It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire of babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted tack. Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors and all; up went the heel with the tack sticking in it, and the hero of the daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a lounge in the rear. [Illustration: A BATTLE WITH KING COLIC.] There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse mutterings; there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which he had awakened again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of the conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my little baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!" which instantly brought the trained husband into line again, singing: "La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high, With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye." The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but what is home without a baby? The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin sat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet were no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast. The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell; and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told. Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath from its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful and gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of its distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, wafting to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the music ended; my vision vanished. The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever. CHERISH THE LITTLE ONES.