"Nancy, do you think that ever
There was such a child before?"

Grandma, with prim precision
The seam-stitch impaleth deftly
On her sharp and glittering needle,
Then she turns and answers calmly,
With a deep assurance--"Never
Was there such a child before!"

Papa thinks so, but in manly
Dignity controls his feelings;
More than half a year a father,
He must show a cool composure,
He must stately be if ever.
But his dark eyes plainly tell it,
Tell it, as he sayeth proudly,
"Papa's man is little Harry."

Mamma, maybe, does not speak it,
But she prints the thought on velvet,
Rosy-hued, with fondest kisses,
When the pink, soft page is lying
Folded closely to her bosom.

A little farther goes his auntie,
Aged fourteen--age of fancy;
She looks down the future ages
With her wise, prophetic vision;
Sees the babies pass before her,