The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere, And, like wing’d spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.” And, somehow, with that little pray’r And that sweet treble in my ears, My thought goes back to distant years, And lingers with a dear one there; And as I hear my child’s amen, My mother’s faith comes back to me-- Crouched at her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again. Oh, for an hour in that dear place-- Oh, for the peace of that dear time-- Oh, for that childish trust sublime-- Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone-- Sweet magic of that treble tone And “Now I lay me down to sleep!” COBBLER AND STORK _Cobbler._ Stork, I am justly wroth, For thou hast wronged me sore; The ash roof-tree that shelters thee Shall shelter thee no more! _Stork._ Full fifty years I’ve dwelt Upon this honest tree, And long ago (as people know!) I brought thy father thee. What hail hath chilled thy heart, That thou shouldst bid me go? Speak out, I pray--then I’ll away, Since thou commandest so. _Cobbler._ Thou tellest of the time When, wheeling from the west, This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’st Unto a mother’s breast. _I_ was the wretched child Was fetched that dismal morn-- ’Twere better die than be (as I) To life of misery born! And hadst thou borne me on Still farther up the town, A king I’d be of high degree, And wear a golden crown! For yonder lives the prince Was brought that selfsame day: How happy he, while--look at me! I toil my life away! And see my little boy-- To what estate he’s born! Why, when I die no hoard leave I But poverty and scorn. And _thou_ hast done it all-- I might have been a king And ruled in state, but for thy hate, Thou base, perfidious thing! _Stork._