A Lullaby
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The twilight breezes blow,
The flower bells are ringing,
The birds are twittering low,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The whippoorwill is calling,
The stars are twinkling faintly,
The dew is softly falling,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Upon your pillow lying,
The rushes whisper to the stream,
The summer day is dying,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
The Dressing-Sack Habit
Someone has said that a dressing-sack is only a Mother Hubbard with a college education. Accepting this statement as a great truth, one is inclined to wonder whether education has improved the Mother Hubbard, since another clever person has characterised a college as “a place where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed!”
The bond of relationship between the two is not at first apparent, yet there are subtle ties of kinship between the two. If we take a Hubbard and cut it off at the hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a yoke. The dressing-sack, however, cannot be walked on, even when the wearer is stooping, and in this respect it has the advantage of the other; it is also supposed to fit in the back, but it never does.
Doubtless in the wise economy of the universe, where every weed has its function, even this garment has its place—else it would not be.