Oh the rapture, sweet, unbroken,
Of the soul who wrote that prayer!
Children's myriad voices floating
Up to heaven record it there.
If, of all that has been written,
I could choose what might be mine,
It should be that child's petition,
Rising to the throne divine.
A LITTLE GIRL'S CURIOSITY.
My ma's been working very hard
And also very sly,
And keeps her sewing out of sight
Whenever I am nigh.
I asked her once what made her stop
Her work when I came in;
She said she only stopped to get
A needle, thread, or pin.
The bureau-drawer next to mine
Is locked both night and day,
And when ma wants to open it
She sends me off to play.
I stole a peep one afternoon,
Although it was not right;
But oh, the little things I saw
Were such a pretty sight!
The cutest, nicest little clothes,
Just big enough for doll;
But then I know they 're not for her,
She needs them not at all.
I know they're not for ma nor pa,
Nor me, nor brother " Hor,"
For we can't wear such little clothes -
I wonder who they're for?
Is the house turned topsy-turvy?
Does it ring from street to roof?
Will the racket still continue,
Spite of all your mild reproof?
Are you often in a flutter?"
Are you sometimes thrilled with joy?
Then I have my grave suspicions
That you have at home-that Boy.
Are your walls and tables hammered?
Are your nerves and ink upset?
Have two eyes, so bright and roguish,
Made you every care forget?
Have your garden beds a prowler
Who delights but to destroy?
These are well-known indications
That you have at home - that Boy.
Have you seen him playing circus
With his head upon the mat,
And his heels in mid-air twinkling —
For his audience, the cat?
Do you ever stop to listen,
When his merry pranks annoy,
Listen to a voice that whispers,
You were once just like- that Boy?
Have you heard of broken windows,
And with nobody to blame?
Have you seen a trousered urchin
Quite unconscious of the same?
Do you love a teasing mixture
Of perplexity and joy?
You may have a dozen daughters,
But I know 've got
you
THE clock strikes seven in the hall,
The curfew of the children's day,
That calls each little pattering foot
From dance and song and livelong play;
Their day, that in our wider light
Floats like a silver day-moon white,
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest,
But sinks within a golden west.
Ah, tender hour that sends a drift
Of children's kisses through the house,
And cuckoo-notes of sweet
And thoughts of home and heaven arouse ;
And a soft stir of sense and heart,
As when the bee and blossom part;
And little feet that patter slower,
Like the last droppings of the shower.
And in the children's rooms aloft
What blossom shapes do gayly slip
Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run
From clasping hand and kissing lip.
A naked sweetness to the eye-
Blossom and babe and butterfly
In witching one so dear a sight!
An ecstasy of life and light.
And, ah, what lovely witcheries
Bestrew the floor, an empty sock,
By vanished dance and song left loose
As dead bird's throat; a tiny smock
That, sure, upon some meadow grew,
And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe
Scarce bigger than an acorn-cup;
Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.
Then lily-drest in angel-white
To mother's knee they trooping come; The soft palms fold like kissing shells,
And they and we go shining home, Their bright heads bowed and worshipping As though some glory of the spring, Some daffodil that mocks the day, Should fold his golden palms and pray.
And gates of Paradise swing wide
A moment's space in soft accord,
And those dread angels, Life and Death,
A moment veil the flaming sword,
As o'er the weary world forlorn
From Eden's secret heart is borne
That breath of Paradise most fair,
Which mothers call the "children's prayer."
Ah, deep, pathetic mystery!
The world's great woe unconscious hung, A rain-drop on a blossom's lip,
White innocence that woos our wrong,
And love divine that looks again,
Unconscious of the cross and pain,
From sweet child-eyes, and in that child
Sad earth and heaven reconciled.
Then, kissed, on beds we lay them down,
As fragrant-white as clover's sod;
And all the upper floors grow hushed
With children's sleep, and dews of God.
And as our stars their beams do hide,
The stars of twilight, opening wide,
Take up the heavenly tale at even,
And light us on to God and heaven.
WE asked where the magic came from
That made her so wondrous fair,
As she stood with the sunlight touching
Her gloss of golden hair.
And her blue eyes looked toward heaven
As though they could see God there.
"Hush!" said the child, "can't you hear it,
The music that 's everywhere?"
God help us! we could not hear it,
Our hearts were heavy with pain;
We heard men toiling and wrangling,
We heard the whole world complain;
And the sound of a mocking laughter
We heard again and again,
But we lost all faith in the music,
We had listened so long in vain.
"Can't you hear it?" the young child whispered, And sadly we answered," No.
We might have fancied we heard it
In the days of long ago;
But the music is all a delusion,
Our reason has told us so,
And you will forget that you heard it,
When you know the sound of woe."
Then one spoke out from among us
Who had nothing left to fear;
Who had given his life for others,
And been repaid with a sneer.
And his face was lit with a glory,
And his voice was calm and clear;
And he said, "I can hear the music
Which the little children hear."
IN the soft falling twilight
Of a weary, weary day,
With a quiet step I entered
Where the children were at play;
I was brooding o'er some trouble
Which had met me unawares,
When a little voice came ringing:
"Me is creeping up the stairs.'
Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings
With a breath and force divine,
And such melodies awakened,
As no wording can define.
And I turned to see our darling, —
All forgetful of my cares,
When I saw the little creature
Slowly creeping up the stairs.
Step by step she slowly clambered
On her little hands and knees,
Keeping up a constant chatter,
Like a magpie in the trees,
Till at last she reached the topmost,
When, o'er all her world's affairs,
She, delighted, stood a victor
After creeping up the stairs.
Fainting heart, behold an image
Of man's brief and struggling life,
Whose best prizes must be captured
With a noble, earnest strife;
Onward, upward, reaching ever,
Bending to the weight of cares,
Hoping, fearing, still expecting,
We go creeping up the stairs.
On their steps may be no carpet,
By their side may be no rail,
Hands and knees may often pain us,
And the heart may almost fail;
Still above there is the glory
Which no sinfulness impairs,
With its rest and joy forever,
After creeping up the stairs.
GOLDENHAIR climbed upon grandpapa's knee!
Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she-
All the day busy as busy could be!
Up in the morning as soon as 't was light-
Up with the birds and butterflies bright,
Skipping about till the coming of night.
Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head;
"What has my darling been doing?" he said,
"Since she rose, with the sun, from her bed?
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