Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?
Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,
And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?
Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,
And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”
And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,
Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”
Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,
As though they feared another storm would bark upon her head?
What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?