Part 2 — TROUBLES IN HIGH LIFE.

Two miniature mothers at play on the floor Their wearisome cares were debating, How Dora and Arabelle, children no more, Were twice as much trouble as ever before, And the causes each had her own cares to deplore Were, really, well worth my relating. Said one little mother: "You really don't know What a burden my life is with Bella! Her stravagant habits I hope she'll outgrow. She buys her kid gloves by the dozen, you know, Sits for cartes de visites every fortnight or so, And don't do a thing that I tell her!" Those stylish young ladies (the dollies, you know) Had complexions soft, pearly and waxen, With arms, neck and forehead, as white as the snow, Golden hair sweeping down to the waist and below, Eyes blue as the sky, cheeks with youth's ruddy glow,— Of a beauty pure Grecian and Saxon. "Indeed!" said the other, "that's sad to be sure; But, ah," with a sigh, "no one guesses The cares and anxieties mothers endure. For though Dora appears so sedate and demure, She spends all the money that I can secure On her cloaks and her bonnets and dresses." Then followed such prattle of fashion and style I smiled as I listened and wondered, And I thought, had I tried to repeat it erewhile, How these fair little Israelites, without guile, Would mock at my lack of their knowledge, and smile At the way I had stumbled and blundered. And I thought, too, when each youthful mother had conned Her startling and touching narration, Of the dolls of which I in my childhood was fond, How with Dora and Arabelle they'd correspond, And how far dolls and children to-day are beyond Those we had in the last generation!