Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook himself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had lately shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paid him a visit in his humble cell.
The rosy clouds float overhead The sun is going down, And now the Sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town.
"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand.
“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet.
“Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search of are to be found.”
Blue eyes, black eyes, gray eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.