And yet she doesn't care.
I love my mother's hair.

And then the way her fingers go;
They look so quick and white,--
In and out, and to and fro,
And braiding in the light,
And it is always right.

So then she winds it, shiny brown,
Around her head into a crown,
Just like the day before.
And then she looks and pats it down,
And looks a minute more;
While I stay here all still and cool.
Oh, isn't morning beautiful?


FOOTNOTES:

[24] From _The Singing Leaves_, by Josephine Preston Peabody.




THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL


Do you know what a Brahmin is? A Brahmin is a very good and gentle kind
of man who lives in India, and who treats all the beasts as if they were