The book, it seems, like other books, had told but half the story. Mother knew the other half. Cock Robin was murdered, murdered in cold blood, it was true, but—O merciful, death-winged arrow!—he had gone where the good birds go. And there—O joy!—he had met his robin wife and his little robin boy, who had gone before. "And I expect they are all there now, dear," she told you, kissing your tear-stained cheek, "the happiest robins that ever were." Dry and wide were your eyes. In the place where the good birds go, you saw Cock Robin. His eyes and his fat, red breast were bright again. He chirped. He sang. He hopped from bough to bough, with his robin wife and his little robin boy. For in the mending of little stories or the mending of little hearts, like the mending of little stockings, Mother was wonderful. In those times there were knees to your stockings, knees with holes in them at the end of the day, with the soiled skin showing through. "Just look!" Mother would cry. "Just look there! And I’d only just mended them." "Well, you see, Mother, when you play Black Bear—" "I see," she said, and before you went to bed you would be sitting on the edge of a tub, paddling your feet in the water. [Illustration: "BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED"] "You dirty boy," she would be saying, scrubbing at the scratched, black knees; but when you were shining again she would be saying— "You darling!" And though your stockings were whole in the clean of morning when you scampered out into the sun, in the dirt of night when you scampered back again—O skein, where is thy yarn? O darning-needle, where is thy victory? Summer mornings, in the arbor-seat of the garden, Mother would be sewing, her lap brimming, her work-basket at her feet, the sun falling golden through the trellised green. In the nap of the afternoon, when even the birds drowsed and the winds slept, she would be sewing, ever sewing. And when night fell and the dishes were put away, she would be sewing still, in the lamp-light’s yellow glow. "Mother, why do you sew and sew?" "To make my little boy blue sailor suits and my little girl white frocks, and to stop the holes." "Do you like to sew, Mother?" "I don’t mind it." "But doesn’t it make you tired, Mother?" "Oh, now and then." "But I should think you’d rest sometimes, Mother." "Should you, dear?" "Yes, I would. Oh, I’d sew a _little_—just enough—and then I’d play." "But Mother does sew _just enough_, and it takes all day, my dear. What do you say to that?" You pondered. "Well," you said, and stopped. "Well?" she said, and laughed. Then you laughed, too. "A mother," you told them afterwards, "is a person what takes care of you, and loves you, and sews and sews—just enough—all day." Since mothers take care of little boys, they told you, little boys should take care of their mothers, too. So right in front of her you stood, bravely, your fists clinched, your lips trembling, your eyes flashing with rage and tears.