"'Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!" But he was not in a musical mood this morning: he felt in a hurry to be off; and giving his mother a hasty kiss, he bounded away without his shingle-covered spelling-book, and had to come back after it. Foolish Willy! Did he think his mamma would not find out the deep-laid plot, which had cost him so much labor? Children have no idea how bright their parents are! It was a very cold day in December, and as Mrs. Parlin kept up a roaring fire, she came before noon to the upright sticks standing in the wood-box, as straight as soldiers on a march. She sighed a little, and smiled a little, but said not a word, for she was a wise woman, was Mrs. Parlin. "Well, Willy boy," said she, when he came home from school, and had had his supper of brown bread, baked apples, and milk, "come, let us have a sing." There was nothing Willy and his mother enjoyed better than a "sing," she holding him in her lap and rocking him the while. He put his whole soul into the music, miscalling the Scotch words sometimes so charmingly that it was a real delight to hear him. People often stopped at the threshold, I am told, or at the open window in summer, to listen to the clear childish voice in such ballads as,-- "Fy! let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair." To-night it was "Colin's Come to Town;" and Willy's tones rang sweet and high,-- "His very step has music in't, As he comes up the stair." "Did you ever hear the beat of that little chap for singing?" said Caleb, in the bar-room, to Dr. Hilton and Mr. Griggs. Since that sad affair of the ox-money Caleb had loved Willy better than ever, though it would be hard to tell why; perhaps because the child had been so glad to see him come back again. "Bless him!" said Love, bringing the brass warming-pan into the "fore-room," to fill it with coals at the fireplace. "Why, mother, I never hear the name 'Willy,' but it makes me think of music. It sounds as sweet as if you said 'nightingale.'" Mrs. Parlin answered by folding the singing-bird closer to her heart. "And do you know what the word 'Mother' makes me think of?--Of a great large woman, always just ready to hug somebody." Mrs. Parlin laughed. "Yes, indeed it does. And it doesn't seem as if a small woman is really fit to be called mother. There's Dorcas Lyman: when she says 'Mother' to that little woman, it sounds so queer to me; for Mrs. Lyman isn't big enough, you know." "_Course_ she isn't; not half big enough," said Willy. "I could 'most lift her with my little finger. But, then, that baby--she's got a real nice baby; wish she'd give Patty to me." Love smiled, and walked off, with her long-handled warming-pan, to heat a traveller's bed in the icy north chamber.