Only a baby!

'Es, sir, 'at 's so;
'N' if you only tood,
You'd be one, too.

'At's all I've to say,
You're mos' too old;
Dess I'll det into bed,
Toes dettin' cold.

THE LAST ARRIVAL.

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 roomMy daughter! oh, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all
She's welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love

And common-metre rhymes.

She has no manifest but this;
No flag floats o'er the water;
She's rather new for our marine

My daughter! oh, my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too!
Ring out the lover's moon !

Ring in the little worsted socks!
Ring in the bib and spoon!

Ring out the muse! Ring in the nurse!

Ring in the milk and water!

Away with paper, pen, and ink!
My daughter! oh, my daughter!

GEORGE W. CABLE.

THE "COMING MAN.”

A PAIR of very chubby legs
Encased in scarlet hose;
A pair of little stubby boots
With rather doubtful toes;

A little kilt a little coat,

Cut as a mother can,

And lo! before us strides in state
The Future's "coming man."

His eyes, perchance, will read the stars,
And search their unknown ways;
Perchance the human heart and soul
Will open to their gaze;

Perchance their keen and flashing glance
Will be a nation's light,

Those eyes that now are wistful bent
On some "big fellow's " kite.

That brow where mighty thought will dwell
In solemn, secret state;

Where fierce ambition's restless strength
Shall war with future fate;

Where science from now hidden caves

New treasures shall outpour,

'Tis knit now with a troubled doubt, Are two, or three cents, more?

Those lips that, in the coming years,
Will plead, or pray, or teach;

Whose whispered words, on lightning flash,
From world to world may reach;

That, sternly grave, may speak command,

Or, smiling, win control,

Are coaxing now for gingerbread

With all a baby's soul!

Those hands

those little busy hands

So sticky, small, and brown,

Those hands, whose only mission seems

To pull all order down,

Who knows what hidden strength may lie
Within their future grasp,
Though now 't is but a taffy-stick
In sturdy hold they clasp?

Ah, blessings on those little hands,
Whose work is yet undone !
And blessings on those little feet,
Whose race is yet un-run!
And blessings on the little brain
That has not learned to plan!
Whate'er the Future hold in store,
God bless the "coming man"!

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT.

OH! the quietest home on earth had I,
No thought of trouble, no hint of care;
Like a dream of pleasure the days flew by,
And peace had folded her pinions there.
But one day there joined in our household band
A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Oh the despot came in the dead of night,
And no one ventured to ask him why;
Like slaves we trembled before his might,
Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry;
For never a soul could his power withstand,
That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

He ordered us here, and he sent us there,

Though never a word could his small lips speak, -
With his toothless gums and his vacant stare,
And his helpless limbs so frail and weak;

Till I cried, in a voice of stern command,
Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!”

But his abject slaves they turned on me;

Like the bears in Scripture they'd rend me there, The while they worshipped on bended knee The ruthless wretch with the missing hair; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Then I searched for help in every clime,
For peace had fled from my dwelling now,
Till I finally thought of old Father Time,
And now before him I made my bow:
"Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare,
And a smile came over his features grim:
"I'll take the tyrant under my care;

Watch what my hour-glass does for him.
The veriest humbug that ever was planned
Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land!"

Old Time is doing his work full well :
Much less of might does the tyrant wield;
But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell
And sad tears fall as I see him yield.

Could I stay the touch of that shrivelled hand,
I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.

For the loss of peace I have ceased to care;
Like other vassals I've learned, forsooth,
To love the wretch who forgot his hair

And hurried along without a tooth;
And he rules me too with his tiny hand,

This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

MARY E. VANDYNE

A HINT.

OUR Daisy lay down

In her little nightgown,
And kissed me again and again,

On forehead and cheek,

On lips that would speak,

But found themselves shut to their gain.

Then foolish, absurd,

To utter a word,

I asked her the question so old,
That wife and that lover

Ask over and over,

As if they were surer when told.

There, close at her side,
"Do you love me?" I cried;
She lifted her golden-crowned head,

A puzzled surprise

Shone in her gray eyes

'Why, that's why I kiss you!" she said.

OUR DARLING.

BOUNDING like a football,
Kicking at the door;
Falling from the table-top,
Sprawling on the floor;
Smashing cups and saucers,

Splitting dolly's head;

Putting little pussy cat
Into baby's bed;

Building shops and houses,

Spoiling father's hat;

Hiding mother's precious keys

Underneath the mat;

Jumping on the fender,
Poking at the fire;
Dancing on his little legs,
Legs that never tire;
Making mother's heart leap
Fifty times a day;
Aping everything we do,

Every word we say;

Shouting, laughing, tumbling,

Roaring with a will,
Anywhere and everywhere,
Never, never still;

Present- bringing sunshine;
Absent leaving night;
That's our precious darling,
That's our heart's delight.

THE NEW BABY.

I'SE a poor little sorrowful baby,
For Bidget is way down tairs,
The titten has statched my finder,
And dolly won't say her payers.
Ain't seen my bootiful mamma
Since ever so long adoe,
And I ain't her tunningest baby
No longer, for Bidget says so.

My mamma's dot a new baby;

Dod dived it, he did, yesterday; And it kies, and it kies, so defful, I wish he would tate it away. Don't want no sweet little sister, I want my dood mamma, I do, I want her to tis me, and tis me, And tall me her pessus Lulu.

Oh, here tums nurse wis the baby!
It sees me yite out of its eyes;
I dess we will keep it, and dive it
Some tandy whenever it kies;
I dess I will dive it my dolly

To play wis 'most every day; And I dess, I dess—say, Bidget, Ask Dod not to tate it away.