File:Image from page 27 of "Child life- a collection of poems" (1871) (14803706833).jpg

Identifier: cu31924014524619 Title: Child life: a collection of poems Year: 1871 (1870s) Authors: Whittier, John Greenleaf, 1807-1892 Subjects: Children's poetry Publisher: Boston, Houghton, Osgood and company Contributing Library: Cornell University Library Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Text Appearing Before Image: /^../ Folded hands, saying prayers ;Understands not, nor cares ; . INFANCY. Thinks it odd ; smiles away ;Yet may God hear her pray ! Bed-gown white ; liiss Dolly ;Good-night ! thats Polly. Past asleep, as you see ;Heaven keep my girl for me ! — Lilliput Levee. » MY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. What are you good for, my ijrave little man ?Answer that question for me, if you can, —You, with your fingers as white as a nun, —You, with your ringlets as bright as the sun.All the day long, with your busy contriving.Into all mischief and fun you are driving ;See if your wise little noddle can tellWhat you are good for. Now ponder it well. Over the carpet the dear little feetCame with a patter to climb on my seat ;Two merry eyes, full of frolic and glee,Under their lashes looked up unto me ;Two little hands pressing soft on my face,Drew me down close in a loving embrace ;Two rosy hps gave the answer so true, Good to love you, mamma, — good to love you. — Emily Huntington Miller. 10 CHILD LIFE.

Text Appearing After Image: WILLIE WINKIE. Wee Willie WinkleRuns through the town,Up-stalrs and down-stairsIn his night-gown,Tapping at the window,Crjing at the lock, Are the weans in their bed,For its now ten oclock ? INFANCY. n Hey ! Willie Winkie,Are you coming then rThe cats singing purrieTo the sleeping hen ;The dog is lying on the floorAnd does not even peep ;But heres a wakeful laddieThat will not fall asleep, Anything but sleep, you rogue !Glowering like the moon ;Rattling in an iron jugWith an iron spoon ;Rumbling, tumbling all about,Crowing like a cock,Screaming like I dont know what,Waking sleeping folk. Hey ! WilUe Winkie,Cant you keep him still ?Wriggling off a bodys kneeLike a very eel ;Pulling at the cats ear.As she drowsy hums ; —Heigh, Willie Winkie !See !—there he comes ! Wearied is the motherThat has a restless wean,A wee, stumpy bairnie,Heard wheneer hes seen —That has a l^attle aye with sleepBefore hell close an ee ;But a kiss from off his rosy lipsGives strength anew to me. — Willia

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