BABY'S SHOES. O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use! O, the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet, That, by God's good will, Years since grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet! And O, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept, That dear little treasure, And over them thought and wept! For they mind her for evermore Of a patter along the floor; And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees As they lie before her there, There babbles from chair to chair, A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then, O, wonder not that her heart That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start. W. C. BENNETT. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many?-Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And who are they? I pray you, tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !- I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the churchyard laid, "Their graves are green, they may be The little maid replied, seen," "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, "And often after sunset, sir, I take my little porringer, "The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; "So in the churchyard she was laid; "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply, "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" WORDSWORTH. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. So fades the lovely, blooming flower, Is there no kind, no healing art, See gentle patience smile on pain, STEELE |