A little crib in “mother’s room,”
A little face with baby bloom,
A little head with curly hair,
A little woolly dog, a chair.
A little while for bumps and cries,
A little while to make “mud pies,”
A little doubting wonder when
A little pair of hands is clean.
A little ball, a top to spin,
A little “Ulster” belted in,
A little pair of pants, some string,
A little bit of everything.
A little blustering, boisterous air,
A little spirit of “don’t care,”
A little tramping off to school,
A little shrug at woman’s rule.
A little odor of cigar,
A little twilight talk with Ma,
A little earnest study then—
A little council grave again.
A little talk about “my girl,”
A little soft mustache to twirl,
A little time of jealous fear,
A little hope the way to clear.
A little knowledge of the world,
A little self-conceit down hurled,
A little manly purpose new,
A little woman, waiting, true.
A little wedding gay at eve,
A little pang the home to leave,
A little mother lone at dawn,
A little sigh—my boy was gone! L. R. I.
E. I. S.—We believe that some consider it not quite certain whether “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” was the sign of mercy. But Appleton’s “American Cyclopædia” says that, when, in a Roman amphitheater, a gladiator was overcome in fight, he was allowed to appeal to the spectators; and, if they pointed downward with their thumbs, his life was spared,—but if upward, his opponent dispatched him on the spot.