He laid the little chap gently on his back and tried to repeat the frolic of the earlier hours. He rolled the small bronze body in the grass, as before, and petted him fondly. But the baby merely winked his eyes. He seemed about to cry, but he made no sound. Adam’s fingers ceased their play, for the joy departed from them swiftly.
“Maybe you’re tired and sleepy,” he crooned. “Shall I put on your shirt and sing you a little Indian lullaby? Yes? That’s what he wants, little tired scamp.”
He adjusted the abbreviated shirt, awkwardly, but tenderly, after which he held his partner in his arms and hummed and sang the words of a Wampanoag song, which he had heard in his boyhood, times without number. The song started with addresses to some of the elements, thus:
“Little Brook, it is night,
Be quiet, and let my baby sleep.
“Little wind, it is night,
Go away, and let my baby sleep.
“Little storm, it is night,
Be still, and let my baby sleep.
“Little wolf, it is night,