er about.

Hark! What is that stealing thro' silence and gloom,
To fill with sweet melody Grandma's lone room?
What brings that fond smile, and dispels every trace
Of sadness and tears on the dear, aged face?

[Illustration]

Only a lullaby, gentle and low,
Which a mother, while rocking her babe to and fro,
Croons over and over, for baby alone,
Till far into dreamland his spirit hath flown.

Only the lullaby all mothers love,
Listened to daily by angels above;
The dear, quaint old song which will ever seem best
To sing to our babies and lull them to rest--

_The Lullaby_.

[Illustration: Music Sheet detail:]

"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently fall upon thy head."

Crooning it softly, and crooning it low,
Rocking and nestling with--"By-baby-O!"
Loving the melody known the world o'er,
And adding sweet words that our baby loves more.

So sings this mother to baby to-night,
While nearer and nearer the dream-angel bright
Is hovering 'mid shadows, till baby ere long
Lies slumbering, and hushed is the lullaby song.

While mother takes up a new duty, and so
From one to another will busily go.
But the dear aged heart in the room just beyond,
Still lingers and rests amid memories fond.

The strains of the lullaby bear her away
O'er the lapse of long years to her own childhood's.
She is living again 'neath her babyhood's skies
Where sunshine is dancing before her blue eyes.

[Illustration: Grandma's a maiden]

She sees her dear mother, and hears the sweet voice,
Whose fond, tender tones made her young heart rejoice,
She climbs to the arms ever patient to bear
The wee, tired toddler, and all burdens share.

How well she recalls the sweet hour of rest,
When nestling her head on that dear mother's breast,
She sank into slumber, lulled gently and low,
By the strains of the soft old-time lullaby--O!

Again does she listen to every fond word
That love on the lips of the singer hath stirred;
The "By-oh, my baby!" which mother knows best,
Will comfort and soothe the young child to its rest.

And Grandma forgets the deep lines on her face,
Which tell of the years--the years long flown apace;
She does not remember that Time has left snow
On the head that was golden so long, long ago.

[Illustration]

She is only a child as she listens to-night--
With a sense of the old childish rest and delight--
To the voice of the mother who so