The Seven Ages of Childhood

THE SEVEN AGES OF CHILDHOOD

First the Infant in Its Mother's Arms
PICTURES BY JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH VERSES BY CAROLYN WELLS
NEW YORK MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 1909
Copyright, 1908, 1909, by The Curtis Publishing Company —————— Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company NEW YORK —————— All rights reserved The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
To THE SEVEN LITTLE FRIENDS WHO SO KINDLY HELPED ME IN MAKING THESE PICTURES, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED



Baby, of all mysterious things, You're stranger far than stars or kings. You stare superbly day by day, Nor let your large reserve give way. Unfathomable mysteries Lurk in your big, unseeing eyes, Making brave memories, and yet, Making them only to forget. But though reflectively you blink, Trying to make us think you think, We know you cannot think or talk, You cannot run, you cannot walk; You little human mystery, You can't do anything but be. You small, content, safe-guarded thing, Nestling beneath your mother's wing. You're all so new; your roseleaf skin, Your dewy eyes and dimpled chin, Your pinch of hair and pound of flesh Are all so delicate and fresh. Then, Baby, every little while You cry. And then perhaps you smile. You cry without a bit of reason, You laugh both in and out of season; A wise proceeding, I suppose, If that is all the speech one knows. But sometimes do the dull hours drag? And sometimes does your patience flag? Long days and nights you must get through, Without a single thing to do. And though perhaps you see and hear, It means naught to your eye and ear. But, Baby, you don't seem to care, You hark at silence,—look at air! And in the stillness, or the dark, Absorbedly you look and hark. So, then, what difference can it make, Whether you are asleep or 'wake? You cannot think, and it would seem You do not know enough to dream. How can you dream, not knowing words? Or is it like the song of birds, Or scent of flowers, or sunshine bright, Or South breeze on a summer's night? Perhaps your thoughts just flounder 'round In seas of color, waves of sound; In notions vague of shape or form. As,—Life is something soft and warm. Mother is just a happy place; Nurse is a sort of vacant space. And father is a kind of stuff, That's woolly, black and rather rough. And then some day into your eyes There comes a look exceeding wise. And then your brain begins to grow; You learn How does the Kitty go? You learn to Love the Lambie Baa, And Make a Face at Grandmamma! And then upon your own account You seem to learn a large amount, As you laboriously prove That your own fingers really move! And if you have accomplished this, And if you've learned a Spanish kiss; And if three times you've said Goo—goo! Why, that's a busy day for you!