They would put me into the old-fashioned, low, red cradle which father
made large enough for us all to crowd into. There they would rock and
sing the old French ballads mother had taught them, sometimes rocking so
hard we would all be spilled out on the floor; and that floor! I
remember it now, so white and clean with mother sitting near in her
sewing chair, sewing and joining in the singing. Then pretty Aunt Abbie
coming in; she always looked to me like a picture, with her great dark
eyes and black hair braided so smoothly and pretty red cheeks with white
teeth just showing between red lips. She, too, would join in the
singing, which is pleasant to remember.