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The opening · free to read
Baby, of all mysterious things, You're stranger far than stars or kings. You stare superbly day by day, Nor let your large reserve give way. Unfathomable mysteries Lurk in your big, unseeing eyes, Making brave memories, and yet, Making them only to forget. But though reflectively you blink, Trying to make us think you think, We know you cannot think or talk, You cannot run, you cannot walk; You little human mystery, You can't do anything but be.
You small, content, safe-guarded thing, Nestling beneath your mother's wing. You're all so new; your roseleaf skin, Your dewy eyes and dimpled chin, Your pinch of hair and pound of flesh Are all so delicate and fresh. Then, Baby, every little while You cry. And then perhaps you smile. You cry without a bit of reason, You laugh both in and out of season; A wise proceeding, I suppose, If that is all the speech one knows.
But sometimes do the dull hours drag? And sometimes does your patience flag? Long days and nights you must get through, Without a single thing to do. And though perhaps you see and hear, It means naught to your eye and ear. But, Baby, you don't seem to care, You hark at silence,--look at air!
And in the stillness, or the dark, Absorbedly you look and hark. So, then, what difference can it make, Whether you are asleep or 'wake? You cannot think, and it would seem You do not know enough to dream. How can you dream, not knowing words? Or is it like the song of birds, Or scent of flowers, or sunshine bright, Or South breeze on a summer's night?
Perhaps your thoughts just flounder 'round In seas of color, waves of sound; In notions vague of shape or form. As,--Life is something soft and warm. Mother is just a happy place; Nurse is a sort of vacant space. And father is a kind of stuff, That's woolly, black and rather rough.
And then some day into your eyes There comes a look exceeding wise. And then your brain begins to grow; You learn "How does the Kitty go?" You learn to "Love the Lambie Baa," And "Make a Face at Grandmamma!" And then upon your own account You seem to learn a large amount, As you laboriously prove That your own fingers really move! And if you have accomplished this, And if you've learned "a Spanish kiss;" And if three times you've said "Goo--goo!" Why, that's a busy day for you!
Queer, drifting fancies, vague and dim, 'Neath his gold curls are hid. The kitchen steps appear to him Those of a pyramid.
With mighty purpose in his mind, He clambers up. And then, With purpose quite as well defined, He scrambles down again.
Then, of all busy ones of earth,-- Toilers beneath the sun, Working away for all they're worth, He is the busiest one!
Down in the sand he has to dig A hole, exceeding deep; And by its side, all smooth and big, He piles a lovely heap.
With both hands then he scatters it Round the verandah floor; And when he's scattered every bit, He scoops it up once more.
He has to watch the rainy drops Drip, dripping from the wall; Then, quick as anything, he stops To go and roll his ball.
Across the lawn he seems to see A funny little stick; So he must needs go hastily And give the thing a kick.
The laughing sunshine sifts right through His mop of tangled curls; Turning it to a golden hue, And kinking it in twirls.
_Then the Toddling Baby Boy-- With shining morning face, Creeping like a snail._]
And then he hums with all his might A funny little song; Some of the notes are almost right, And some are sort of wrong.
Then he must watch a lady-bird That crawls across the floor; Then listen! for he thinks he heard An awful lion roar!
He has to stop and 'member things; "Once out at Gran'ma's house They was a birdy wiv red wings! And kitty caught a mouse!
"And then in Sunday-school one day, The children all stood 'round, And sang a song 'bout why--delay,-- It had a lovely sound."
Whatever can, or can't be known, He much desires to know; For suddenly his wonder-bone Has just begun to grow.
"I wonder what that birdy's at Over to Gran'ma's house. I wonder why a kitty cat Is 'llowed to catch a mouse.
"I wonder why the doggie whines, I wonder why he does; I wonder why the dandylines All turns to fuzzy-fuzz.
"I wonder why my shadow-boy Hops fast along as me; I wonder why my newest toy So broken seems to be.
"I wonder why they disappear That sharp and shiny tool; I wonder why my muvver dear Won't let me go to school.
"I wonder why a deaded fly Won't ever come alive; I wonder why I'm only free, An Dorofy is five!"
Each hour with wonder new is fraught; Until he thinks so fast, He wonders what it was he thought When he was thinking last.
Wondering, singing, 'membering,-- He learns anew each day, The world is but a bounding ball For him to kick in play.
Next to the Epicure we turn, With a discerning taste in porridge; Yet careful, lest her mouth she burn, Like the o'er hasty man from Norwich, For now, her judging powers have grown; She thinks with wisdom all her own.
In tones that leave no room for doubt She intimates she is unable To eat her bread and milk without Her bear and dolly on the table. And nurse, because of her insistence, Follows the line of least resistance.
She does not want a nice clean dress; She's very, very sure she doesn't! She wants to go to Grandma's,--yes! She wasn't naughty,--no, she wasn't! And knows with wilful, shaking head, She does not want to go to bed!
She doesn't want to speak her piece; She doesn't want her hair all curly; She isn't Auntie's pressus niece! She isn't mother's darling girlie! Then suddenly, a change pacific,-- And her new mood is beatific!
_Then the Epicure, With fine and greedy taste for porridge_]
Cherubic smiles drive frowns away, She vows that she loves evvybuddy! She will be goody-girl all day; Nor get her shoes and stockings muddy. She will not go outside the yard; And she "loves muvver awful hard!"
Sometimes the martyr mood appears, She's good in meek, submissive fashion; Reproachful eyes show signs of tears, And red cheeks hint a stifled passion. She wonders, "when she gets to heaven, If children go to bed at seven!"
She favors games of "let's p'tend," And with an energy unfailing, She plays the role of calling friend, Dressed up in anything that's trailing. From, "Ding-a-ling!" "Come in"; a bow,-- To, "Well, I must be going now."
Her reasoning powers have come alive, Her mind is rapidly awaking. The sharpest bargains she can drive, Conditions she is ever making. "I'll sing my song for uncle,--yes, If you will make my doll a dress."
Her mind, obeying nature's law, Like morning-glory's soft unfolding, Fills with a deep, enchanting awe Those who are breathlessly beholding; And they exclaim, "Well, did you ever!" "She's surely going to grow up clever!"
She dances down Life's primrose way Unconscious of her faults and merits; The grown-ups watch her at her play, And they opine that "she inherits Her mother's gentleness; but still She seems to have her father's will."
In the soft soil of little lives Affection quickly springs and thrives And grows like anything; Its tiny tendrils Love puts out, Not knowing what it's all about, But glad to smile and sing.
Perhaps it is a favorite doll, Often the raggedest of all, That bids affection start. Unstinted love is gladly poured Upon the dolly so adored By little Tenderheart.
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