The wreath that surrounded the child was not circular but oblong, almost as though engirding a tiny grave, but this Mehetabel did not see.
Playing the cradle with her foot, with the sun shining in at the window and streaking the foot, she sang—
"My heart is like a fountain true
That flows and flows with love to you;
As chirps the lark unto the tree,
So chirps my pretty babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby."
But the answer was a peevish moan from the bed. The young mother stooped over the cradle.
"Oh, little lark! little lark! this is no chirp,
Would you were as glad and as gay as the lark!"
Then, resuming her rocking, she sang,
"There's not a rose where'er I seek
As comely as my baby's cheek.
There's not a comb of honey bee,
So full of sweets as babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby."
Again she bowed over the crib, and all the rocking flowers quivered and stood still.
"Baby, darling! Why are there such poor roses in your little cheek? I would value them above all the China roses ever grown! Look at the Red Robin, my sweet, my sweet, and become as pink as is that."
"There's not a star that shines on high
Is brighter than my baby's eye.
There's not a boat upon the sea
Can dance as baby does to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby."