Part 3

Brightest and hardiest of roses anear and afar, Glitters the blithe little face of you, round as a star; Liberty bless you and keep you to be as you are. _Swinburne_

JULY TWENTY-NINTH

We could not wish her whiter--her Who perfumed with pure blossom The house--a lovely thing to wear Upon a mother's bosom. _Mrs. Browning_

JULY THIRTIETH

The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereunto he was born, And by his countenance repay The favor of the loving day. _Emerson_

JULY THIRTY-FIRST

Yet the hearts must childlike be, Where such heavenly guests abide; Unto children in their glee, All the year is Christmas-tide. _Lewis Carroll_

*AUGUST*

AUGUST FIRST

Weave him a beautiful dream, little breeze! Little leaves, nestle around him! He will remember the song of the trees, When age with silver has crowned him. Rock-a-bye baby, wake by and by, Rock-a-bye. _Lucy Larcom_

AUGUST SECOND

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime. _Shakespeare_

AUGUST THIRD

But surely, the just sky will never wink At men who take delight in childish throe, And stripe the nether urchin like a pink. _Hood_

AUGUST FOURTH

Happy he! With such a mother, faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him. _Tennyson_

AUGUST FIFTH

I have not so far left the coasts of life To travel inland, that I cannot hear That murmur of the outer Infinite Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep, When wondered at for smiling. _Mrs. Browning_

AUGUST SIXTH

In rearing a child think of its old age. _Joubert_

AUGUST SEVENTH

Whither went the lovely hoyden? Disappeared in blessed wife, Servant to a wooden cradle, Living in a baby's life. _Emerson_

AUGUST EIGHTH

And yet methinks she looks so calm and good, God must be with her in her solitude. _Hartley Coleridge_

AUGUST NINTH

Childish unconsciousness is rest in God. _Froebel_

AUGUST TENTH

The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, They measured time by one small life alone. _Jean Ingelow_

AUGUST ELEVENTH

Oh, my own baby on my knee, My leaping, dimpled treasure. _Mrs. Browning_

AUGUST TWELFTH

Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine, Now that the flower of a year and a half are thine, O, little blossom, O mine and of mine! Glorious poet who never has written a line! _Tennyson_

AUGUST THIRTEENTH

On the lap Of his mother, as he stands Stretching out his tiny hands, And his little lips the while, Half-open, on his father smile. _Catullus_

AUGUST FOURTEENTH

But the breezes of childish laughter, And the light in a baby's eye, To the homeliest road bring a freshness As free as the blue of the sky. _Lucy Larcom_

AUGUST FIFTEENTH

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. _Campbell_

AUGUST SIXTEENTH

For all its warm, sweet body seems one smile And mere men's love too vile to meet it. _Swinburne_

AUGUST SEVENTEENTH

A child of light, a radiant lass, And gamesome as the morning air. _Jean Ingelow_

AUGUST EIGHTEENTH

Shall we never cease to stamp human nature, even in childhood, like coins. _Froebel_

AUGUST NINETEENTH

My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling The cradle clothes about me all day long, Or, half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, And to be washt in water clean and warm, And husht and kist and kept secure from harm. _Shelley_

AUGUST TWENTIETH

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise: Sleep pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby. _Thomas Dekker_

AUGUST TWENTY-FIRST

As the moon on the lake's face flashes, So, happy may gleam, at whiles, A dream through the dear deep lashes Whereunder a child's eye smiles. _Swinburne_

AUGUST TWENTY-SECOND

Childhood was the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered. _Longfellow_

AUGUST TWENTY-THIRD

To the royal soul of a baby One fairy realm is the earth. _Lucy Larcom_

AUGUST TWENTY-FOURTH

So rounds he to a separate mind From which clear memory may begin. _Tennyson_

AUGUST TWENTY-FIFTH

I dream of those two little ones at play, Making the threshold vocal with their cries, Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, Like two flowers blown together by the wind. _Victor Hugo_

AUGUST TWENTY-SIXTH

That woman's toy, A baby! _Mrs. Browning_

AUGUST TWENTY-SEVENTH

Perpetual care and joy of our life, our despotic flatterers, greedy for the very least pleasure, frankly selfish, instinctively sure of their too legitimate independence--children are our masters, no matter how firm we may pretend to be with them. _George Sand_

AUGUST TWENTY-EIGHTH

And now, the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear high voices sound from far away. _Edmund Gosse_

AUGUST TWENTY-NINTH

For the house that was childless awhile, and the light of it darkened, and the pulse of it dwindled, Rings radiant again with a child's bright feet, with the light of his face is rekindled. _Swinburne_

AUGUST THIRTIETH

My teachers are the children themselves, with all their purity, their innocence, their unconsciousness and their irresistible charms. _Froebel_

AUGUST THIRTY-FIRST

Women-folks said she was like her father--men-folks said she was like her mother--but the wisest people always said she was like us both. _From "The Finest Baby in the World"_

*SEPTEMBER*

SEPTEMBER FIRST

Preserve him from the bad teacher, for the unfortunate and road-lost one will make him as himself. _Sa'di_

SEPTEMBER SECOND

All unkissed by innocent beauty, All unloved by guileless heart, All uncheered by sweetest duty, Childless man how poor thou art! _Tupper_

SEPTEMBER THIRD

We cannot measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Nor check the flow of the golden sands That run through a single hour. But the morning dew must fall And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all Over and over again. _Josephine Pollard_

SEPTEMBER FOURTH

When you stood up in the house With your little childish feet, And, in touching life's first shows, First the touch of love did meet. _Mrs. Browning_

SEPTEMBER FIFTH

Even as a child that after pining For the sweet absent mother, hears Her voice, and round her neck, entwining Young arms, vents all its soul in tears. _Schiller_

SEPTEMBER SIXTH

Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand. _Tennyson_

SEPTEMBER SEVENTH

He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, He almost wears our lives out with his noise, Just at day-dawning when we wish to sleep. _Jean Ingelow_

SEPTEMBER EIGHTH

Happy little children, skies are bright above you, Trees bend down to kiss you, breeze and blossom love you. _Lucy Larcom_

SEPTEMBER NINTH

A baby's eyes ere speech begins; Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes. _Swinburne_

SEPTEMBER TENTH

Some day you'll know How closely to one's heart a son can cling. _Racine_

SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild, And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. _Bryant_

_Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works by permission of D. Appleton & Co._

SEPTEMBER TWELFTH

It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. _Hood_

SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH

Sweet babe! True portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed! Sleep little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelids on thy mother's breast. _Longfellow_

SEPTEMBER FOURTEENTH

That land of glorious mystery Whither we all are wending, A lonely sort of heaven will be, If there no baby-family Await my love and tending. _Lucy Larcom_

SEPTEMBER FIFTEENTH

What note of song have we Fit for the birds and thee Fair nestling couched beneath the mother-dove? _Swinburne_

SEPTEMBER SIXTEENTH

Thou closely clingest to thy mother's arms, Nestling thy little face in that fond breast Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest! Man's breathing miniature. _S. T. Coleridge_

SEPTEMBER SEVENTEENTH

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, And ever restless feet of one, who now Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year. _Bryant_

_Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works by permission of D. Appleton & Co._

SEPTEMBER EIGHTEENTH

Once was she wealthy, with small cares, And small hands clinging to her knees. _Lizette Woodworth Reese_

SEPTEMBER NINETEENTH

I, a woman, wife and mother, What have I to do with art? Are ye not my noblest pictures, Portraits painted from my heart? _Margaret J. Preston_

SEPTEMBER TWENTIETH

It was a little Child who swung Wide back that city's portals Where hearts remain forever young; And all things good and pure among, Shall childhood be immortal. _Lucy Larcom_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIRST

The mother, with sweet pious face, Turns toward her little children from her seat, Gives one a kiss, another an embrace, Takes this upon her knees, that upon her feet: And, while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences, She learns their feelings and their various will, To this a look, to that a word dispenses, And, whether stern or smiling, loves them still. _Filicaia_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SECOND

A living book is mine-- In age three years: in it I read no lies, In it to myriad truths I find the clue-- A tender little child; but I divine Thoughts high as Dante's in her clear blue eyes. _Maurice Francis Egan_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-THIRD

That pure shrine Of childhood, though my love be true Is hidden from my dim confine. _Author unknown_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise; By mute glad Godhead felt within A baby's eyes. _Swinburne_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH

Lulla-lo! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 't is sleep has bound you, And oh, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you? Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear: Mother's two arms are clasped around you. _Alfred Percival Gates_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SIXTH

And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 'T was that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. _John Dryden_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SEVENTH

Sublimity always is simple Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on the meaning. _Longfellow_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-EIGHTH

Take thy joy and revel in it, Living through each golden minute, Trusting God who gave you this Baby child to love and kiss. _From "The Finest Baby in the World"_

SEPTEMBER TWENTY-NINTH

Still smile at even on the bedded child, And close his eyelids with thy silver wand. _Hood_

SEPTEMBER THIRTIETH

Of such is the kingdom of heaven, No glory that ever was shed From the crowning star of the seven That crown the North world's head, No word that ever was spoken Of human or godlike tongue Gave ever such godlike token Since human harps were strung. _Swinburne_

*OCTOBER*

OCTOBER FIRST

Little lamb, asleep and still, God protect thee from all ill; Those who love thee ne'er can be Free from pain in loving thee. _From "The Finest Baby in the World"_

OCTOBER SECOND

Then, when Mamma goes by to bed, She shall come in with tiptoe tread, And see me lying warm and fast And in the land of Nod at last. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

OCTOBER THIRD

How, with a mother's ever anxious love, Still to retain him near her heart she strove. _Firdausi_

OCTOBER FOURTH

Windows of mansions in the skies Must glow with infant faces, Or somewhere else in Paradise, The lovely laughter of their eyes Lights up all heavenly places. _Lucy Larcom_

OCTOBER FIFTH

That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set To the little sick child in the basement. _Henry Cuyler Bunner_

OCTOBER SIXTH

When at morn I first awake, My mother's face I see, Smiling and all alight with love And bending over me. _Mary Stanhope_

OCTOBER SEVENTH

We need love's tender lessons taught As only weakness can; God hath his small interpreters: The child must teach the man. _Whittier_

OCTOBER EIGHTH

Then, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made. _Wordsworth_

OCTOBER NINTH

Child of the wavy locks, and brow of light-- Then be thy conscience pure as thy face is bright _Mrs. Browning_

OCTOBER TENTH

The thankful captive of maternal bonds. _Wordsworth_

OCTOBER ELEVENTH

The mother should consider herself as the child's sun, a changeless and ever radiant world, whither the small restless creature, quick at tears and laughter, light, fickle, passionate, full of storms, may come for fresh stores of light, warmth and electricity, of calm and courage. _Amiel_

OCTOBER TWELFTH

When grace is given us ever to behold A child some sweet months old, Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith, Smiling with bated breath, "Hush, for the holiest thing that lives is here, And Heaven's own heart how near!" _Swinburne_

OCTOBER THIRTEENTH

Sweet as the early song of birds, I heard those first delightful words, "Thou hast a child." _Hood_

OCTOBER FOURTEENTH

And a pretty boy was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. _Wordsworth_

OCTOBER FIFTEENTH

The child soul is an ever bubbling fountain in the world of humanity. _Froebel_

OCTOBER SIXTEENTH

Beware that he weepest, for the great throne of God keeps trembling when the orphan weeps. _Sa'di_

OCTOBER SEVENTEENTH

One thing yet there is, that none Hearing, ere its chime be done, Knows not well the sweetest one Heard of man beneath the sun, Hoped in heaven hereafter; Soft and strong and loud and light, Very sound of very light, Heard from morning's rosiest height When the soul of all delight Fills a child's clear laughter. _Swinburne_

OCTOBER EIGHTEENTH

Ere thought lift up thy flower-soft lids to see What life and love on earth Bring thee for gifts at birth, But none so good as thine, who hast given us thee. _Swinburne_

OCTOBER NINETEENTH

Childhood had its litanies In every age and clime; The earliest cradles of the race Were rocked to Poet's rhyme. _Whittier_

OCTOBER TWENTIETH

Sweet little maid, with winsome eyes That laugh all day through the tangled hair; Gazing with baby looks so wise Over the arms of the oaken chair. _Harry Thurston Peck_

OCTOBER TWENTY-FIRST

Everything in immortal nature is a miracle to the little child. _Anatole France_

OCTOBER TWENTY-SECOND

Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient, solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. _Wordsworth_

OCTOBER TWENTY-THIRD

The plays of childhood are the heart-leaves of the whole future life. _Froebel_

OCTOBER TWENTY-FOURTH

When e'er you are happy and cannot tell why, The Friend of the children is sure to be by. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

OCTOBER TWENTY-FIFTH

So brief and unsure, but sweeter Than ever a noon-dawn smiled, Moves, measured of no tune's meter, The song in the soul of a child. _Swinburne_

OCTOBER TWENTY-SIXTH

Childhood and its terrors rather than its raptures, take wings and radiance in dreams and sport like fireflies in the little night of the soul. Do not crush these flickering sparks! _Richter_

OCTOBER TWENTY-SEVENTH

A child should always say what's true And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table: At least as far as he is able. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

OCTOBER TWENTY-EIGHTH

Bishop Thorold says that whenever a parent begins to feel virtuous in sacrificing his sleep for his child, he ceases to love his child. All I can say is that the Bishop must have kept a night-nurse. _From "The Finest Baby in the World"_

OCTOBER TWENTY-NINTH

He it was who bathed the little ones, who "buttoned up the backs" and tied careful "ribbin bows" here and there for the whole six; he who drilled them in "mannerly behavior" in court.

Indeed he had always performed most of these personal services, which were, so he generously distinguished them, "acts of love and not labor." _Ruth McEnery Stuart_

OCTOBER THIRTIETH

O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! what An easy, breezy realm of summer calm And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm Thou art!--The Lotus-land the poet sung, It is the Child-World while the heart beats young. _James Whitcomb Riley_

_From "A Child World." Copyright, 1897. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company._

OCTOBER THIRTY-FIRST

People who write about children should always tell the truth. For to translate even a child's simplest day into words is to narrate one of the Seven Wonders of the world. _From "The Finest Baby in the World"_

*NOVEMBER*

NOVEMBER FIRST

Self-government with tenderness, here you have the condition of all authority over children. _Amiel_

NOVEMBER SECOND

Heigh ho! Daisies and buttercups! Mother shall weave them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain: Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"; Sing once and sing it again. _Jean Ingelow_

NOVEMBER THIRD

Fair little children, morning-bright, With faces grave, yet soft to sight, Expressive of restrained delight. _Mrs. Browning_

NOVEMBER FOURTH

Our youth! Our childhood! That spring of springs! 'T is surely one of the blessedest things That nature ever intended. _Hood_

NOVEMBER FIFTH

Ah how good a school is the school of home! _Anatole France_

NOVEMBER SIXTH

Loving she is and tractable, though wild; And innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes. _Wordsworth_

NOVEMBER SEVENTH

Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear? What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still my child and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still my dear: sweet baby, sleep. _George Wither_

NOVEMBER EIGHTH

Through the soft, opened lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane; And often the fingers close in haste, As if their baby owner chased The butterflies again. _Matthew Arnold_

NOVEMBER NINTH

I saw her in childhood, A bright gentle thing, Like the dawn of the morn Or the dews of the spring: The daisies and harebells Her playmates all day; Herself as light-hearted And artless as they. _B. F. Lyte_

NOVEMBER TENTH

Thy small steps faltering round our hearth, Thine een out-peering in their mirth, Blue een that, like thine heart, seemed given To be, forever, full of heaven. _Mrs. Browning_

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH

Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast. _Wordsworth_

NOVEMBER TWELFTH

I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow, To the cho-heen-ho of the wind of the west and the lulla-lo of the soft sea billow. Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear: Mother is here beside your pillow. _Alfred Percival Gates_

NOVEMBER THIRTEENTH

You too, my Mother, read my rhymes, For love of unforgotten times; And you may chance to hear once more The little feet along the floor. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

NOVEMBER FOURTEENTH

And still to childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach, From lisping voices learns. _Whittier_

NOVEMBER FIFTEENTH

The wondrous child, Whose silver warble wild Out-valued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round. _Emerson_

NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH

He saw his Mother's face, accepting it In change for heaven itself, with such a smile As might have well been learnt there. _Mrs. Browning_

NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison house begin to close Upon the growing boy. _Wordsworth_

NOVEMBER EIGHTEENTH

When children are happy and lonely and good, The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

NOVEMBER NINETEENTH

And then, he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a father's love, "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties, That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun." _Wordsworth_

NOVEMBER TWENTIETH

May we presume to say that at thy birth, New joy was sprung in Heaven, as well as here on earth. _Dryden_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-FIRST

Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. _Matthew Prior_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-SECOND

'T is thus, though wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be), This heart, my own dear mother, bends With love's true instinct, back to thee. _Swinburne_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-THIRD

To prayer, my child! And oh, be thy first prayer For her, who many nights with anxious care, Rocked thy first cradle: who took thy infant soul From heaven and gave it to the world: then rife With love, still drank the gall of life And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl. _Victor Hugo_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH

Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air, with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The Gardener of the World, he goes. _Robert Louis Stevenson_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH

Children, aye, forsooth, They bring their own love with them when they come. _Jean Ingelow_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-SIXTH

We came upon A wildfowl sitting on her nest, so still I reached my hand and touched her: she did not stir; The snow had frozen round her, and she sat, Stone-dead, upon a heap of ice-cold eggs, Look, how this love, this mother, runs through all The world God made--even the beast, the bird! _Tennyson_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-SEVENTH

In your hearts are the birds and sunshine, In your thoughts, the brooklet's flow. _Longfellow_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-EIGHTH

No flower bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine, on life's untrodden brink, A baby's feet. _Swinburne_

NOVEMBER TWENTY-NINTH