The wind laughed, snatched the tumbleweed and tossed it on.
"The wind seems to be tryin' itself," complained Cyclona, getting up once more and walking about with the child in her arms, singing as she walked:
"Sleep, baby, sleep,
The big stars are the sheep,
The little stars are the lambs, I guess,
The wind is the shepherdess,
Sleep,
Baby,
Sleep."
The wind grew furious.
With a wild yell it burst the door of the dugout open.
Cyclona put the baby back on the bed, faced the fury of the wind a moment, then cried out to it:
"Why can't you behave?"
Then she shut the door and placed a chair against it, taking the baby up and again walking it back and forth, up and down and back and forth.
"It's just tryin' itself," she repeated.