Gov. Bob. Taylors Tales | Page 3

tack sticking in it, and the hero of the
daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with
his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a
lounge in the rear.
[Illustration: A BATTLE WITH KING COLIC.]
There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse
mutterings; there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which he
had awakened again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the
warm blankets of the conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how
dare you shake my little baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!"
which instantly brought the trained husband into line again, singing:
"La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high, With my
la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye."
The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but
what is home without a baby?

The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music
eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin sat
by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window
panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the
sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet were
no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above
eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and
cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast.
The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell;
and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told.
Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath
from its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful
and gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of
its distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary,
wafting to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the
music ended; my vision vanished.
The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever.

CHERISH THE LITTLE ONES.
Do you sometimes forget and wound the hearts of your children with
frowns and the dagger of cruel words, and sometimes with a blow? Do
you sometimes, in your own peevishness, and your own meanness,
wish yourself away from their fretful cries and noisy sports? Then think
that to-morrow may ripen the wicked wish; tomorrow death may lay
his hand upon a little fluttering heart and it will be stilled forever. 'Tis
then you will miss the sunbeam and the sweet little flower that reflected
heaven on the soul. Then cherish the little ones! Be tender with the
babes! Make your homes beautiful! All that remains to us of paradise
lost, clings about the home. Its purity, its innocence, its virtue, are there,
untainted by sin, unclouded by guile. There woman shines, scarcely
dimmed by the fall, reflecting the loveliness of Eden's first wife and
mother; the grace, the beauty, the sweetness of the wifely relation, the
tenderness of maternal affection, the graciousness of manner which

once charmed angel guests, still glorify the home.
If you would make your homes happy, you must make the children
happy. Get down on the floor with your prattling boys and girls and
play horse with them; take them on your back and gallop them to town;
don't kick up and buck, but be a good and gentle old steed, and join in a
hearty horse laugh in their merriment. Take the baby on your knee and
gallop him to town; let him practice gymnastics on top of your head
and take your scalp; let him puncture a hole in your ear with his little
teeth, and bite off the end of the paternal nose. Make your homes
beautiful with your duty and your love, make them bright with your
mirth and your music.
Victor Hugo said of Napoleon the Great: "The frontiers of kingdoms
oscillated on the map. The sound of a super-human sword being drawn
from its scabbard could be heard; and he was seen, opening in the
thunder his two wings, the Grand Army and the Old Guard; he was the
archangel of war." And when I read it I thought of the death and terror
that followed wherever the shadow of the open wings fell. I thought of
the blood that flowed, and the tears that were shed wherever the sword
gleamed in his hand. I thought of the human skulls that paved
Napoleon's way to St. Helena's barren rock, and I said, 'I would rather
dwell in a log cabin, in the beautiful land of the mountains where I was
born and reared, and sit