Minutes filled with shadeless gladness;
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness;
Happy smiles and wailing cries;
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes;
Lights and shadows, swifter born
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn;
Ever some new tiny notion,
Making every limb all motion;
Catchings up of legs and arms;
Throwings back and small alarms;
Clutching fingers; straightening jerks ;
Twining feet whose each toe works;
Kickings up and straining risings;
Mother's ever new surprisings;
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under;
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness that we prize such sinning;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses;
Graspings small at all that passes;
Pullings off of all that's able
To be caught from tray or table;
Silences-small meditations
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers-such sweet angel-seemings
That we'd ever have such dreamings;
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;

Jane's a prettier name beside;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen's left off long ago;

Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;

What do you think of Caroline?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever

Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;— I will leave papa to name her.

From every stain of Adam's sin.

The infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder means;
And now he smiles, as if to say,
"I am a Christian made this day;"
Now frighted clings to nurse's hold,
Shrinking from the water cold,

Whose virtues, rightly understood,
Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.

Strange words, "The world, the flesh, the devil,"

Poor babe, what can it know of evil?

But we must silently adore

Mysterious truths, and not explore.
Enough for him, in after-times,

When he shall read these artless rhymes,

If, looking back upon this day

With quiet conscience, he can say,