have been very tired and the ankle very sore; but I do not think
she stopped for that. When such a cradle as that got a-going, it kept on
for years.

Scarlet-fever came in the door, and we all had it; and oh, how the cradle
did go! We contended as to who should lie in it, for sickness, you know,
makes babies of us all. But after a while we surrendered it to Charlie. He
was too old to lie in it, but he seemed so very, very sick; and with him in
the cradle it was "Rock!" "Rock!" "Rock!" But one day, just as long ago as
you can remember, the cradle stopped. When a child is asleep, there is no
need of rocking. Charlie was asleep. He was sound asleep. Nothing would
wake him. He needed taking up. Mother was too weak to do it. The neighbors
came in to do that, and put a flower, fresh out of the garden-dew, between
the two still hands. The fever had gone out of the cheek, and left it
white, very white--the rose exchanged for the lily. There was one less to
contend for the cradle. It soon started again, and with a voice not quite
so firm as before, but more tender, the old song came back: "Bye! bye!
bye!" which meant more to you than "Il Trovatore," rendered by opera troupe
in the presence of an American audience, all leaning forward and nodding to
show how well they understood Italian.

There was a wooden canopy at the head of the old cradle that somehow got
loose and was taken off. But your infantile mind was most impressed with
the face which much of the time hovered over you. Other women sometimes
looked in at the child, and said: "That child's hair will be red!" or,
"What a peculiar chin!" or, "Do you think that child will live to grow up?"
and although you were not old enough to understand their talk, by instinct
you knew it was something disagreeable, and began to cry till the dear,
sweet, familiar face again hovered and the rainbow arched the sky. Oh, we
never get away from the benediction of such a face! It looks at us through
storm and night. It smiles all to pieces the world's frown. After
thirty-five years of rough, tumbling on the world's couch, it puts us in
the cradle again, and hushes us as with the very lullaby of heaven.

Let the old cradle rest in the garret. It has earned its quiet. The hands
that shook up its pillow have quit work. The foot that kept the rocker in
motion is through with its journey. The face that hovered has been veiled
from mortal sight. Cradle of blessed memories! Cradle that soothed so m