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"Well, you lissen," she said, and rocked in time to the tune. Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye. Bye, oh, bye, my baby, When you wake, you shall have a cake And all the pretty little horses Her voice was low and pleasant, with queer, quavering minor cadences. But Fiddle-dee-dee was not sleepy. "'Tory," she begged, when the song was ended. So Daisy told the story of the three bears.
And so that night the lights of the blue room shone on Fiddle Flippin and her new grandmother. "Do you think she would let me put her to bed?" Mrs. Beaufort had asked Mary. "If you will sing, 'Jack-Sam Bye." Mary pulled the last little garment from the pink plump body, and Fiddle, like a rosy Cupid, counted her toes gleefully in the middle of the wide bed.
"Well, you lissen," she said, and rocked in time to the tune. Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye. Bye, oh, bye, my baby, When you wake, you shall have a cake And all the pretty little horses Her voice was low and pleasant, with queer, quavering minor cadences. But Fiddle-dee-dee was not sleepy. "'Tory," she begged, when the song was ended. So Daisy told the story of the three bears.
And so that night the lights of the blue room shone on Fiddle Flippin and her new grandmother. "Do you think she would let me put her to bed?" Mrs. Beaufort had asked Mary. "If you will sing, 'Jack-Sam Bye." Mary pulled the last little garment from the pink plump body, and Fiddle, like a rosy Cupid, counted her toes gleefully in the middle of the wide bed.
"You be good, and Daisy gwine tell you a story." Fiddle liked songs better. "Sing 'Jack-Sam bye." Daisy, without her corsets and in disreputable slippers, settled herself to an hour of ease. She had the negro's love of the white child, and a sensuous appreciation of the pleasant twilight, the bedtime song, the rhythm of the rocking-chair.
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