Could he but have a glimpse

Into futurity,

Well might he fight against

Further maturity:

Yet does it seem to me

As if his purity

Were against sinfulness

Ample security.

Incomprehensible,

Budding immortal,

Thrust all amazedly,
Under life's portal;

Born to a destiny

Clouded in mystery,

Wisdom itself cannot

Guess at its history.

Something too much of this

Timon-like croaking;

See his face wrinkle now,

Laughter-provoking.

One Aunty says he will

Soon "lisp in numbers,"

Turning his thoughts to rhyme,
E'en in his slumbers;

Watts rhymed in babyhood,

No blemish spots his fame,-
Christen him even so;

Young Mr. Watt's his name.

SOME young children sported among the tombs, and hid from each other with laughing faces. They had an infant with them, and had laid it down asleep upon a child's grave, in a little bed of leaves. Little Nell drew near and asked one of them whose grave The child answered that was not its name:

it was.

it was a garden, - his brother's. It was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds loved it better because he had been used to feed them. When he had done speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away.

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

THE MODEL BABY.

It is the image of its father, unless it is the very picture of its mother. It is the best-tempered little thing in the world, never crying but in the middle of the night, or screaming but when it is being washed. It is astonishing how quiet it is whilst feeding. It understands everything, and proves its love for learning by tearing the leaves out of every book, and grasping at the engravings. It is the most wonderful child that was ever seen, and would swallow both its tiny fists, if it was not for a habit of choking. It has a strange hostility for its nurse's caps and nose, which it will clutch and hold with savage tenacity, if in the least offended. It is very playful, delighting in pulling the tablecloth off, or knocking the china ornaments off the mantel-piece, or upsetting its food on somebody's lap. It invents a new language of its own, almost before it can speak, which is perfectly intelligible to its parents, though Greek to every one else. It is not fond of public entertainments, invariably crying before it has been at one five minutes. It dislikes treachery in any

shape, and repels the spoonful of sugar if it fancies there is a powder at the bottom of it. Medicine is its greatest horror, next to cold water. It has no particular love for dress, generally tearing to pieces any handsome piece of finery, lace especially, as soon as it is put on.

It is the cleverest child that ever was born, and says "Papa," or something very like it, when scarcely a month old. It takes early to pulling whiskers, preferring those of strangers. It inquires deeply into everything, and is very penetrating in the construction of a drum, the economy of a work-box, or the anatomy of a doll, which it likes all the better without any head or arms.

It has an intuitive hatred of a doctor, and fights with all its legs, and hands, and first teeth, against his endearments. In fact, there never was a child like it, and the Model Baby proves this by surviving the thousand and one experiments of rival grannies and mothers-in-law, and outliving, to the athletic age of kilts and bare legs, the villanous compounds of Godfrey and Dalby, and the whole poison-chest of elixirs, carminatives, cordials, and pills, which babies are physically heir to.