Creep in my hand, little fingers, creep,
Little dear baby, rest.’
The lashes lay quiet again on the little cheeks, one small hand uncurled from Dot’s finger, and lay open on her knee. Again the logs fell apart, again the castles grew glorious. Baby’s hand curled up again, but the sweet lashes were too heavy to lift.
‘This is the place for a baby’s head,
And this is the place for its feet,
Rock-a-by off to the land of bed,
Lull-a-by, hush small sweet.’
A wild gust of wind flung itself at the cottage, every door and window rattled, the garden gate clicked and then banged.
‘Lull-a-by, sweet,
Rock-a-by, sleep,