Són! I knew it -ówn Papa's self, Í could álmost swear they 're házel. Fié! no mátter Six weeks! whý, I 'd say six months old. all 's right again now; Whát a sweet smile! why, it's an ángel. Cóme come, dón't frown, máster Bóbby Ísn't it Bóbby I'm to call it? First son's always fór Papá called; Fié again! a spoonful fénnel; It's the gripes; the gripes are wholesome; Give 't the breast; what! wónt it take it? Don't be cross, dear prétty Bóbby; Pá wont have you if you crý so; Thére there! go to sleep, sweet Bóbby. Deár me! whát can bé the matter? Strip it quick; see! thére 's no pín here Heát the flannel át the fire well, Dróp six drops of brándy on it, Bind it tight round nót so strait quite - Still it criés as múch as éver. Where's the saffron, thé magnésia? Bút it looks ill! cáll a dóctor; Stóp, I think it's growing quiet. Húsh-o húsh-o; whát 's that noise there? Shút the door to, dráw the curtains, Lét no foot stir; húsh-o húsh-o; Húsh-o, dárling báby, húsh-0. Nów it's quiet, it 's asleep now; And it's slobbering, thát 's a good sign, This time Gód wont take his chérub. What a sweet smile! it 's awake now; Púking! lóvely; it's all right now. Wipe its mouth — another cleán bib; Blessings on it for a fine child! Ít will be a great man sóme day. Walking from TODTMOOS to MENZENSCHWAND in the BLACK FOREST (BaDEN), Octob. 7, 1854. WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT PREDAZZO IN VAL FIEME (ITALIAN TYROL) WHERE GEOLOGISTS FIND CHALK UNDERLYING GRANITE. BREAD upon bútter spread is rare, Grass growing toward the centre 's rare, Bút of all rárest, granite here And by some blunder chalk below, July 27, 1854. WITHIN the convent of Johannathal, Before daybreak upon Ascension day There is a sound of móre life than is common To hóly Ursula's pious sisterhood." "I need not ask, Sir prior," then said the bishop, "ff to our dear child Agatha has been Dúly administered for seven days past Each day the sacrament of the Lord's body, By full and free confession of her sins Éven the most vénial?" "As thou say'st, my lord." "And thoú, my lady abbess, of no cause Art cógnizant why to this sisterhood Should not be added one more loving sister, Not planted in the garden of the Lord This shoót of promise, this sweet, fragrant branch?" And works of mercy and beneficence They walked in slow procession from the parlour And round the cloister court into the chapel, The novices before, the white veils last, In gówn and scapulaire, the bishop then In púrple pallium, on his head the mitre, The greát bell all the while the death knell tolling. The lady Agatha pale, weak and trembling, A góld, gem-stúdded hoop on the ring finger; |