he babas? Tell the lady I have beautiful things to
shew.' Away trips the ayah to her mistress, and good-naturedly, or
perhaps--no, it _shall_ be good-naturedly--lays the discovery before
her that some trifle is wanted. The man is called in, and succeeds in
disposing of some of his wares, ribbons, laces, or silks; and the
ayah, besides having obliged the lady and the pedler, enjoys a small
modicum of satisfaction herself--who would grudge it?--in pocketing
the _dustooree_--a discount of two pice, or half an anna on each
rupee.

There are ayahs of various castes. The Portuguese ayahs (Roman
Catholic Christians, born in the country) are no doubt the most
intelligent and useful; but they are more expensive than the Mussulman
and Lall Beggies, and are therefore not so frequently employed:
indeed, it is only in the neighbourhood of Calcutta that they are
procurable at all. As the Hindostanee women neither knit nor sew, they
seem to devote their energies exclusively to their infant charge. The
baba is their work and their play, the exercise of their thoughts, the
substance of their dreams. He is the only book they read; and the only
expansion their minds know is from the unfolding of the pages of his
character. They are proud of that baba, and proud of themselves for
being his. What a sight it is, the ayah coming in at the dessert, in
her rustling silks and transparent muslins--so stately in her
humility, so smilingly self-satisfied--surrounded by the children, and
holding in her dark, smooth, jewelled arms the son and heir of the
family, whom she presents to papa to get a bit of cake or sweetmeat!

This is a grand moment for the ayah. Are not the children _hers_? Have
they not lain upon her bosom all their little lives? And have not the
charms which she detected with the first glance of her glittering eye,
been developed under her care into the marvels now before the company?
But the more tranquil and permanent happiness of the ayah is enjoyed
while she is watching alone the opening of her buds of beauty, and
steeping their slumbering senses in the sweet wild music of her
country. I still sometimes hear in fancy her cradle-song humming in my
own Old Indian ear as I am falling asleep--although many a long year
has passed since I heard it in reality, and many a long league is now
between me and the land of the dear, good, black, comical, kindly
ayah. Let me try whether I cannot render it, even loosely, in our own
strong Anglo