You look like a very small heathen Chinee.
Get the sleep all washed off and hang it up to dry,
And then you'll look as fresh as if you'd just come from the sky."
When all the stars are shining,
Each little sleepy-head
Is lying in a funny bunch
Within the little bed.
Their eyes are so wide open,
They stay awake so long,
They're calling me to tell to them
A story or a song.
So up the stairs again I come,
The magic willow bringing,
And wave it here and wave it there,
While o'er and o'er I'm singing:
"Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep;
Sailing away on the dreamy deep;
Sister to watch you and angels to keep;
Sailing away and away and away,
Away on the d-r-e-a-m-y deep;
Sleep, sleep, s-l-e-e-p, sleep."
[Illustration]
THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD.
BY LOUISE STOCKTON.
"Do tell me one more story; just _one_ more!" said the little boy.
It certainly was getting late. The fire lighted the room, the shadows
danced in the corners.
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