The

A pair of very chubby legs
Encased in scarlet hose;
A pair of little stubby boots
With rather doubtful toes;
A little kilt, a little coat,
Cut as a mother can,
And lo! before us strides in state
The Future's 'coming man.'

His eyes, perchance, will read the stars,
And search their unknown ways;
Perchance the human heart and soul
Will open to their gaze;
Perchance their keen and flashing glance
Will be a nation's light,--
Those eyes that now are wistful bent
On some 'big fellow's' kite.

That brow where mighty thought will dwell
In solemn, secret state;
Where fierce ambition's restless strength
Shall war wih future fate;
Where science from now hidden caves
New treasures shall outpour,--
'Tis knit now with a troubled doubt,
Are two, or three cents, more?

Those lips that, in the coming yaars,
Will plead, or pray, or teach;
Whose whispered words, on lightning flash,
From world to world may reach;
That, sternly grave, may speak command,
Or, smiling, win control,--
Are coaxing now for gingerbread
With all a baby's soul!

Those hands--those little busy hands--
So sticky, small, and brown,
Those hands, whose only mission seems
To pull all order down,--
Who knows what hidden strength may lie
Within their future grasp,
Though now 'tis but a taffy-stick
In sturdy hold they clasp?

Ah, blessings on those little hands,
Whose work is yet undone!
And blessings on those little feet,
Whose race is yet un-run!
And blessings on the little brain
That has not learned to plan!
Whate'er the Future hold in store,
God bless the 'coming man'!