A True Story.
“Where is the baby, grandmamma?”
The sweet young mother calls
From her work in the cosy kitchen,
With its dainty whitewashed walls.
And grandma leaves her knitting,
And looks for her all around;
But not a trace of baby dear
Can anywhere be found.
No sound of its merry prattle,
No gleam of its sunny hair,
No patter of tiny footsteps,
No sign of it anywhere.
All through house and garden,
Far out into the field,
They search each nook and corner;
But nothing is revealed.
And the mother’s face grew pallid;
Grandmamma’s eyes grew dim;
The fathers gone to the village;
No use to look for him.
And the baby lost! “Where’s Rover!”
The mother chanced to think
Of the old well in the orchard
Where the cattle used to drink.
“Where’s Rover? I know he’d find her?
Rover!” In vain they call,
Then hurry away to the orchard;
And there by the moss-grown wall,
Close to the well, lies Rover,
Holding to baby’s dress;
She was leaning over the wall’s edge
In perfect fearlessness!
She stretched her little arms down;
But Rover held her fast,
And never seemed to mind the kicks
The tiny bare feet cast
So spitefully upon him,
But wagged his tail instead,
To greet the frightened searchers,
While naughty baby said:
“Dere’s a ’ittle dirl in the ’ater;
She’s dust as big as me,
Mamma; I want to help her out,
And take her home to tea.
But Rover, he won’t let me,
And I don’t love him. Go
Away, you naughty Rover!
Oh! why are you crying so?”
The mother kissed her, saying:
“My darling, understand,
Good Rover saved your life, my dear—
And, see, he licks your hand!
Kiss Rover?” Baby struck him,
But grandma understood;
She said: “It’s hard to thank the friend
Who thwarts us for our good.”
Baldwin’s Monthly.