The kind stone-people asked them to come and sit by their little fire; and in the dusk the woman whose baby had slept in a stone cradle took it up and began to sing to it. She seemed astonished when she heard that the apple-woman had power to go home if she could make up her mind to do it; and as she sang she looked at her with wonder and pity.
“Little babe, while burns the west,
Warm thee, warm thee in my breast;
While the moon doth shine her best,
And the dews distil not.
“All the land so sad, so fair—
Sweet its toils are, blest its care.
Child, we may not enter there!
Some there are that will not.
“Fain would I thy margins know,