“In spite of the excitement of the day I went to bed and slept as usual, but awoke next morning in the gray of the early dawn, and to my astonishment found that the wished-for lines were arranging themselves in my brain. I lay quite still until the last verse had completed itself in my thoughts, then hastily rose, saying to myself, ‘I shall lose this if I don’t write it down immediately.’ I searched for a sheet of paper and an old stump of a pen which I had had the night before, and began to scrawl the lines almost without looking, as I had learned to do by often scratching down verses in the darkened room where my little children were sleeping. Having completed this, I lay down again and fell asleep, but not without feeling that something of importance had happened to me. “The poem was published soon after this time in the Atlantic Monthly. It first came prominently into notice when Chaplain McCabe, newly released from Libby Prison, gave a lecture in Washington, and in the course of it told how he and his fellow-prisoners, having somehow become possessed of a copy of the ‘Battle Hymn,’ sang it with a will in their prison, on receiving surreptitious tidings of a Union victory.” Our mother’s genius might soar as high as heaven on the wings of such a song as this; but we always considered that she was tied to our little string, and we never doubted (alas!) our perfect right to pull her down to earth whenever a matter of importance--such as a doll’s funeral or a sick kitten--was at hand. To her our confidences were made, for she had a rare understanding of the child-mind. We were always sure that Mamma knew “just how it was.” To her did Julia, at the age of five, or it may have been six, impart the first utterances of her infant Muse. “Mamma,” said the child, trembling with delight and awe, “I have made a poem, and set it to music!” Of course our mother was deeply interested, and begged to hear the composition; whereupon, encouraged by her voice and smile, Julia sang as follows:-- [Illustration: Music I had a lit-tle boy; He died when he was young.] [Illusration: Music As soon as he was dead, He walked upon his tongue!] Our mother’s ear for music was exquisitely fine,--so fine, that when she was in her own room, and a child practising below-stairs played a false note, she would open her door and cry, “B _flat_, clear! not B natural!” This being; so, it was grievous to her when one day, during her precious study hour, Harry came and chanted outside her door: “Hong-kong! hong-kong! hong-kong!” “Harry!” she cried, “do stop that dreadful noise!” But when the little lad showed a piteous face, and said reproachfully, “Why, Mamma, I was singing to you!” who so ready as our mother to listen to the funny song and thank the child for it?