Sometimes he thought it must have been the twittering of the swallows--over the shallows, you, know; but it may have been the chirping of the dingy sparrows picking up their breakfast in the yard--how can I tell?
I don't know what I know, I only know what I think; and to tell the truth, I am more for the swallows than the sparrows.

When he knew he was coming awake, he would sometimes try hard to keep hold of the words of what seemed a new song, one he had not heard before--a song in which the words and the music somehow appeared to be all one; but even when he thought he had got them well fixed in his mind, ever as he came awaker--as he would say--one line faded away out of it, and then another, and then another, till at last there was nothing left but some lovely picture of water or grass or daisies, or something else very common, but with all the commonness polished off it, and the lovely soul of it, which people so seldom see, and, alas! yet seldomer believe in, shining out.

But after that he would sing the oddest, loveliest little songs to the baby--of his own making, his mother said; but Diamond said he did not make them; they were made somewhere inside him, and he knew nothing about them till they were coming out.
When he woke that first morning he got up at once, saying to himself, "I've been ill long enough, and have given a great deal of trouble; I must try and be of use now, and help my mother." When he went into her room he found her lighting the fire, and his father just getting out of bed.

They had only the one room, besides the little one, not much more than a closet, in which Diamond slept.

He began at once to set things to rights, but the baby waking up, he took him, and nursed him till his mother had got the breakfast ready.