The path to the Valley of Babyland Only the kingly, kind storks know; If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains, No man sees them come or go. But an angel maybe, who guards some baby, Or a fairy, perhaps, with her magic wand, Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway That leads to Babyland. And there, in the Valley of Babyland, Under the mosses and leaves and ferns, Like an unfledged starling they find the darling For whom the heart of a mother yearns; And they lift him lightly and snug him tightly In feathers soft as a lady’s hand, And off with a rockaway step they walk away Out of Babyland. As they go from the Valley of Babyland Forth into the world of great unrest, Sometimes weeping he wakes from sleeping Before he reaches the mother’s breast. Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him, Bonniest bird in the bright home band That o’er land and water the kind stork brought her From far-off Babyland. FISHING. Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun, With a book and parasol, as my angler wishes, While he dips his line in the ocean brine, Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. ’Tis romantic--yes, but I must confess Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. But I dare not move--“Quiet there, my love!” Says my angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.” Oh, of course, it’s bliss--but how hot it is! And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute; Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, But the basket at his side, I see, has nothing in it. Oh, it’s just the way to pass a July day, Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming; But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming. “Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task; “There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; “I’ve almost caught it.” But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. THE OLD STAGE QUEEN. Back in her box by the curtains shaded She sits alone, by the house unseen; Her eye is dim and her cheek is faded. She who once was the people’s queen. The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her A vision of beauty and youth and grace. Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her, Silver-throated and fair of face. Out of her box she leans and listens: O! is it with pleasure or with despair That her thin cheek pales, and her dim eye glistens While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air? She is back again in her past’s bright splendor, When life was worth living and love was a truth; Ere Time had told her she must surrender Her double dower of fame and youth.