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A Small Philosopher

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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