The day had passed In happy play And twilight comes anón, And fretfulness asserts her sway When sunlit hours are gone, And mother lays her work away And holds out her arins for oneHer baby boy, who always found Within that sheltering nest, When childish troubles most abound, A ref uge and a rest. He does not come, although his eyes His willingness confessed. 'Come, darlingl" Mother's cooing tone Woos sof tly, but in valn. "I've lost my baby," does she moan In simulated pain. "No, no, mamma, but I have grown And won't be small again." "But yesterday," his mamma said, "Upon my lap you sat; We read of 'Toddlekins' and 'Fred And the 'Boof er pussy cat;' Of Baby Bunting's ways we read And the mischief he was at." The little head drooped very low And rested on my knee; And a little voiee spoke soft and slow. In a confidential key: "But yesterday, mamma, you know, I wasn't in pants, you see."