In enumerating the rewards for infantine virtue--which is sleep--I must not forget the celebrated hare's skin to be presented to Baby Bunting, and the "little fishy" that the English father, set to be nurse _ad interim_, promises his "babby" when the ship comes in; nor should I pass over the hopes raised in an inedited cradle song of French Flanders, which opens, like the Tuscan lullaby, with a short narration: Un jour un' pauv' dentilliere En amicliton ch'un petiot garchun, Qui d'puis le matin n'fesions que blaire, Voulait l'endormir par une canchun. In this barbarous _patios_, the poor lace-maker tells her "p'tit pocchin" (little chick) that to-morrow he shall have a cake made of honey, spices, and rye flour; that he shall be dressed in his best clothes "com' un bieau milord;" and that at "la Ducasse," a local _fete_, she will buy him a laughable Polchinello and a bird-organ playing the tune of the sugar-loaf hat. Toys are also promised in a Japanese lullaby, which the kindness of the late author of "Child-life in Japan" has enabled me to give in the original: Nen-ne ko y[=o]--nen-ne ko y[=o] Nen-ne no mori wa--doko ye yuta Ano yama koyete--sato ye yuta Sato no miyage ni--nani morota Ten-ten taiko ni--sh[=o] no fuye Oki-agari koboshima--inu hari-ko. Signifying in English: Lullaby, baby, lullaby, baby Baby's nursey, where has she gone Over those mountains she's gone to her village; And from her village, what will she bring? A tum-tum drum, and a bamboo flute, A "daruma" (which will never turn over) and a paper dog. Scope is allowed for unlimited extension, as the singer can go on mentioning any number of toys. The _Daruma_ is what English children call a tumbler; a figure weighted at the bottom, so that turn it how you will, it always regains its equilibrium. More ethereal delights than chocolate, hare's skins, bird-organs, or even paper dogs (though these last sound irresistibly seductive), form the subject of a beautiful little Greek song of consolation: "Lullaby, lullaby, thy mother is coming back from the laurels by the river, from the sweet banks she will bring thee flowers; all sorts of flowers, roses, and scented pinks." When she does come back, the Greek mother makes such promises as eclipse all the rest: "Sleep, my child, and I will give thee Alexandria for thy sugar, Cairo for thy rice, and Constantinople, there to reign three years!" Those who see deep meaning in childish things will look with interest at the young Greek woman, who sits vaguely dreaming of empire while she rocks her babe. The song is particularly popular in Cyprus; the English residents there must be familiar with the melody--an air constructed on the Oriental scale, and only the other day set on paper. The few bars of music are like a sigh of passionate longing.