I had a lit-tle boy; He died when he was young.
As soon as he was dead, He walked upon his tongue!
Our mother’s ear for music was exquisitely fine,—so fine, that when she was in her own room, and a child practising below-stairs played a false note, she would open her door and cry, “B flat, clear! not B natural!” This being; so, it was grievous to her when one day, during her precious study hour, Harry came and chanted outside her door:
“Hong-kong! hong-kong! hong-kong!”
“Harry!” she cried, “do stop that dreadful noise!” But when the little lad showed a piteous face, and said reproachfully, “Why, Mamma, I was singing to you!” who so ready as our mother to listen to the funny song and thank the child for it?
When ten-year-old Laura wrote, in a certain precious little volume bound in Scotch plaid, “Whence these longings after the infinite?” (I cannot remember any more!) be sure that if any eyes were suffered to rest upon the sacred lines they were those kind, clear, understanding gray eyes of our mother.
Through all and round all, like a laughing river, flowed the current of her wit and fun. No child could be sad in her company. If we were cold, there was a merry bout of “fisticuffs” to warm us; if we were too warm, there was a song or story while we sat still and “cooled off.” We all had nicknames, our own names being often too sober to suit her laughing mood. We were “Petotty,” “Jehu,” “Wolly,” and “Bunks of Bunktown.”