THE LOST DIMPLE.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
MY little boy lies in his trundle bed,
With chubby arms above his head,
And a rosy flush on his cheek so fair,
And a gleam of gold in his tangled hair;
His beautiful eyes, so soft and blue,
’Neath rose leaf lids are hidden from view;
For sound asleep is my little boy,
My troublesome comfort, baby Roy!
But ah! there’s something upon his cheek
Of which I do not like to speak;
So I kneel beside my baby dear,
And softly kiss away the tear.
And I kiss from his rosy mouth a pout,
Which even slumber has not smoothed out.
And I have another kiss to spare,
To smooth the frown from his forehead fair.
How came the tear and the pout and frown
On this dear little face to settle down?
Ah well! I’m sorry to have to say
That Roy was a naughty boy to-day.
It wasn’t pleasant to play, you see,
When Roy and mamma couldn’t agree;
So he went to Dreamland to find a smile,
And the dimples will come in a little while.
There’s one should be in his cheek, right there,
And one belongs in his chin. ’Tis rare
That I look in vain for the merry trace
Of the winsome dimples in baby’s face!
But, by and by, he will open his eyes,
All soft and blue as the summer skies:
And when he laughs at my merry call,
I shall find the dimples, the smiles, and all.