They are seldom undressed, and are kept in a rough cradle, and rocked to sleep as much as possible. When the mother carries them out, she straps them to her back; and often, on the mountains there, one may see a woman with a baby on her back, and a great bundle of sticks in her arms.
With the sticks she makes her fire, in a room where there is no chimney, and where the smoke often makes poor baby's eyes smart; but all he can do, poor swaddled child, is to open his mouth, and cry.
This custom of binding the baby up so straight and tight is a very old one. The Bible tells us, you know, that the mother of Jesus "wrapped him in swaddling-clothes, and laid him in a manger." So the people of Syria keep on using swaddling-clothes, thinking, that, if they do not, the baby will grow crooked.
They are used in Russia also, and in other countries of northern Europe. Poor babies! We pity them.
Em. Junius.
POLLIWOGS.
The cat-tails all along the brook
Are growing tall and green;
And in the meadow-pool, once more,
The polliwogs are seen;
Among the duck-weed, in and out,
As quick as thought they dart about;
Their constant hurry, to and fro,
It tires me to see:
I wish they knew it did no good
To so uneasy be!
I mean to ask them if they will
Be, just for one half-minute, still!
"Be patient, little polliwogs,
And by and by you'll turn to frogs."
But what's the use to counsel them?
My words are thrown away;
And not a second in one place
A polliwog will stay.
They still keep darting all about
The floating duck-weed, in and out.
Well, if they will so restless be,
I will not let it trouble me,
But leave these little polliwogs
To wriggle till they turn to frogs!
Marian Douglas.