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Show My Little Boy That Died. Look at his pretty face for just one minute! His braided frock and dainty buttoned shoes; His firm-shut hand, the favorite plaything in it-Then it-Then tell me, mothers, was't not hard to lose And miss him from my side My little boy that died? How many another boy, as dear and charming, His father's hope, his mother's one delight, Slips through strange sicknesses, all fear disarming, disarm-ing, And lives a long, long liie in parents' sight! Mine was so short a pride! And then my poor boy died. I see him rocking on his wooden charger; I hear him pattering through the house all day; 1 watch his great blue eyes grow large and larger, Listening to stories, whether grave or gay, Told at the bright fireside, So dark now, since he died. But yet I often think my boy is living, As living as my other children are, When goodnight kisses I all around am giving I keep one for him, though he is so far. Can a mere grave divide Me from him though he died? So, while I come and plant it o'er with daisies (Nothing but childish daisies all year round), Continually God's hand the curtain raises, And I can hear his merry voice's sound, And feel him at my side My little boy that died. By Dinah Maria Mulock Craig. |