"May I have one?"
"The doctor may not want you to have it," said her anxious nurse.
"Just to hold in my hand," begged Madge.
So Mary picked a golden apple, and when the doctor came after dark, he found the room in all the dimness of shaded lamplight, and the golden girl asleep with that golden globe in her hand.
Up-stairs the mulatto girl, Daisy, was putting Fiddle-dee-dee to sleep.
"You be good, and Daisy gwine tell you a story."
Fiddle liked songs better. "Sing 'Jack-Sam bye.'"
Daisy, without her corsets and in disreputable slippers, settled herself to an hour of ease. She had the negro's love of the white child, and a sensuous appreciation of the pleasant twilight, the bedtime song, the rhythm of the rocking-chair.
"Well, you lissen," she said, and rocked in time to the tune.
Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye.
Bye, oh, bye, my baby,
When you wake, you shall have a cake—
And all the pretty little horses