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Sorry, due to a computer malfunction, we are temporarily unable to post pictures of the newly four year old boy. I can report that this morning, he anxiously demanded whether the underpants I was proffering were FOUR-year old underpants? Weren't they his OLD underpants? I reassured him that they were, in fact, rated for a four year old. He also asked if he was as tall as a four year old was supposed to be. I didn't know there were such stringent requirements!

My grandmother used to warble two songs to me when I was a baby -

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very very good
And when she was bad she was horrid!

And then, this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgJq4YLRWbA - a 78 record, which captures pretty well her vocal tone when she sang - I only remember her singing the chorus:

When it's springtime in the rockies
I am coming back to you
Little sweetheart of the mountains
With your bonny eyes of blue
Once again I'll say "I love you"
While the birds sing all the day
When it's springtime in the rockies
In the rockies, far away
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As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!

As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.

As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too.

As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.

Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses.

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