“Whence those eyes so crystal clear? Whence those curls, so silky soft? Thou art Mother’s darling dear, I have told thee oft. “I have told thee many times, And repeat it yet again, Wreathing thee about with rhymes Like a flowery chain,-- “Rhymes that sever and unite As the blossom fetters do, As the mother’s weary night Happy days renew.” Perhaps some of my readers may already know the lovely verses called “Baby’s Shoes.” “Little feet, pretty feet, Feet of fairy Maud,-- Fair and fleet, trim and neat, Carry her abroad! “Be as wings, tiny things, To my butterfly; In the flowers, hours on hours, Let my darling lie. “Shine ye must, in the dust, Twinkle as she runs, Threading a necklace gay, Through the summer suns. “Stringing days, borrowing phrase, Weaving wondrous plots, With her eyes blue and wise As forget-me-nots * * * * * “Cinderel, grown a belle, Coming from her ball, Frightened much, let just such A tiny slipper fall. “If men knew as I do Half thy sweets, my own, They’d not delay another day,-- I should be alone. “Come and go, friend and foe, Fairy Prince most fine! Take your gear otherwhere! Maud is only mine.” But it was not all singing, of course. Our mother read to us a great deal too, and told us stories, from the Trojan War down to “Puss in Boots.” It was under her care, I think, that we used to look over the “Shakspere book.” This was a huge folio, bound in rusty-brown leather, and containing the famous Boydell prints illustrating the plays of Shakspere. The frontispiece represented Shakspere nursed by Tragedy and Comedy,--the prettiest, chubbiest of babies, seated on the ground with his little toes curled up under him, while a lovely, laughing lady bent down to whisper in his ear; and another one, grave but no less beautiful, gazed earnestly upon him. Then came the “Tempest,”--oh, most lovely! The first picture showed Ariel dancing along the “yellow sands,” while Prospero waved him on with a commanding gesture; in the second, Miranda, all white and lovely, was coming out of the darksome cavern, and smiling with tender compassion on Ferdinand, who was trying to lift an impossible log. Then there was the delicious terror of the “Macbeth” pictures, with the witches and Banquo’s ghost. But soon our mother would turn the page and show us the exquisite figure of Puck, sitting on a toadstool, and make us shout with laughter over Nick Bottom and his rustic mates. From these magic pages we learned to hate Richard III. duly, and to love the little princes, whom Northcote’s lovely picture showed in white-satin doublet and hose, embracing each other, while the wicked uncle glowered at them from behind; and we wept over the second