And parted hair of a pale, pale gold,
That is priceless every curl,

And a boldness shy and a fear half bold,
Ay, that's my baby girl.

A small, small frock, as the snowdrop white,
That is worn with a tiny pride;

With a sash of blue, by a little sight
With a baby wonder eyed;

And a pattering pair of restless shoes,

Whose feet have a tiny fall,

That not for the world's coined wealth we'd lose

That Baby May, we call.

A rocker of dolls with staring eyes

That a thought of sleep disdain, That with shouts of tiny lullabies Are by'd and by'd in vain;

A drawer of carts with baby noise,

With strainings and pursed-up brow;

Whose hopes are cakes and whose dreams are toys,

A sinking of heart; a shuddering dread,
Too deep for a word or tear;

Or a joy whose measure may not be said,
As the future is hope or fear;

A sumless venture, whose voyage's fate
We would and yet would know,
Is she whom we dower with love as great
As is periled by hearts below.

Oh! what as her tiny laugh is dear,
Or our days with gladness girds!
Or what is the sound we love.to hear
Like the joy of her baby words!
Oh! pleasure our pain and joys our fears
Should be, could the future say,
Away with sorrow-time has no tears
For the eyes of Baby May.

Mrs. Chadwick, authoress of "Rural, and other Poems," now enjoying, at the age of eighty, the full possession of faculties which have been devoted to the duties of home and the culture of literary refinement.

COME, resignation! come! thy plumous wing

Will gently bear thee from thy seat of bliss
To sympathise with woe. O come, and from
That fount, whose spring is everlasting, draw
Such liquids sweet as may refresh the soul:
Whilst thou, pure monitress, will teach the heart
Obedience passive to the will of heaven.
The day may dawn with every ray of bliss,
But soon may sorrow's cloud bedim, obscure,
Yet he who steers the helm, and rules the sea,
Who stays the tempest, inundation checks,
And guides the star of fate, can measure ill,
Or woe's extent, promoting human good:
O come then, resignation! teach thy lore.

"I WISH very much, mamma," said a little girl as she was walking one fine spring morning, with her doll in her arms, "that my doll could breathe, and speak, and tell me how she loves these sweet and

bright little flowers that are coming up all over the banks and hedgerows." As she said this she turned her eyes first upon the pretty but inanimate little figure she had pressed to her bosom, and then upon the fair and sunshiny scene that lay all around her. Everything appeared to have had a fresh life given.

The trees, and flowers, and sparkling rivulets looked so gay, that one might almost fancy them to be really rejoicing that the summer was coming again; and as for the birds and the young lambs, with which the soft green fields were full, the one sang so sweetly and cheerily, and the others did so sport about in the sunshine, that our little girl could not contain herself for delight. But when she looked at her doll again, her eyes ceased to sparkle, for there it was, with its painted cheeks, and its moveless lips and eyes, a thing more without life than any other object near her. It had been her companion in the winter, when the cold winds and the snow had kept her shut up in the house, and she had amused herself tolerably well, in making it frocks and hats, of all variety of fashions; but she had not once thought then about its having no life, or feeling like herself, and she was contented with it, merely because nothing led her to reflect that her care and labour about it were useless.

But everything now reminded her that there was a vast difference between the gayest toy-shop and the beautiful country dressed up by the returning spring; and she could not but think that the very best plaything which her mamma could buy her, was not so really worth possessing as the flowers that were growing wild but fragrantly on the hedges. Before, therefore, she had long continued her walk, her doll was entirely neglected, and it lay upon her arm as though it were a burden. She began gathering some of the prettiest of the wild geraniums, and the sweet little blue harebells, that peeped and smiled from among the dewy grass, and having formed them into a wreath, she felt for a short time as though she possessed something that she could love much better than a doll, that had no sense of the happy spring time.

"Are they not beautiful, mamma ?" said she, holding them up with delight. They are, indeed, dear Ellen," said her mamma; "and they ought to make you love that great Creator who, while he had the power to make this world, and the sun, and the stars, has also had the benevolence to adorn the earth so beautifully, to make it the pleasant abode of the young and innocent.”

Little Ellen understood and felt the truth of her mamma's observation, and she never afterwards looked upon the lovely scenes which every season of the year in turn produces, without recalling it to her

thoughts. But scarcely had she ceased expressing her pleasure at the sight of her spring flowers, when their heads began to droop, their leaves to grow flaccid, and all their brightness to fade away. "What a sad thing it is, mamma," exclaimed the disappointed little girl, "that we should not be able longer to preserve such beautiful things."

"It would, indeed, be sad," was the answer, "if they had not been intended only to bloom in a particular situation, and then for a short time only. But you must learn to observe, Ellen, that al these beautiful little objects are ornaments to the earth, which can be easily destroyed, while things more necessary to our comfort are better defended, or by nature different."

Ellen looked vexed when she found it would be of no use to carry the flowers any farther, and she was again without anything to pet and love. To her great delight, however, on passing a small green recess on one side of the road, they saw a man sitting and employing his skill in making captives of many of the sweet little birds whose songs she had listened to with such pleasure. If she had reflected a moment on the real cruelty of this occupation, she would not have observed the birdcatcher with such feelings of gratification; but she was intent on nothing but the pleasure she should have in possessing one of the little warblers, and she forgot the barbarity of making it a prisoner in the thoughts of what care she would take to feed it, and make it lie in her bosom, and sleep there when the weather was again very cold. One of the birds, therefore, was bought, and the man lent her one of his small cages to carry it home in.

Overjoyed at possessing such a dear little creature, so gentle and pretty, and, what was still more in her thoughts, a real living being that would in time know her and sing to her, Ellen carried the cage as the greatest treasure that could have been given her; and so delighted was she, that she could not help stopping every now and then to look at the bird, and she every time expressed more fondness for it. But at last, not satisfied with these momentary glances, she begged her mamma to rest a few minutes, and she sat down on a bank to enjoy more leisurely the sight of her new companion. The birds in the trees and hedges were all singing loudly and joyfully, and they flew from bough to bough, flitting their gay wings in the air, and chasing each other, for the very pleasure of floating on the pleasant breeze. 66 'Oh, how delightful!" said Ellen, "to possess one of these pretty, happy things;" and she looked at her little bird in the cage. Alas! there it sat, up at one end of the perch, its head drooping, its wings folded to its sides, but rough and broken, and its eyes half