A CHILD'S GRAVE by ALEXANDER LOUIS FRASER

I linger by this grass-grown mound,
And read the words, "Our Baby Dear"
Carved on a mossy stone, lamb-crowned,
And think till this is clear:

In yon manse-garden where she grew—
Like some rare flower—one April morn
Across the walks a cold wind blew
That left the place forlorn.

Though kin of hers have far pursued
The stars of Hope that westward roam,
Oft by this grave they since have stood,
For Mem'ry calls them home.

As 'neath those trees they see her run,
Or catch her laughter 'cross the years,
Or see her curls' glint in the sun,
Their golden past appears.

Thou dear, dead child, some day I'll show
My little girl-friends where you sleep;
Then on your breast sweet flowers shall blow,
And Love this plot shall keep.

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