It is hard to choose among so many charming songs, but I think you will like one other old English song that is also full of music if you read it properly. Be sure to accent the first syllable, Ba, making it as long as Sing ba together in the last stanza; and read as if Bá-loo-loo were one word. We do not hear this old word (báloo, or balow, or balou) often now, altho a few recent writers have used it. It was made of old nursery syllables used to lull babies to sleep, hence it came to mean any lullaby song. It has been out of use, but seems to be coming back again. This lullaby is so musical that it almost sings itself.

Baloo, loo, lammy, now baloo, my dear.

Does wee lammy ken that its daddy's no here?

Ye're rocking full sweetly on mammy's warm knee,

But daddy's a-rocking upon the salt sea.

Now hush-a-by, lammy, now hush-a-by, dear;
Now hush-a-by, lammy, for mother is near.

The wild wind is raving, and mammy's heart's sair;
The wild wind is raving, and ye dinna care.

Sing baloo, loo, lammy, sing baloo, my dear;
Sing baloo, loo, lammy, for mother is here.
My wee bairnie's dozing, it's dozing now fine,
And, oh, may its wakening be blither than mine!

Lady Nairne.

An American poet, Eugene Field, alone has written more than a dozen charming lullabies. We may well call him the Poet of Lullabies. One that boys and girls are sure to like is called "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”

A Zealand lullaby, founded upon Zealand folklore, may be interesting to you. You can find the whole story in Whittier's Kallundborg Church" in "The Tent on the Beach."

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And Esbern listened, and caught the sound
Of a Troll-wife singing underground:
"Tomorrow comes Fine, father thine:
Lie still and hush thee, baby mine;
Lie still, my darling! next sunrise
Thou❜lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and
"Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game?
Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"

eyes

I

I hope you will learn to understand and hence to love the Scottish dialect, which is full of the most charming songs. Obtain also for study, if posgive you one Scottish lullaby. sible, another one called "Cuddle Doon."

WILLIE WINKIE

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
"Are the weans in their bed? -

for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin' gey thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue! — glowerin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon;

Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a' kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel,
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel;

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:
See, there he comes!
Hey, Willie Winkie!

Weary is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

William Miller.

I hope you will read this poem until you feel its music sing to you. To make sure you understand it, I give you here a translation into modern English. Many of its words now called Scottish were once the common English form.

Little Winking Willie runs through the town, up-stairs and down-stairs in his night-gown, rattling at the window, crying at the lock, "Are the children in bed? for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Winking Willie! are you coming in? The cat's singing droning songs to the sleeping hen; the dog's stretched out on the floor, and does not give a peep; but here's a wakeful little boy who will not fall asleep.

Anything but sleep, you rogue! staring like the moon; rattling in an iron pitcher with an iron spoon; murmuring, tumbling 'round and about, crowing like a cock, screaming like I know not what- wakening sleeping folks!

Hey, Winking Willie! the child's in a fit, twisting off a body's knee like a very eel; pulling at the cat's ear and confusing all her songs, Hey, Winking Willie; see there he comes!

Weary is the mother who has a stirring [uneasy] child, a little stumpy [like a stump, stout and thick], sturdy one, that cannot run alone; that has a battle always with sleep before he'll close an eye; but a kiss from off his rosy lips gives strength

anew to me.

We seem to have no English word for stoussie, a strong,

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or

healthy child; nor for gey meaning considerable, or long-drawnout; a gey while equals a considerable while. Willie Winkie is the Scottish equivalent for the English "Sand Man " "Dust Man," who according to traditions of folklore goes about at night throwing sand or dust into wakeful eyes that should be asleep.

I hope you like "Willie Winkie," and that many of you will commit it to memory. The prince of song makers, Robert Burns, wrote nearly always in the Scottish dialect, and no one can afford not to understand it readily.

EXERCISES

I. Written: Find in some volume of your school library, or anywhere you can, a lullaby that you consider especially pleasing. Copy this lullaby, and read it aloud in class.

II. Written: Learn from the oldest persons you know in their own childhood. Copy every line carelullabies sung fully, upon a typewriter if possible. If the lullaby be an old one and partly forgotten, copy as much of it as you can obtain. the song. At the bottom of the page write your name, age, location, the date, and the name of the person giving you these lullabies have been read in class, bind or paste them into a lullaby book for future school use.

After

III. Mental, and then Written: Try to write a little lullaby of four, six, or eight lines. Be sure that it will sing. If you succeed, show your teacher what you have written.

A LETTER DIARY

This language of ours is in some sort like a steam engine; not a "dead" engine, with fires out and boiler cold, but a swift, powerful, "live" locomotive, ready to answer instantly the touch of its master's hand. Now, no one can run a locomotive-engine well without training, and he must also keep every least part bright and shining and well oiled. His work means good or ill, perhaps life or death, to other human beings.

So it is with that still more wonderful engine called language. A word spoken, a word even looked, has often meant death, or has meant life. Hence, of all man's inventions, any other one could be spared more easily than this contrivance for thinking and for communicating thought.

Just as we need practice in learning to use skilfully the simplest tool, even a boy's jackknife, so we also need much practice in order to gain command of that great thought machine, our mother tongue. For this reason, you need to begin now a daily, careful practice in its use. And, because most children like to write letters, and often write very good letters indeed, I shall ask you to put your work into the form of continuous letters. A continued letter, recounting daily occurrences and written for one's self, is, in fact, a diary. Diaries differ in tone from ordinary letters scarcely at all, except that they are apt to be more frank and unreserved.

Mere records of the weather do not make either letter or