From the Evening Star, July 6, 1913.By Philander Johnson.
A little baby laughed one day;
I paused and wondered why.
None of the wealth could it display
For which the grown folk sigh.
Its wardrobe seemed exceeding slim.
No jewelry it wore.
Its home was up a side street dim,
Behind a dusty store.
It hadn’t even teeth or hair.
Its hands were frail and small.
And yet it sat goo-gooing there,
As if it had them all.
It seemed to say that happiness
Rests not with pomp or pelf;
It comes not from what you possess,
But from your real self.
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