition, in a multitude of cases. A healthy babe, coolly and loosely dressed, judiciously fed, and frequently bathed, will be good and comfortable if it have not too much attention. But when it is liable, a dozen times a day to be caught wildly up, bounced and jumped about, smothered with kisses, poked by facetious fingers, and petted till it is thoroughly out of sorts, what can be expected of it? How would fathers and mothers endure the martyrdom to which they allow the babies to be subjected? Another right which every baby has, is to its own mother's care and supervision. The mother may not be strong enough to hold her child and carry it about, to go with it on its outings, and to personally attend to all its wants. Very often it is really better for both mother and child that the strong arms of an able-bodied woman should bear it through its months of helplessness. Still, no matter how apparently worthy of trust a nurse or servant may be, unless she has been tried and proved by long and faithful service and friendship, a babe is too precious to be given unreservedly to her care. The mother herself, or an elder sister or auntie, should hover protectingly near the tiny creature, whose lifelong happiness may depend on the way its babyhood is passed. Who has not seen in the city parks the beautifully dressed infants, darlings evidently of homes of wealth and refinement, left to bear the beams of the sun and stings of gnats and flies, while the nurses gossiped together, oblivious of the flight of time? Mothers are often quick to resent stories of the neglect or cruelty of their employes, and cannot be made to believe that their own children are sufferers. And the children are too young to speak. The lover of little ones can almost always see the subtle difference which exists between the babies whom mothers care for, and the babies who are left to hirelings. The former have a sweeter, shyer, gladder look than the latter. Perhaps the babies who are born, so to speak, with silver spoons in their mouths, are better off than those who came to the heritage of a gold spoon. The gold spooners have lovely cradles and vassinets. They wear Valenciennes lace and embroidery, and fashion dictates the cut of their bibs, and the length of their flowing robes. They are waited upon by bonnes in picturesque aprons and caps, and the doctor is sent for whenever they have the colic. The little silver-spooners, on the other hand, are arrayed in simple slips, which the mother made herself in dear, delicious hours, the sweetest in their mystic joy which happy womanhood knows. They lie on the sofa, or on two chairs with a pillow placed carefully to hold them, while she sings at her work, spreads the snowy linen on the grass, moulds the bread, and shells the peas. The mother's hands wash and dress them, the father rocks them to sleep, the proud brothers and sisters carry them to walk, or wheel their little wagons along the pavement. Fortunate babies of the silver spoon! Alas and alack! for the babies who have never a spoon at all, not even a horn or a leaden one. Their poor parents love them, amid the squalid circumstances which hem. them in, but they can do little for their well being, and they die by hundreds in garrets and cellars, and close tenement rooms. When the rich and charitable shall devise some way to care for the babies of the poor, when New York shall imitate Paris in founding an institution akin to La Creche, we shall have taken a long step forward in the direction of social and moral elevation. -M. E. Sangster. A Description of Two Babies. FIRST. One of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone ! Second. A weazen little baby, with a heavy head that it couldn't hold up, and two weak, staring eyes, with which it seemed to be always wondering why it had ever been born. -Charles Dickens. For he said "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook," And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met in the usual way. Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was-in the usual way. So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay, But she did-in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments running by; "We must say good-bye," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did in the usual way. And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, And now that they are married, do they always bill and Do they never fret and quarrel like other couples do? obey? Well-they-do-in the usual way. Of manhood's fullest crown; The heart, which hardly thought of passion fires; Whether upon the difficult heights of Thought, Or in the flush and thrill of the new Beauty Oh, happiest age of all! When hope is without measure, And life a thrill of pleasure, And health is high, and force unspent, Which creeps upon the world-worn heart to kill The flowers of spring are blooming, and the air Love's legend and the dream of days to be, Whether on metaphysical riddles faint, Or maxims of the sage Thou comest, oh youth, with thought as sure, Thou takest afresh, with each returning year, And to thy fresh and undimmed brain, The mysteries of Nature and of Space Thou lookest with clear gaze upon the long Confusions of the Race, the Paradox of Wrong; And dost not fear to trace, With youth's strong fiery faith that knows no chill, The secret of Transgression, the prime source Of the Ineffable Will. And sometimes life, glowing with too fierce fire, O'er sea and land in rapid chase, Snatches thee with tumultuous will, And careless, breathless pace. Comes on thee, as a shadow of night, Marring thy young life's white, And some strange thrill thou knowest without a name, And at thy side shame fast Desire Stands unreproved, and guides thy bashful feet To where, girt by dim depths of solitude, Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood; And oh, but thy youth runs swift and pleasure is sweet! And sometimes, too, looking with too bold eye Sudden the heavens are hidden, and the great sun And the brain reels, and all the life grows faint, The soul, and leaves it blind and in amaze, Oh, fairest age of all! Whate'er thy race or clime, To-day ten thousand cities on thee call, Broad plain and palm-fringed isle Thine is the swelling life, the eager glance and smile, Oh, precious fruit of Life and Time! Oh, worker of the world! to whose young arm plow, Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art thou! Where'er thou art, though earthly oft and coarse, |