The fust baby has bekum one ov the fixed stars ov life; and ever since
the fust one was born, on the rong side of the gardin ov Eden, down tew
the little stranger ov yesterday, they hav never failed tew be a budget
ov mutch joy--an event ov mutch gladness.
Tew wake up some cheerful morning, and cee a pair ov soft eyes looking
into yours--to wonder how so mutch buty could have been entrusted to
you--to sarch out the father, or the mother, in the sweet little fase,
and then loze the survey, in an instant of buty, as a laffing Angel lays
before you--tew pla with the golden hare, and sow fond kisses upon this
little bird in yure nest--tiz this that makes the fust baby, the joy ov
awl joys--a feast ov the harte.
Tew find the pale Mother again bi yure side, more luvly than when she
was wooed--tew see a new tenderness in her eye, and tew hear the
chastened sweetness ov her laff, as she tells something new about
"Willie"--tew luv her far more than ever, and tew find oftimes a prayer
on yure lips--tiz this that makes the fust baby a fountain ov sparkling
plezzure.
Tew watch the bud on yure rosebush, tew ketch the fust notes ov yure
song-bird, tew hear the warm praze ov kind frends, and tew giv up yure
hours tew the trezzure--tiz this that makes the fust baby a gift that
Angels hav brought yu.
Tew look upon the trak that life takes--tew see the sunshine and
shower--tew plead for the best, and shrink from the wust--tew shudder
when sikness steals on, and tew be chastened when death comes--tiz
this--oh! tiz this that makes the fust baby a hope upon arth, and a gem
up in heaven.