Bless the little babies!
   Oh, they make the home,
Keeping husband evenings,
   Time he used to roam.
Boon companions miss him--
   Cards have lost their charms;
There he sits contented,
   Baby in his arms.

Bless the little babies!
   Oh they strip the heart
Of all false allurements,
   By their native art.
Once the belle, a mother;
   Fashion, fol-de-rol;
Selfish whims that spoiled her,
   Vanish one and all.

Bless the little babies!
   Bridging many a breach,
'Twixt the wife and husband,
   Binding each to each.
Husband stops his growling,
   Warmed by baby's smiles;
Wife forgets her grievance,
   Watching baby's wiles.

Bless the little babies!
   Shame upon the wives
Ruled by Self, and Fashion,
   Living barren lives.
Out upon the practice,
   Murder--nothing less,
Of the scores of women
   God had meant to bless.

Bless the little babies!--
   Blessings, few or many,
Pity on the household
   Never counting any.
It is like a garden
   Where there are no flowers;
Bless the pretty blossoms,
   Filling happy bowers.

Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876.

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