Les Enfants Perdus.

        What has become of the children all?
            How have the darlings vanished?
        Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,
        Has wooed them away, with their flaxen hair
        And laughing eyes, we don't know where,
            And no one can tell where they're banished.

        "Where are the children?" cries Madam Haut-ton,
            "Allow me, my sons and daughters,
        Fetch them, Annette!" What, madam, those?
        Children! such exquisite belles and beaux:
        True, they're in somewhat shorter clothes
            Than the most of Dame Fashion's supporters.

        Good day, Master Eddy! Young man about town,
            A merchant down in the swamp's son;
        In a neat little book he makes neat little bets:
        He doesn't believe in the shop cigarettes,
        But does his own rolling, and has for his pets
            Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.

        He and his comrades can drink champagne
            Like so many juvenile Comuses;
        If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,
        Why, even on billiards he's almost blasé,
        Drops in at Delmonico's three times a day,
            And is known at Jerry Thomas's.

        And here comes Miss Agnes. Good morning! "Bon jour!"
            Now, isn't that vision alarming?
        Silk with panier, and puffs, and lace
        Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
        Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
            Wears a simper far from charming.

        Thirteen only a month ago,
            Notice her conversation:
        Fashion that bonnet of Nellie Perroy's
        And now, in a low, confidential voice,
        Of Helena's treatment of Tommy Joyce,
            Aged twelve, that's the last flirtation.

        What has become of the children, then?
            How can an answer be given?
        Folly filling each curly head,
        Premature vices, childhood dead,
        Blighted blossoms can it be said
            "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?"

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

No biography available

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Frost-Bitten.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

A Legend Of St. Valentine.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

English

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The "Stay-At-Home's" Plaint.

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            The sun is fierce and high;
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            Beneath the burning sky.
        Ailantus trees are fragrant,
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        In offices like ovens
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        We carry huge umbrellas
            On Broad Street and on Wall,
        Oh, how thermometers go up!
            And, oh, how stocks do fall!

        The nights are full of music,
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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----, Of Clonkilty, In Ireland.

Amiens.

Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
    The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is as usual translating
    His English resolve not to give a sou more,
I sit down to write you a line--only think!--
A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! tho', would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,
But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;"
In vain did I think of his charmi...

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Dream-Market

A MASQUE PRESENTED AT WILTON HOUSE,

JULY 28, 1909


    Scene.    A LAWN IN THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA

    Enter FLORA, Lady of Summer, with her maidens, PHYLLIS
        and AMARYLLIS.    She takes her seat upon a bank,
        playing with a basket of freshly gathered flowers, one
        of which she presently holds up in her hand.


    FLORA.    Ah! how I love a rose!    But come, my girls,
        Here's for your task: to-day you, Amaryllis,
        Shall take the white, and, Phyllis, you the red.
        Hold out your kirtles for them.    White, red, white,
        Red, red, and white again. . . .
        Wonder you not
        How the same sun can breed such different beauties?
                [She divides ...

Henry John Newbolt

Good-Children Street
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street -
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

For dear little children go romping about
With dollies and tin tops and drums,
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
Till bedtime too speedily comes!
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street.

See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet -
Nice make-believ...
Eugene Field

Wanted - A Little Girl
Where have they gone to - the little girls
With natural manners and natural curls;
Who love their dollies and like their toys,
And talk of something besides the boys?

Little old women in plenty I find,
Mature in manners and old of mind;
Little old flirts who talk of their "beaux,"
And vie with each other in stylish clothes.

Little old belles who, at nine and ten,
Are sick of pleasure and tired of men;
Weary of travel, of balls, of fun,
And find no new thing under the sun.

Once, in the beautiful long ago,
Some dear little children I used to know;
Girls who were merry as lambs at play,
And laughed and rollicked the livelong day.

They thought not at all of the "style" of their clothes,
They never imagined that boys were "beaux" -
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Farewell To The Market. "Susannah And Mary-Jane."
Two little darlings alone,
Clinging hand in hand;
Two little girls come out
To see the wonderful land!

Here round the flaring stalls
They stand wide-eyed in the throng,
While the great, the eloquent huckster
Perorates loud and long.

They watch those thrice-blessed mortals,
The dirty guzzling boys,
Who partake of dates, periwinkles,
Ices and other joys.

And their little mouths go wide open
At some of the brilliant sights
That little darlings may see in the road
Of Edgware on Saturday nights.

The eldest's name is Susannah;
She was four years old last May.
And Mary-Jane, the youngest,
Is just three years old to-day.

And I know all about their cat, and
Their father a...
Francis William Lauderdale Adams