"What is the little one thinking about?
What does she think of her mother's eyes?
What does she think of her mother's hair?
What, of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does she think of her mother's breast,
Round and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of her life, and couch of her rest?
What does she think, when her quick embrace
Presses her hand, and buries her face
Deep, where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tender love she can never tell,
Though she murmurs the words
Of all the birds,
Words she had learned to murmur well?
Now she thinks she'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over her eyes in soft eclipse
Over her brow, and over her lips.
Out to her little finger-tips!
Softly sinking—down she goes!
Down—she—goes!—down—she—goes!
See! she is hushed in sweet repose."
"As the doctor gazed on this lovely scene, and heard the beautifully touching words so fitly spoken, instead of smiling, he frowned and sighed, for his heart was troubled.
"Coming forward, he grumbled out, 'A family party, I see.'
"'Yes,' said the father, rising and smiling; 'and no one but yourself would find a welcome.'
"'So much the better,' growled the doctor. 'Nurse, light the gas.'
"'We have not lit it yet,' said the young mother, pointing to the two wax lights in a distant corner, 'because they tell me the eyes of infants are very weak and tender.'
"The doctor took no notice of this, only nodded to the nurse; and she, standing in mortal fear that he would cut her head off immediately if she hesitated, obeyed his order.
"The mother looked at her little child, who was still peacefully sleeping, and then shaded her eyes with her hand from the sudden blaze of light, thinking that though the doctor seemed very cruel, he must be doing what was right. Poor young mother!
"'I only need this last test before I tell you what it means,' said the doctor. 'Here, give me the child.'