THE SEVEN AGES OF CHILDHOOD (Illustrated) E-Book

Carolyn Wells

• Herausgeber: e-artnow
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 15

Beschreibung

This carefully crafted ebook: "THE SEVEN AGES OF CHILDHOOD (Illustrated))" is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. The Seven Ages of Childhood is a wonderful children's book which depict the milestones of childhood through verses and portraits that tell the tale of a child's growing up. These beautiful rhymes and illustrations capture various stages of childhood from birth to adolescence, from "Infant in Its Mother's Arms" to "First Love." Carolyn Wells (1862-1942) was an American writer and poet. She is known for her Patty Fairfield series of novels for young girls, and a number of poetry books for children.

Leseprobe

Carolyn Wells

THE SEVEN AGES OF CHILDHOOD

(Illustrated)

Children’s Book Classic

e-artnow, 2016 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

First the Infant in Its Mother's Arms

To the seven little friends who so kindly helped me in making these pictures, 

I

Table of Contents

First the Infant in Its Mother's Arms

Baby, of all mysterious things, You're stranger far than stars or kings. You stare superbly day by day, Nor let your large reserve give way. Unfathomable mysteries Lurk in your big, unseeing eyes, Making brave memories, and yet, Making them only to forget. But though reflectively you blink, Trying to make us think you think, We know you cannot think or talk, You cannot run, you cannot walk; You little human mystery, You can't do anything but be. You small, content, safe-guarded thing, Nestling beneath your mother's wing. You're all so new; your roseleaf skin, Your dewy eyes and dimpled chin, Your pinch of hair and pound of flesh Are all so delicate and fresh. Then, Baby, every little while You cry. And then perhaps you smile. You cry without a bit of reason, You laugh both in and out of season; A wise proceeding, I suppose, If that is all the speech one knows. But sometimes do the dull hours drag? And sometimes does your patience flag? Long days and nights you must get through, Without a single thing to do. And though perhaps you see and hear, It means naught to your eye and ear. But, Baby, you don't seem to care,