My little man is brimful of fun, Always in mischief and sometimes in grief; Thimble and scissors he hides one by one, Till nothing is left but to catch the thief; Sunny hair, golden fair over his brow-- Eyes so deep, lost in sleep, look at him now; Baby feet, dimpled sweet, tired as they ran, So goes the night-time with my little man. My little man, with cherry-ripe face, Pouting red lips and dimpled chin, Fashioned in babyhood's exquisite grace, Beauty without and beauty within,-- Full of light, golden bright, life as it seems, Not a tear, not a fear, known in thy dreams; Kisses and blisses now make up its span, Could it be always so, my little man? My little man the years fly away, Chances and changes may come to us all,-- I'll look for the babe at my side some day, And find him above me, six feet tall; Flowing beard hiding the dimples I love, Grizzled locks shading the clear brow above, Youth's promise ripened on Nature's broad plan, And nothing more left me of my little man. My little man,--when time shall bow, With its hoary weight, my head and thine,-- Will you love me then as you love me now, With sweet eyes looking so fond in mine? However strangely my lot may be cast, My hope in life's future, my joy in life's past, Loyal and true as your loving heart can, Say, will you always be my little man? My little man! perchance the bloom Of the hidden years, as they come and pass, May leave me alone, with a wee, wee tomb Hidden away in the tangled grass. Still as on earth, so in heaven above, Near to me, dear to me, claiming my love, Safe in God's sunshine, and filling his plan, Still be _forever_ my own little man. Perhaps our Irish poetess in exile--Boston does not consider itself a place of exile--would prefer to be represented by one of her more serious poems; and probably she had good reasons for placing first in her volume the following which is called "The Master's Hand." The scroll was old and gray; The dust of time had gathered white and chill Above the touches of the worker's skill, And hid their charm away. The many passed it by; For no sweet curve of dainty face or form, No gleam of light, or flash of color warm, Held back the careless eye. But when the artist came, With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense, He seemed to catch a sense of power intense That filled the dusky frame. And when with jealous care His hand had cleansed the canvas, line by line, Behold! The fire of perfect art divine, Had burned its impress there! Upon the tablet glowed, Made priceless by the arch of time they spanned, The touches of the rare Old Master's hand, The life his skill bestowed.