The anguish of the Hindu dying childless has its root deeper down in the human heart than the reason he gives for it, the foolish fear lest his funeral rites be not properly performed. No man quite knows what it is to die who leaves a child in the world; children are more than a link with the future--they _are_ the future: the portion of ourselves that belongs not to this day but to to-morrow. To them may be transferred all the hopes sadly laid by, in our own case, as illusions; the "to be" of their young lives can be turned into a beautiful "arrangement in pink," even though experience has taught us that the common lot of humanity is "an Imbroglio in Whity-brown." Most parents do all this and much more; as lullabies would show were there any need for the showing of it. One cradle-song, however, faces the truth that of all sure things the surest is that sorrow and disappointment will fall upon the children as it has fallen upon the fathers. The song comes from Germany; the English version is by Mr C. G. Leland: Sleep, little darling, an angel art thou! Sleep, while I'm brushing the flies from your brow. All is as silent as silent can be; Close your blue eyes from the daylight and me. This is the time, love, to sleep and to play; Later, oh later, is not like to-day, When care and trouble and sorrow come sore You never will sleep, love, as sound as before. Angels from heaven as lovely as thou Sweep round thy bed, love, and smile on thee now; Later, oh later, they'll come as to-day, But only to wipe all the tear-drops away. Sleep, little darling, while night's coming round, Mother will still by her baby be found; If it be early, or if it be late, Still by her baby she'll watch and she'll wait. The sad truth is there, but with what tenderness is it not hedged about! These Teutonic angels are worth more than the too sensitive little angels of Spain who fly away at the sight of tears. And the last verse conveys a second truth, as consoling as the first is sad; pass what must, change what may, the mother's love will not change or pass; its healing presence will remain till death; who knows? perhaps after. Signor Salomone-Marino records the cry of one, who out of the depths blesses the haven of maternal love: Mamma, Mammuzza mia, vu' siti l'arma, Lu me rifugiu nni la sorti orrenna, Vui siti la culonna e la giurlanna, Lu celu chi vi guardi e vi mantegna! The soul that directs and inspires, the refuge that shelters, the column that supports, the garland that crowns--such language would not be natural in the mouth of an English labourer. An Englishman who feels deeply is almost bound to hold his tongue; but the poor Sicilian can so express himself in perfect naturalness and simplicity.