O Mother Eve, do you never look From the Pearly Gates to the starry nook, Where, glimmering here in the spangled blue, The world shines out that was once for you,— The dear old home of the Eden bowers Where first you lived ’mong the birds and flowers? As you look down on the babies dear, And see their woes and their crying hear, As fed with the food for babies not made, The cheeks grow pale, and the bright hopes fade,— Does your heart cry out, “Not so! Not so Must the babe be fed to be strong and grow: Milk, precious milk, is the wee one’s food, To strengthen the bones and nourish the blood!” LULLABY OF THE THRUSH Little brown thrush, are you singing for me, Pouring your song from the crest of the tree? Oh! I’m not worthy of such a sweet tune, Poured from the tree-tops bright mornings in June. Yet warble for me, warble for me! O, if you’ll sing for me, little brown thrush, I’ll build a nest for you, lined with soft plush; “Ah, that’s not nice enough,” that’s what you say, Waving your pretty wings, soaring away. O warble for me, warble for me! Little brown thrush, then come, build your own nest Of fine straw and silk, and things you like best; I’ll scatter the down for you, under the tree, To line the nest warm, if you’ll warble for me. O warble for me, warble for me! BABY’S CHILLY RIDE Cool the winds were rustling And the light was paling, For the sun was hidden With a fleecy veiling. Trundling down the sidewalk A baby’s carriage rolled, Canopied with azure And dainty every fold. Sat the little stranger Sweet as lily white; The cap of gauzy ruffle Let in air and light. The little wrap was tasteful, Yet ’twas all too thin; The cloak was not a warm one To wrap a baby in. There it sat,—the angel! Not saying, “I am cold.” I knew that face of beauty Would ne’er on earth grow old. By all my mother-instincts And mother-wisdom given, I knew that precious baby Was on the road to Heaven. I thought of half-fledged birdies, The sparrow and the starling; And longed to wrap my mantle About the baby darling. But on the little carriage Rolled, with its precious freight, As if in haste to land it Within the Pearly Gate. Had baby been a dolly, With lifeless locks of flax; And had its form been molded Of porcelain or wax, The fragile cap so gauzy, The dainty cloak so thin, Had been enough of clothing To wrap the dolly in. But flesh and blood of babies Need something warmer far, Or soon the priceless jewel Like evening’s beauteous star Will soon shine far above us; And baby’s precious feet Will walk among the angels Along the Golden Street. BABY’S MEDICINE