MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S SHOES.

We may be the mightiest preachers,

In the day that dawneth now!

Such the children's mute appealing!
All my inmost soul was stirred;
And my heart was bowed with sadness,
When a cry, like summer's gladness,

Said, "The children's prayer is heard!"

MARY HOWITT.

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MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S SHOES.

Two little rough, worn, stubbed shoes,

A plump, well-trodden pair,

With striped stockings thrust within,
Lie just beside my chair.

Of very homely fabric they,

A hole is in each toe,

They might have cost, when they were new,

Some fifty cents or so.

And yet this little worn-out pair

Is richer far to me,

Than all the jewelled sandals are

Of Eastern luxury.

This mottled leather, cracked with use,
Is satin in my sight,

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MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S SHOES.

These little tarnished buttons shine

With all a diamond's light.

Search through the wardrobe of the world!
You shall not find me there

So rarely made, so richly wrought,

So glorious a pair.

And why? Because they tell of her,
Now sound asleep above,

Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is beating love.

They tell me of her merry laugh,
Her rich, whole-hearted glee;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And infant purity.

They tell me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid;

For the old road of human life

Is very roughly laid.

High hills and swift descents abound,

And, on so rude a way,

Feet that can wear these coverings

Would surely go astray.

Sweet little girl! be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend!

BABY'S SHOES.

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To be thy guide, thy counsellor,

Thy playmate, and thy friend!

And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong,

Thy strength shall lead my tottering age
In cheerful peace along!

C. J. SPRAGUE.

BABY'S SHOES.

O THOSE little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use!
O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet!

And O, since that baby slept,

So hushed! how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,

And o'er them thought and wept!

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AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor,
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees,

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair,
A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O, wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start.

W. C. BENNETT.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends and children who have never
Been dead indeed, as we shall know forever.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

Alas! we think not what we daily see

About our hearths,

angels, that are to be,

Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breathing its future wings.

LEIGH HUNT.

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