“Bah, ’tis bally reasoning! I plucked a gosling for a goose, and found down enough to pad the parson’s saddle skirts!”
At another time she began:
“Rain, art thou the tears wept a thousand years agone, and soaked into the granite walls of dumb and feelingless races? Now——”
There was a long pause and then came this lullaby:
Oh, baby, soft upon my breast press thou,
And let my fluttering throat spell song to thee,
A song that floweth so, my sleeping dear:
Oh, buttercups of eve,
Oh, willynilly,
My song shall flutter on,