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I Remember, I Remember,
The Three Sons,
Little Children, :
Childhood Departed. [Extract],
J. R. Lowell,
The Deserted Garden. [Extract], Elizabeth Barrett, 132
Joyousness of Children,
To my Children Sleeping,
A Parental Ode to my Son, .
The Gypsy Child,
Eliza Cook, : 140
Tired of Play,
N. P. Willis, 142
The Reaper and the Flowers,
The Little Step-Son,
Words in a S. School, 149
R. W. Emerson, 151
Mary Howitt, 154
The Star and the Flower,
Mrs. Osgood, 156
The Charge of Infantry,
Extract from “ King John,”
Fragment from the List of“ Daily Trials,” 0. W. Holmes,
The Child and the Gossamer,
The Baby's Complaint,
Fanny Fern, 165
Good Life, Long Life. [Extract],
The Child's Reverie,
Western Evangelist, 168
Childhood's ardian Angels,
To a Step-Child,
Louisville Journal, 175
Pictures of Memory,
On an Infant dying as soon as born, Charles Lamb,
“ The Child is Father of the Man," Wordsworth,
Death of an Infant,
Extract from “Macbeth,"
The Town and Country Child,
Extract from “ Two April Mornings,” Wordsworth, 189
Extract from “ Seasons of Prayer,” H. Ware, Jr., . 190
Child and Flower,
The Early Dead. [Extract],
The Death of a Child,
My Boy, ,
The Model Baby,
The Open Window,
H. W. Longfellow, 200
The First Snow-fall,
J. R. Lowell,
Two Years Old, .
Little George's Story,
Fanny Fern, 206
The Bird's-nest in the Moon. [Extract), N. E. Magazine, 207
EVERYWHERE, - everywhere, —
Like the butterfly's silver wings, That are seen by all in the summer air,
We meet with these beautiful things ! And the low, sweet lisp of the baby child
By a thousand hills is heard, And the voice of the young heart's laughter, wild
As the voice of a singing bird !
The cradle rocks in the peasant's cot
As it rocks in the noble’s hall,
And the brightest gift in the loftiest lot,
Is a gift that is given to all ;
For the sunny light of childhood's eyes
Is a boon like the common air, And, like the sunshine of the skies,
It falleth everywhere!
They tell us this old earth no more
By angel feet is trod, -
They bring not now, as they brought of yore,
The oracles of God.
O, each of these young human flowers
God's own high message rs,
And we are walking all our hours
With “ angels, unawares ” !
By stifling street and breezy hill
We meet their spirit mirth :
That such bright shapes should linger till
They take the stains of earth!
O, play not those a blessed part
To whom the boon is given,
To leave their errand with the heart,
And straight return to Heaven !
ERE last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, O so lovingly!
Her tiny wings upon my breast.
From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
There's not in Ind a lovelier bird,
Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more may rest !
This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, — to me thy hand hath given.