Vermont Farmer

ALL THE CHILDREN.

I suppose if all the children
Who have lived through ages long
Were collected and inspected,
They would make a wondrous throng.

Oh, the babble of the Babel!
Oh, the flutter of the fuss!
To begin with Cain and Abel,
And to finish up with us.

Think of all the men and women
Who are now and who have been,
Every nation since creation
That this world of ours has seen:

And of all of them, not any
But was once a baby small:
While of children, oh, how many
Never have grown up at all!

Some have never laughed or spoken,
Never used their rosy feet;
Some have even flown to heaven
Ere they knew that earth was sweet.

And indeed, I wonder whether,
If we reckon ev'ry birth
And bring such a flock together,
There is room for them on earth?

Who will wash their smiling faces?
Who their saucy ears will box?
Who will dress them, and caress them?
Who will darn their little socks?

Where are arms enough to hold them?
Hands to pat each shining head?
Who will praise them? who will scold them?
Who will pack them off to bed?

Little, happy Christian children,
Little savage children too,
In all stages of all ages
That our planet ever knew-

Little princes and princesses,
Little beggars wan and faint
Some in very handsome dresses,
Naked some, bedaubed with paint.

Only think of the confusion
Such a motley crowd would make:
And the clatter of their chatter
And the things that they would break!

Oh, the babble of the Babel!
Oh, the flutter of the fuss:
To begin with Cain and Abel,
And to finish off with us.