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.