THE BABY.

IN a snug corner of a meager slave-cabin, on a low cot,
lies a little babe asleep. A scarlet honeysuckle of wild
and luxuriant growth shades the uncurtained and unsashed window;
and the humming-birds, flitting among its brilliant blossoms,
murmur a constant, gentle lullaby for the infant sleeper.
See, its skin is not so dark but that we may clearly trace the blue
veins underlying it; the lips, half parted, are lovely as a rosebud;
and the soft, silky curls are dewy as the flowers on this June morning.
A dimpled arm and one naked foot have escaped from the gay
patch-work quilt, which some fond hand has closely tucked
about the little form; and the breath comes and goes quickly,
as if the folded eyes were feasting on visions of beauty and delight.
Dear little one!

"We should see the spirits ringing
Round thee, were the clouds away;
'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay."

Though that child-heart beats beneath a despised skin, though it
has its resting-place in a hovel, the angels may be there.
Their loving, pitying natures shrink not from poverty, but stoop
with heavenly sympathy to the mean abodes of suffering and misery.

A soft step steals in through the half-opened door, across the room,
and a fervent kiss is laid on the little velvet cheek.

Who is the intruder? Ah, who cares to watch and smile over