My little nephew, four years old,
A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,
Was one day playing by my side
With this and that pet toy,
When all at once he said to me,—
As, laying down my book,
I paused a while to watch with joy
His bright, expressive look,—
"If Mac and I should plant today
Some paper in the ground,
Say, would it grow to be a book
Like yours, with leaves all bound?"
These were the same two little boys
Whose nurse searched far and wide
For little sister's rubber shoes;
"Where can they be?" she cried.
"I know," replied Mac, eagerly,
"We planted them last night,
To see if they would bigger grow
To fit our feet all right."
Dear little boys! These fancies hint
Of future questions deep,
When evolution's grand idea
Shall o'er their vision sweep.
God grant that when these come to them,
As at Truth's shrine they bow,
A childlike faith and earnestness
May fill them then as now.