Lullabies

When I was a little girl, my grandmother, or Memaw as we say here in the south, tucked me into bed with stories of Tweetie, the little bird who lived in the mimosa tree in her backyard. Tweetie was a young bird who loved to watch me climb trees and have picnic lunches and who was anxious to join in my fun. But, alas, Tweetie's mother told him that he could not play with me because he was a bird and I was a girl. It was just a poor match, I guess. Nevertheless, Tweetie was hard-headed and made valiant efforts at least to mimic my playtime. And, as one might expect, they ended with limited success and a valuable lesson of some sort. I probably fell asleep before that point. I don't tell Fain Tweetie stories. I doubt he's old enough. But I do sing "Fish and Bird" to him every night at bedtime. And also a song that I adapted from a Mother Goose rhyme about a ship captained by a duck in a jacket with a crew of bescarved mice.

I also sing a song that Memaw sang to me. I don't remember as many as she sang. She was, and is, a vault of mysterious tunes from eras past. And she has a lovely voice. I loved to hear her sing, and this particular song I begged her to sing over and over. It explains, I think, a lot about me. So here it is, as best as I can recall.

In love she fell, my shy bluebell
with a passing bumblebee.
He whispered low, "I love you so.
Please give your heart to me.
I promise you that I'll always be true.
Please give me your heart,
your heart, I pray."
She bent her head.
"I will," she said,
and, lo, he flew away.