“No, no, no, no! lay on Met lap. Met dit Lenny seep,” he said, wriggling himself away from the crone, and going up to Meg. What girl does not doat on little children? What girl, under these circumstances, would not have met the baby’s advances with delight? The poor young daughter of thieves and beggars took the child up in her arms and looked around for a seat. “Well, then, if you have got to nurse him, I will give you my chair,” said the old woman, rising and throwing herself down upon the bed. Meg took the seat and arranged the drowsy child comfortably on her lap. “Wock me! wock me, Met,” said little Lenny. There were no rockers on the rickety chair, but Meg moved her body backwards and forwards, and so gave the baby the best rocking she could. “Now sin’ to me, Met.” Meg looked perplexed at this request, for a moment, but soon recovered herself. Fortunately, Mother Goose’s melodies are the common property of infant humanity, from the royal palace to the rag-picker’s hut, and Meg struck up the nursery-classic— “By, Baby-Bunting!” She had a very sweet voice, which certainly soothed the child, for he listened in drowsy delight. He well understood that he himself was the Baby-Bunting in question. But when she sang the next line: “Popper’s gone a-hunting.” He opened his sleepy eyes and said: “No, no; me dot no popper!” “Never mind; some Baby-Buntings have—” “Mommer’s gone a-milking.” “No, no; Lenny mammer don’t go miltin’! _Dane_ do miltin’, and _Mawy_, and _Suzy_—down home in tountry. And Lenny do wid ’em too—see milt tow,” he exclaimed, quite waking up, as the memory of the rural pleasures of Old Lyon Hall flashed over his mind. “Well, never mind; some mommers do, you know—” “Sister’s gone a silking.” “Lenny ain’t dot no sister—not one,” he said. “Brother’s gone to get a skin To wrap my Baby-Bunting in— A pretty little rabbit skin, To wrap my Baby-Bunting in.” “No, no, no; Lenny ain’t dot no brudder. _Dit_ do after yabbits,” said Lenny, very drowsily. He was almost asleep, and the girl continued her chanting: but presently as his eyes were about closing, he suddenly started up: “Met?” “What does my pretty want?” “When Doosa tomes, wate me up.” “Yes, that I will.” “Dood night, Met!” “Good night, little angel!” “Tiss me first, Met; tiss Lenny dood-night, Met!” The girl stooped and kissed the child almost passionately, and murmured: “Who could hurt him, the darling?” But Lenny’s eyelids were weighed down with sleep, and he was almost gone again, when, once more he called: “Met, I fordot to say my p’ayers. Hear me say my p’ayers, Met!”