Classic Poem

Sweet is the sound of infant voice;
Young innocence is full of charms:
There's not a pleasure half so choice,
As tossing up a child in arms.
Babyhood is a blessed state,
Felicity expressly made for;
But still, on earth it is our fate,
That even " Children must be paid for. "

If in an omnibus we ride,
It is a beauteous sight to see,
When full the vehicle inside,
Age taking childhood on its knee.
But in the dog-days' scorching heat,
When a slight breath of air is pray'd for,
Half suffocated in our seat,
We feel that " Children must be paid for. "

There is about the sports of youth
A charm that reaches every heart,
Marbles or tops are games of truth,
The bat plays no deceiver's part.
But if we hear a sudden crash,
No explanation need be stay'd for,
We know there's something gone to smash;
We feel that " Children must be paid for. "

How exquisite the infant's grace,
When, clambering upon the knee,
The cherub, smiling, takes his place
Upon his mother's lap at tea;
Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair. Once more
We feel that " Children must be paid for. "

Presiding at the festive board,
With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored
While mirth and jollity abound:
We see our table amply spread
With knives and forks a dozen laid for;
Then pause to think: — " How are they fed? "
Yes, " Children must indeed be paid for! "