The fust baby has bekum one ov the fixed stars ov life; and ever since the fust one was born, on the rong side of the gardin ov Eden, down tew the little stranger ov yesterday, they hav never failed tew be a budget ov mutch joy—an event ov mutch gladness.

Tew wake up some cheerful morning, and cee a pair ov soft eyes looking into yours—to wonder how so mutch buty could have been entrusted to you—to sarch out the father, or the mother, in the sweet little fase, and then loze the survey, in an instant of buty, as a laffing Angel lays before you—tew pla with the golden hare, and sow fond kisses upon this little bird in yure nest—tiz this that makes the fust baby, the joy ov awl joys—a feast ov the harte.

Tew find the pale Mother again bi yure side, more luvly than when she was wooed—tew see a new tenderness in her eye, and tew hear the chastened sweetness ov her laff, as she tells something new about “Willie”—tew luv her far more than ever, and tew find oftimes a prayer on yure lips—tiz this that makes the fust baby a fountain ov sparkling plezzure.

Tew watch the bud on yure rosebush, tew ketch the fust notes ov yure song-bird, tew hear the warm praze ov kind frends, and tew giv up yure hours tew the trezzure—tiz this that makes the fust baby a gift that Angels hav brought yu.

Tew look upon the trak that life takes—tew see the sunshine and shower—tew plead for the best, and shrink from the wust—tew shudder when sikness steals on, and tew be chastened when death comes—tiz this—oh! tiz this that makes the fust baby a hope upon arth, and a gem up in heaven.