_
_F._ You should not talk so to the blessed babe--
How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven
Before the time you tell of.
_M._ Look at him:
So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes!
He thrives, my dear.
_F._ Yes, that he does, thank God
My children are all strong.
_M._ 'Tis much to say;
Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds,
And do no credit to their keep nor care.
Where is your little lass?
_F._ Your daughter came
And begged her of us for a week or so.
_M._ Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might,
For she can sit at ease and pay her way;
A sober husband, too--a cheerful man--
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her;
Yet she is never easy, never glad,
Because she has not children. Well-a-day!
If she could know how hard her mother worked,
And what ado I had, and what a moil
With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:
Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven--
They are not rare.
_G._ No, mother, not at all;
But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long--
She spoils her.
_M._ Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so;
We made our children fear us, made them work,
Kept them in order.
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