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Són! I knew it ówn Papá's self,
Ówn Papa’s nose, mouth and forehead.
How I wish its eyes would open!
I could álmost swear they ’re házel.

Fié! no matter 't hás no sénse yet
Six weeks! whý, I'd sáy six months old.
Wipe its nóse

all 's right again now; Whát a sweet smile! whý, it 's an angel.

Come come, dón't frown, máster Bobby
Ísn't it Bóbby I 'm to call it?
First son 's always fór Papá called;
Chérub beauty! lét me kiss it.

Fié again! a spoonful fénnel;
Sómething súre 's the matter with it
Ór it would not twist and whinge so,
Sweet, good témpered, quiet dúcky.

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It is the gripes; the gripes are wholesome;
Quick the fénnel; míx some súck with 't:
Deár, sweet creáture, how it súffers !
"Tmúst be pain that makes it crý so.

Give 't the breast; what! wont it take it?
Dón't be cross, dear pretty Bóbby;
Pá wont háve you if you cry so;
Thére there! go to sleep, sweet Bóbby.

Deár me! what can be the matter?
Máybe á pin 's rúnning in it;
Strip it quick; see! thére 's no pín here
Poór, dear bábe! what is it ails it?

Heat the flánnel at the fire well,
Drop six drops of brándy on it,
Bind it tight round - not so straít quite
Stíll it criés as múch as ever.

Whére 's the sáffron, thé magnésia ?
Í 'm beginning to be frightened;
Bút it looks ill! cáll a doctor;
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-0;
Húsh-o, darling báby, húsh-o.

Now it 's quiet, it 's asleep now;
Húsh-o, darling báby, húsh-o;
Ánd it 's slobbering, thát 's a good sign,
This time Gód wont take his chérub.

Whát a sweet smile! ít 's awake now;
Táke it úp, put on its cleán bib;
Nów 'twill take the breast I warrant;
Hów it súcks, the little glútton !

Púking! lóvely; ít 's all right now.
Wipe its moúth another cleán bib;
Blessings on it for a fine child!
It will be a great man some day.

Walking from Todtmoos to MENZENSCHWAND in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 7, 1854.





bútter spread is rare, Rare heels up and heads down, Grass growing toward the centre 's rare,

Rare underfoot a crown;

Bút of all rárest, granite here

Lýing on chalk is seen,
And by some blunder chalk below,

Where gránite should have been.

July 27, 1854.

WITHÍN the convent of Johannathal,
Before daybreak upon Ascension day
There is a sound of more life than is common
Within Saint Ursula's bare and lofty walls.
Three times the porteress to the latticed window
Óf the locked gate has put her ear to listen
If foot of prior's mule might yet be heard
Or réverend bishop's up the valley wending
From fár Saint Martin's, and fourth time at last
Hearing the hoofs, the portal wicket opens
Ánd to “Gelobt sei Jesus Christus," answers
With folded hands “In Ewigkeit, Herrn Väter.”
“God greet the lady Philippina," said
The bishop and the prior entering the parlour,
“And Gód greet all the sisters here assembled,
And Gód greet trebly her whom here today,
Sáved from a sinful world, we are to add
To hóly Ursula's pious sisterhood.”
“I neéd not ásk, Sir prior," then said the bishop,
“ff to our dear child Agatha has been
Dúly administered for seven days past
Each dáy the sacrament of the Lord's body,
Her heárt being first prepared for its reception
By fúll 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

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Should not be added one more loving sister,
Not plánted in the garden of the Lord
This shoot of promise, this sweet, fragrant branch ?”
“Í of no hindrance am aware, my lord,
Unless it be a hindrance, to have passed
In pénitence, obedience, selfdenial
And works of mercy and beneficence
The years of her noviciate and white veil.”
“Then let the child attend us in the chapel,
If ready there the coffin and the pall.”
The youngest sister then the candles lit,
And two by two, each with a light in hand,
They walked in slow procession from the parlour
Along the corridor and down the stair
And round the cloister court into the chapel,
The nóvices before, the whíte veils last,
Behind the novices the prior singly
In gówn and scapulaire, the bishop then
In púrple pallium, on his head the mitre,
And in his hand the golden, jewelled crozier,
Between whom and the white veils the long train
Of black veils headed by the lady abbess,
The great bell all the while the death knell tolling.
Meanwhile two sisters, beckoned by the abbess,
Conducted to the chapel from her cell
The lady Agatha pale, weak and trembling,
And on her knees in front of the crypt's staircase
Placed her beside a lidless, plain deal coffin.
Of coárse black stuff her raiment; from her head
Behind in loose folds hung the long white veil;
Ón her white néck a crucifix of jet;
A gold, gem-studded hoop on the ring finger;
Behind her and at each side of the crýpt stairs
Stood motionless the two attendant sisters;!;vtricies

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