My brother would say, "Is it possible? I always thought he was
so delicate!"

Our village people would all say in amazement, "Was it not lucky
that the boy was with his mother?"




THE END


It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.

When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
there!"--mother, I am going.

I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I
shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.

In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will
hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the
lightning through the open window into your room.

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night,
I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep mother, sleep."