Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 710

Now that the anguish for the loss of old friends (in glass and china) has been blunted by time, as we sit round the fire 'between the lights,' the recital of Poppet's pranks is listened to with rapt attention by the children; and I often think, with Frank Buckland, that many a more valuable friend may be less missed and less sincerely mourned than a pet monkey.

MY BABY

They made a little crown in heavenWhen she was born —Only the breath of angels on it;Neither flower nor leaf upon it;Never a single thorn.Slowly it grew in form and beautyAs the days passed on —Tinged her eyes with love-light's dawning;Ruby lips to love-words forming;Lisping future song.Brighter still the crown was buddingAs the year grew old;And my simple heart beguiling,Angels shewed it to me smiling:So the days grew cold.'Look! O mother! look upon it!'(Baby lay asleep);'In the heavens' sunny bowersTwine we everlasting flowers;Think upon it in the hoursWhen you will weep!''Look! O mother! fair we've made itFor an angel's head!'There was something strange and wildStruck my heart – the angels smiled:I turned to look upon my child —And she was dead.F. Rochat.