The

A pair of very chubby legs Encased in scarlet hose; A pair of little stubby boots With rather doubtful toes; A little kilt, a little coat, Cut as a mother can, And lo! before us strides in state The Future's 'coming man.' His eyes, perchance, will read the stars, And search their unknown ways; Perchance the human heart and soul Will open to their gaze; Perchance their keen and flashing glance Will be a nation's light,-- Those eyes that now are wistful bent On some 'big fellow's' kite. That brow where mighty thought will dwell In solemn, secret state; Where fierce ambition's restless strength Shall war wih future fate; Where science from now hidden caves New treasures shall outpour,-- 'Tis knit now with a troubled doubt, Are two, or three cents, more? Those lips that, in the coming yaars, Will plead, or pray, or teach; Whose whispered words, on lightning flash, From world to world may reach; That, sternly grave, may speak command, Or, smiling, win control,-- Are coaxing now for gingerbread With all a baby's soul! Those hands--those little busy hands-- So sticky, small, and brown, Those hands, whose only mission seems To pull all order down,-- Who knows what hidden strength may lie Within their future grasp, Though now 'tis but a taffy-stick In sturdy hold they clasp? Ah, blessings on those little hands, Whose work is yet undone! And blessings on those little feet, Whose race is yet un-run! And blessings on the little brain That has not learned to plan! Whate'er the Future hold in store, God bless the 'coming man'!