That looks on a noisy street,

And no matter how often I pass up and down,

At the window sweet faces I meet.

Little faces that lit’rally beam on the street,

Untutored in Life’s trying school,

That seem fashioned, my friends, as if just to repeat

For our lesson the sweet, golden rule.

Oft they give us a smile, when a frown we return

A kiss prompts the pout of their lip,

And though we go by with a step proud and stern,

How lightly beside us they trip!

Catching the leaves that drift in at the door,

Those pretty leaves rusted with rain,

That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o’er,

And that seem to wear traces of pain.

There is many a window with drapings of lace,

Where the clematis bloom is entwined,

Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase,

Where the awning with satin is lined,

Where Wealth sits aloof—garments dripping with pearls

Like a Mermaid’s—sole god of the sphere,

But the faces I love with their billows of curls

You must ne’er think of looking for here.

For the window I love has no hangings of plush,

Neither festooned as if for display,

And yet I have seen it at evening’s soft hush

Decked out in a wond’rous array

Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls,

Little aprons and many a toy—

More plainly to speak—there are three little girls,

And the king of the house is a boy.

How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look,

Richmond, Ky.