THE FIRSTBORN.

The harvest sun lay hot and strong

On waving grain and grain in sheaf,

On dusty highway stretched along,

On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

The wind which stirred the tasseled corn

Came creeping through the casement wide,

And softly kissed the babe new born

That nestled at its mother's side.

That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:

“My firstborn's cradled in my arm,

Upon my breast his cry is stilled,

And here he lies so dear, so warm.”

To her had come a generous share

Of worldly honors and of fame,

Of hours replete with gladness rare,

But no one hour seemed just the same

As that which came when, white and spent

With pain of travail great, she lay,

Thrilled through with rapture and content,

And love and pride, that August day.

The fairest picture of the past —

Life's tenderest page till all is done —

A glad young mother holding fast

God's wondrous gift — her little son.