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The fust baby has bekum one ov the fixed stars
ov life; and ever since the fust one was born, on the
rong side of the gardin ov Eden, down tew the little
stranger ov yesterday, they hav never failed tew be
a budget ov mutch joy — an event ov mutch gladness.
Tew wake up some cheerful morning, and cee
a pair ov soft eyes looking into yours — to wonder
how so mutch buty could have been entrusted to
you — to sarch out the father, or the mother, in the
sweet little fase, and then loze the survey, in an instant
of buty, as a laffing Angel lays before you — tew
pla with the golden hare, and sow fond kisses upon
this little bird in yure nest — tiz this that makes the
fust baby, the joy ov awl joys — a feast ov the harte.
Tew find the pale Mother again bi yure side, more
luvly than when she was wooed — tew see a new tenderness
in her eye, and tew hear the chastened

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sweetness ov her laff, as she tells something new about
`Willie”— tew luv her far more than ever, and tew
find oftimes a prayer on yure lips — tiz this that
makes the fust baby a fountain ov sparkling plezzure.
Tew watch the bud on yure rosebush, tew ketch the
fust notes ov yure song-bird, tew hear the warm
praze ov kind frends, and tew giv up yure hours tew
the trezzure — tiz this that makes the fust baby a
gift that Angels hav brought yu. Tew look upon
the trak that life takes — tew see the sunshine and
shower — tew plead for the best, and shrink from
the wust — tew shudder when sikness steals on, and
tew be chastened when death comes — tiz this — oh!
tiz this that makes the fust baby a hope upon arth,
and a gem up in heaven.

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