“OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES.”

“Is baby dead?” he whispered, with wide eyes

Tearless, but full of eloquent regret,

His childish face grown prematurely wise —

Pond'ring the problem death before him set.

“Baby is dead,” I answered, as I laid

My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;

“Oh! daddy, why did God do this?” he said,

And silently my heart made answer, “Why?”

He touched her white, worn face, and said, “How cold

Is our wee baby now.”... His eyes were deep...

Then came his little brother, two years old,

He looked, and lisped, “The baby is asleep.”