At Singing Time by Anne P. L. Field

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 14, 1910

At Singing Time

By Anne P. L. Field

I HAVE a little daughter, Who's scarcely half past three, And in the quiet twilight hour She climbs upon my knee, And snuggles down within my arms With, “Mother, sing to me!”

The light grows faint and fainter; The Sandman guards the door; My baby's boat drifts slowly Upon the slumber shore; But if the singing stops, she cries, “O mother! sing some more!”

I sing about the squirrels That frolic in the wood; About two furry kittens, One naughty and one good; And then some tender lullabies, Just as a mother should.

I'm sure no prima donna Adored from east to west, Feels half the satisfaction, Or is so truly blest, As I, when singing to my child Held closely to my breast.

Not all the fame and glory Of divas can compare With that deep thrill of pleasure Which is my humble share; For precious are the laurel wreaths That singing mothers wear!

—Anne P. L. Field.