falling,
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
Upon your pillow lying,
The rushes whisper to the stream,
The summer day is dying,
Sleep, baby, sleep.

The Dressing-Sack Habit

Someone has said that a dressing-sack is only a Mother Hubbard with a
college education. Accepting this statement as a great truth, one is
inclined to wonder whether education has improved the Mother Hubbard,
since another clever person has characterised a college as "a place
where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed!"

The bond of relationship between the two is not at first apparent, yet
there are subtle ties of kinship between the two. If we take a Hubbard
and cut it off at the hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a yoke.
The dressing-sack, however, cannot be walked on, even when the wearer
is stooping, and in this respect it has the advantage of the other; it
is also supposed to fit in the back, but it never does.

Doubtless in the wise economy of the universe, where every weed has
its function, even this garment has its place--else it would not be.

Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange one's crown of glory to better
advantage in a "boudoir negligee," or an invalid may be thus tempted
to think of breakfast. Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during
illness, when a friend presents the ailing lady with a dainty affair
of silk and lace which inclines the suffering soul to frivolities.
Presently she sits up, takes notice, and plans more garments of the
sort, so that after she fully recovers all the world may see these
becoming things!

The worst of the habit is that all the world does see. Fancy runs riot
with one pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the remnants a single
purse can compass. The lady with a kindly feeling for colour browses
along the bargain counter and speedily acquires a rainbow for her own.
Each morning she assumes a different phase, and, at the end of the
week, one's recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic whirl.

Red, now--is anything prettier than red? And how the men admire it!
Does not the dark lady build wisely who dons a red dressing-sack on a
cold morning, that her husband may carry a bright bit of colour to the
office in his fond memories of home?

A book with a red cover, a red cushion, crimson draperies, and scarlet
ribbons, are all notoriously pleasing to monsieur--why not a red
dressing-sack?

If questioned, monsieur does n