Són! I knew it -ówn Papa's self,
Ówn Papa's nose, mouth and forehead.
Hów I wish its eyes would open!

Í could álmost swear they 're házel.

Fié! no mátter

Six weeks! whý,
Wipe its nóse

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;
Chérub beaúty! lét me kiss it.

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

It's the gripes; the gripes are wholesome;
Quick the fénnel; mix some súck with 't:
Deár, sweet creáture, hów it suffers!
"Tmúst be pain that mákes it crý so.

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?
Máybe á pin 's rúnning in it;

Strip it quick; see! thére 's no pín here
Poór, dear bábe! what is it ails it?

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?
I'm beginning to be frightened;

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;
Húsh-o, dárling báby, húsh-o;

And it's slobbering, thát 's a good sign,

This time Gód wont take his chérub.

What a sweet smile! it 's awake now;
Take it úp, put on its cleán bib;
Nów 'twill take the breást I wárrant;
How it sucks, the little glútton!

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,
Rare heels up and heads down,

Grass growing toward the centre 's rare,
Rare underfoot a crown;

Bút of all rárest, granite here
Lying on chalk is seen,

And by some blunder chalk below,
Where gránite should have been.

July 27, 1854.

WITHIN the convent of Johannathal,

Before daybreak upon Ascension day

There is a sound of móre life than is common
Within Saint Ursula's bare and lofty walls.
Three times the porteress to the latticed window
Óf the locked gáte 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 får 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 God greet trebly her whom here today,
Sáved from a sinful world, we are to add

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,
Her heart being first prepared for its reception

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?"
"I 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
Alóng the corridor and down the stair

And round the cloister court into the chapel,

The novices before, the white 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 greát 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
Pláced her beside a lidless, plain deal coffin.
Of coárse black stuff her raiment; from her head'
Behind in loóse folds hung the long white veil;
Ón her white néck a crucifix of jet;

A góld, gem-stúdded hoop on the ring finger;
Behind her and at each side of the crypt stair
Stood mótionless the two attendant sisters;