Little fair head with the sunny curls shiny  
Snowy round forehead and mischievous eyes
Queer little nose and mouth equally ready 
For pouts or for kisses for smiles or cries.
Chub-by 'round cheeks and chubby round fingers 
One foot tucked up  a comical way.
Little plaid dress like a girls only short-er 
Such is the pictureof four year old Jay.

What will he think of it, ten short years later
When the first dreams of man-hood have fired his brain. 
And he looks with contempt at the baby's bright picture 
Whose wide world was bounded by  Grand-father's lane.
For at four-teen real life in the distance looks pleasant.
All full of delight and wonders and joy.
The walls of the home of his childhood grow narrow 
he sigheth to think he is only a boy.

What will he think of it twenty years later?
When some golden haired maiden stands close at his side.
And they look at the picture with heads bent together.
And he smiles at the words of his sunny haired bride
"A sweet little fellow" his dark head bends lower, 
Her blushing cheeks deepen their tinting of red
For the picture has brought to them thoughts of the future
Making solemn and tender the words that he said.

What will he think of it forty years later?
When he liveth his life as a man among men.
And weary at wight, his eyes fall on the picture, 
Oh what will he think of his babyhood then?
Perchance he will long for a kiss from his mother
His innocent joys and the baby schemes wild, 
And sadly retracing the years of his manhood.
Will wish he again was an innocent child.

What will he think of it seventy years later?
For the frosts of old age lie white on his brow, 
And he looks at the faded and old fashioned picture, 
With eyes that are fast growing far sighted now.
He rambles again on the farm of his father
The meadow, the orchard, the forest, the fen.
So we leave the old man dreaming over the picture, 
And finding in fancy his childhood again.

In fancy? Nay truly, He neareth the portal,
Where all who would enter as children must come,
They must leave the worlds cares and ambitions behind them
As little onestired at night fall comehome.
In those mansion's of rest, whose glory we dream uf, 
Where entereth nothing impure or defiled,
Whose beauty can never be pictured by language,
Our Jay will again be a sweet little child.