Part 2 — LITTLE ELFIE.

I have a puppet-jointed child, She's but three half-years old; Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild With looks both shy and bold.

Like little imps, her tiny hands Dart out and push and take; Chide her—a trembling thing she stands, And like two leaves they shake.

But to her mind a minute gone Is like a year ago; And when you lift your eyes anon, Anon you must say No!

Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, She has her sleepless fits; Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair The elfish mortal sits;—

Where, if by chance in mood more grave, A hermit she appears Propped in the opening of his cave, Mummied almost with years;

Or like an idol set upright With folded legs for stem, Ready to hear prayers all the night And never answer them.

But where's the idol-hermit thrust? Her knees like flail-joints go! Alternate kiss, her mother must, Now that, now this big toe!

I turn away from her, and write For minutes three or four: A tiny spectre, tall and white, She's standing by the door!

Then something comes into my head That makes me stop and think: She's on the table, the quadruped, And dabbling in my ink!

O Elfie, make no haste to lose Thy ignorance of offence! Thou hast the best gift I could choose, A heavenly confidence.

'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, To put you in the ark! Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, Sleep shining through the dark.