all the difference.

CHAPTER XXII

The Parrot House

[Illustration: RED LAKE AND HILL.

As seen (without the water) from the Taraha Nursery.]

THE time to see the Taraha nursery at its best is between late evening
and early morning, and again about noon. It is perfectly peaceful then.
Thirty mats are spread upon the floor. Thirty babies are strewn upon the
mats. All the thirty are asleep. A sleeping baby is good. Thirty babies
all good at once is something we cannot promise at any other hour.

Shading your lantern, and walking carefully so as not to tread on more
scattered limbs than may be, you wander round the nursery and meditate
upon the beautiful ways of childhood. There is something so touching in
sleeping innocence, and you are touched. Here two chubby babies are
lying locked in each other's arms. You have to look twice before you see
which limbs belong to which. There another is hugging a doll minus its
head. Next to her a baby sleeps pillowed on another, and the other does
not mind. In the middle of the floor, far from her mat, a sturdy
three-year-old sprawls content. You pick her up gently and lay her on
her mat. With an expression of determined resolution the baby rolls off
again; and if you attempt another remove, an ominous pucker of the
forehead warns you to desist. You wonder if the babies are quite as
good as they seem. One of the dear, fat, devoted little pair you
noticed at first, stirs, disentangles herself from her neighbour, and
gives her a slight kick. There is a smothered, sleepy howl, and the kick
is returned. "Water!" wails the first fat baby. "Water!" wails the
second. You get water, give it, pat both fat babies till they go to
sleep, and then cautiously retire. It would be a pity if all the babies
were to waken thirsty and kick each other. At the door you turn and look
back. Graceful babies, clumsy babies, babies who lie extended like young
pokers, babies curled like kittens. All sorts of babies, good, bad, and
middling, but all blessedly asleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father guards his sheep,
Thy mother shakes the dreamland-tree
Down fall the little dreams for thee,
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Our Saviour loves His sheep.
He is the Lamb of God on high,
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

The pretty German lullaby