"Is baby dead?" he whispered, with wide eyes
Tearless, but full of eloquent regret,
His childish face grown prematurely wise—
Pond'ring the problem death before him set.

"Baby is dead," I answered, as I laid
My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;
"Oh! daddy, why did God do this?" he said,
And silently my heart made answer, "Why?"

He touched her white, worn face, and said, "How cold
Is our wee baby now." … His eyes were deep …
Then came his little brother, two years old,
He looked, and lisped, "The baby is asleep."