Josiah Gilbert Holland was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819; died in New York City Oct. 12, 1881. He was the son of a mechanic and inventor. He attended a district school, taught district schools, studied medicine, and in 1844 was graduated from the Berkshire medical college, which exists no longer, at Pittsfield. He practiced medicine for three years, ran a weekly paper six months, became superintendent of schools in Vicksburg, Miss., formed a literary, reportorial, and editorial connection with the Springfield Republican in 1850, which lasted until 1866, he having in the meantime acquired a financial interest in the paper. Some of his best works appeared first in the Republican. In 1870, with Roswell Smith, he founded Scribner’s Magazine. He wrote histories, stories, essays, letters, lectures, and poems.
What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!
Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he’ll never know
Where the summers go—
He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony—
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls—
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother’s eyes?
What does he think of his mother’s hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds—
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! down he goes!
See! he is hushed in sweet repose!
