SUCH a toddling tot that scarcely yet can walk, Just the wee-est thing, that scarcely yet can talk. Just looks up, for that dearest smile on earth, The mother's smile, who stands so tall upon the hearth.
She sits before the fire on her creepie stool,
And knits in peace when heart, and home are full,
She need not watch the baby, cross the floor,
She knows 'tis safe; the gate is in the cottage door.
With gentle steps she moves, the fireplace to redd; But white and soft her hands to touch the baby's head ; The coarse gray wool slips down amongst her feet, The " Scarlet" wool that makes the stockings neat.
The old stone floor, is pictured all in white, The pattern that grannie taught, that other night, Before she left for good her home beyond the hill, To cleave to him, who's passing now the window sill.