My baby boy was three years old, His curls were a joy to see; Their color was that of beaten gold, But of far more value to me. They hung in clusters about his head, And shaded his baby brow; Surrounding his dimpled cheeks so red— But they’re gone forever now! The neighbors all laughed at me, and said: Don’t make him a Fontleroy; So I kissed the curls on the darling head Of my own dear baby boy. And told the barber to go ahead, In a voice made sad with tears; And none will know how my poor heart bled When I heard the swish of the shears. I watched him through till the task was done, And gathered the severed curls. Then clasped to my heart my plundered son— Still more to me than worlds. But he was no longer my baby now; He seemed to have grown in years. I kissed his cheeks and plundered brow, And struggled with my tears. And now in a little box I keep These treasures I loved so dear, And when the household is still in sleep, And the breath of slumber I hear, I take those curls from their little nest And live o’er the past again; And hug them close to my aching breast, To smother a strange, sad pain. Yes, new curls may grow again, but oh, They never will be like these! For time is passing, and babies grow, And travel over seas; And mothers remain at home through years, While the early memories die, And I bathe those curls once more in tears, And go to bed with a sigh. And on the day we found those curls, and read these lines aloud, we could look through the window and see our boy coming home from school. “In a little while,” I said, “the boy will disappear with the baby, and the man will grow out of the ashes. Oh, this is a strange world, and were it not for our memories, life would be short indeed! How sad, how sweet, how full of sentiment, how inspiring to live over the past.” THE AUCTION BLOCK The old negro was past seventy years, hostler at a country hotel. Some of the young men were drinking, and they persuaded “Uncle Andy” to sing us a song. He willingly sang several of his jolliest negro songs, and then wound up with Nellie Gray. When he came to that part which concluded the song, I saw tears stealing down his old wrinkled cheeks. I asked him to sing the chorus over again, and when he looked into my eyes and saw the sympathy I knew was welling up from my heart, he began again in that peculiar cadence which belongs to the negro race alone: “Oh, my darling Nellie Gray, Up in heaven, there they say, That they’ll never take you from me any more; I’s a comin’, comin’, comin’, as the angels clear the way, Farewell to the old Kentucky shore!”