I knew that a baby was hid in that house, Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry; But the husband was tip-toeing 'round like a mouse, And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby; And there was a look on the face of the mother, That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other. The mother, I said to myself, for I knew That the woman before me was certainly that; And there lay in a corner a tiny cloth shoe, And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat; And the beard of the husband said, plain as could be, 'Two fat chubby hands have been tugging at me.' And he took from his pocket a gay picture-book, And a dog that could bark, if you pulled on a string; And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look; And I said to myself, 'There is no other thing But a babe that could bring about all this, and so That one thing is in hiding somewhere, I know.' I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more, And heard not a sound, yet I know I was right; What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor, The book and the toy, and the faces so bright; And what made the husband as still as a mouse? I am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that house.

zahida