"Thing more about your little Joy! More about me."
The sleepy child cuddled closer and, as I continued to sing, I knew that at least one person in the room understood that a creature so blessed as I could never cry herself ill.
"Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the West—"
"Milly and I have tributes, too," laughed Ethel. "The Trumpet says we're just as charming girls as our wonderful cousin. And the Record prints snapshots at Joy and her nursemaid. Aren't newspapers funny?"
"Some one of us should be running for office," said Uncle Timothy. "It seems gratuitous to subject an unambitious private family to the treatment expected by a candidate or a multi-millionaire. Yet I have seldom had occasion to complain of the press. In its own perhaps headlong manner, it pursues such matters as are of greatest public importance. A household, to avoid its attentions, should be provided with good, plain, durable countenances. The difficulty with this family is its excess of attraction."
He patted Aunt's hand affectionately, while I sang:—
"—Under the silver moon Sleep, my little Joy, sleep, my pretty Joy, sleep—"
"—but, Uncle, what shall I do?"
"Nothing. In a shorter time than now seems possible, another topic will supersede you. Then, as one of our Presidents has aptly said, you will sink into 'innocuous desuetude.'"
But of course I sha'n't!