IN THE BABY'S EYES

What is the dream in the baby's eyes,
As he lies and blinks in a mute surprise?
With little wee hands that aimlessly go
Hither and thither and to and fro;

With little, wee feet that shall lead him-God knows.
But a prayer from my heart like a benison goes;
Bundle of helplessness, yonder he lies-

What is the dream in my baby's eyes?

What does he wonder and what does he know?

That we have forgotten so long, long ago?
Bathed in the dawnlight, what does he see
That slow years have hidden from you and me?
Out of the yesterday seeth he yet

The things that in living he soon shall forget,
All that is hidden beyond the blue skies?
What is the dream in my baby's eyes?

Speak to me, little one, ere you forget
What is the thought that is lingering there yet?
Where is the land where the yesterdays meet,
Waiting and waiting the morrows to greet?
You wee, funny fellow, who only will blink,
What do you wonder and what do you think?
Bright as the moonlight asleep in the skies,
What is the dream in my baby's eyes?

-TOM CORDRY

THE LITTLE GABLE WINDOW

There's a little gable window in a cottage far away, Where a child in purple twilights used to softly kneel

and pray,

While across the marge of evening fell the darkness, and the stars

Peeped in tender benediction over Heaven's silver bars. Softly thro' the gathering shadows breathed that little, tender prayer,

For the undimmed faith of childhood knows a far diviner air.

God was good and so was mother, sunny moments stretched before,

And the after dreams were colored by the hues the future wore.

There's a little gable window in a cottage far away Where a maiden used to linger at the closing of the day, Face as fresh and fair as May-time, lips of laughter, eyes of blue,

Dreaming lightly of the future with a heart sincere and true.

All the winds that blew to meet her sang of happy days

to be

When the rose of life should blossom in a land beyond

the sea.

Hand in hand with love eternal all the future way seemed fair;

In that little olden cottage Youth had never met with

care.

Ah, the years have brought me sorrow-I am tired and

weary now,

There is silver in my tresses, there are lines upon my

brow,

And my heart is filled with longing just once more to

kneel and pray

By the little gable window of that cottage for away.

-L. M. MONTGOMERY

FATHER'S CHICKEN

My mother thinks that father ought to always have the best,

And she has got him so he thinks he's better'n all the

rest.

She gets his evening paper out when he comes home at

night,

And drags around his easy chair and tries to use him

right.

And when we all sit down to eat she never blinks a

lash,

But hands him out some chicken and helps us kids to

hash.

My mother says that home should be in our affections

first,

But father thinks its just the place for him to act the

worst.

When he's in town he jokes and laughs and uses people

kind,

But when he starts for home at night he leaves his smiles behind.

He snarls about the dinner, and he calls the victuals

trash,

So mother feeds him chicken and fills us up on hash.

But after father's rested and has had his evening

smoke,

He always feels lots better and he likes to play and and joke.

He helps us with our lessons, and he does it in a way That makes them entertaining, and seem just as plain

as day.

And sometimes, when we go to bed, he hands us out some cash,

So let him have his chicken, we'll get along with hash. -CHAS. F. HARDY