THE WISCONSIN FARXER.   466



             THE HOME.

           Putting the Baby to Sleep.

   In Dr. Holland's poem " Bitter Sweet," Rutt
 kneels beside the cradle and thus beautifully
 soliloquises:
      W What is the little one thinking about?
      Very wonderful things, no doubt.
              Unwritten history I
              Unfathomed mystery!
      Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
      And chuckles and crows and nods and winks,
      As If his head was as full of kinks
      And curious riddles as any sphinx I
         Warped by colic and wet by tears,
         Punctured by pins and tortured by fears.
         Our little nephew will love two years!
              And he'll never know
              Where the summers go:
     He need not laugh, for h'lll find it so:
     Who can tell what a baby thinks?
     Who can follow the gossamer links
         By which the manikin feels his way
     Out from the shore of the great unknown.
     Maiad and willing and alone,
         Into the light of deyI
     Out from the sbore of the unknown sea,
     Tossing in pitiful agony-
     Of the unknown sea that reals and rclls
     Specked with the barks of little soals-
     Barks that were launched on the other side,
     And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tideI
         What does he think of his mother's eyes'
     What does he think of his mother's hair?
         What of the cradle roof that fIlesg
     Forward and backward through the air?
        What does he think of his mother's breast-f
     Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
     Seeking It ever with fresh delight-
         Cup of his life and couch of his rest ?
     What does he think when her quick embrace
     Presses his hand and buries his face
     Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
     With a tenderness she never can tell,
        Though she murmur the words
        Of all the birds-
     Words she has learned to murmur we]l
        Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
        I can see the shadow creep
        Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
        Over his brow and over his lips,
        Out to his little finger-tipsI
        Softly sinking, down he goes!
        Down he goes ! down he goes !
        See I he Is hushed In sweet repose!"

        Hints to Mother.: The Song GilL

  It was baking   day and Mrs. Austin was
more than usually hurried. By a coincidence
which will not surprise any mother, the chil-
dren were twice as troublesome as common.
They were fine, hearty, every-day children,
and, unlike the "book children," often unrea-
sonable.   Little wills not unfrequently got
tangled up in a way never heard of in books.



So it happened that while mother was rolling
the pie crust the little voices in the back
porch waxed louder and stormier, and moth-
er was compelled to look out upon them and
see the cause of the cornmotinn- Frank had



little Lina's doll by the leg and held it high
over her head, while she was struggling to
recover it; and little Annie seemed to be cry-
ing by way of chorus. Now I know some
mothers who would have just washed up their
hands and chastised the whole party, leaving
them to gloom and sullenness for the rest of
the day.
  Not so with Mrs. Austin. A few mild, firm
words were like oil on the troubled waters.
In her presence the storm was lulled, though
by no means quelled, so she said in a cheery
voice, "Now all come into the kitchen with
mother, and let us sing 'Shining Shore' over
once, and see if it does not make all our hearts
happy."
  So the little ones trooped in as mother pick-
ed up her rolling-pin and commenced the air,
and stationing themselves by the vine-covered
windows joined heartily in the song. It was
a thousand times more soothing than all the
rebukes she could have administered, and left
the heart beautiful and happy.
  "Now shall we try IHappy Land' before
you run out to play again ?" So the young
voices united again in that sweet-spirited
hymn, and by that time the angry furrows
were quite cleared away. Then mother had
just a little bit of crust left which would make
three pies, in some bright, dainty little " pat-
ty pans," and the pleasure of the children
was complete as they watched the process of
making, and saw the letters L., F. and A. cut
in nice white covers above the delicious rasp-
berries. Then with a few loving words of
admonition, they all went out pleasantly to
play under the shady apple trees, and there
was not a word of contention heard among
them.
Mother, to whom God has given the blessed
gift of song, use it without stint in your little
iome circle. If your children have an ear
and voice for music, develope the talent as



carefully as you would a gold mine in your
garden. It will yield you far richer returns
in heart and soul wealth. Sing about your
work and teach them to join with you. It
will liteJin --r cares ,anw fold anA m--.a



_       _         _



---  - - ____ __ ___              - ____ ___ -_              ---        
          ___ -