Her sunny hair is wondrous fair, And wavy in its flow; Who made it less One little tress,— Wouldn’t you like to know? Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!) And dazzling in their glow; On whom they beam With melting gleam,— Wouldn’t you like to know? Her lips are red and finely wed, Like roses ere they blow; What lover sips Those dewy lips,— Wouldn’t you like to know? Her fingers are like lilies fair, When lilies fairest grow; Whose hand they press With fond caress,— Wouldn’t you like to know? Her foot is small, and has a fall Like snowflakes on the snow; And where it goes Beneath the rose,— Wouldn’t you like to know? She has a name, the sweetest name That language can bestow. ’Twould break the spell If I should tell,— Wouldn’t you like to know? _John G. Saxe._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD._ [Illustration] WE always did pity a man who does not love childhood. There is something morally wrong with such a man. If his tenderest sympathies are not awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does not echo their merry laughter, if his whole nature does not reach out in ardent longing after their pure thoughts and unselfish impulses, he is a sour, crusty, crabbed old stick, and the world full of children has no use for him. In every age and clime the best and noblest men loved children. Even wicked men have a tender spot left in their hardened hearts for little children. The great men of the earth love them. Dogs love them. Kamehame Kemokimodahroah, the King of the Cannibal Islands, loves them. Rare and no gravy. Ah, yes, we all love children. And what a pleasure it is to talk with them! Who can chatter with a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted little darling, anywhere from three to five years, and not appreciate the pride which swells a mother’s breast when she sees her little ones admired? Ah, yes, to be sure.