I knew that a baby was hid in that house, 
 Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry; 
But the husband was tip-toeing 'round like a mouse, 
 And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby; 
And there was a look on the face of the mother, 
That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other.

The mother, I said to myself, for I knew
 That the woman before me was certainly that; 
And there lay in a corner a tiny cloth shoe, 
 And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat; 
And the beard of the husband said, plain as could be, 
'Two fat chubby hands have been tugging at me.'

And he took from his pocket a gay picture-book, 
 And a dog that could bark, if you pulled on a string; 
And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look; 
 And I said to myself, 'There is no other thing
But a babe that could bring about all this, and so
That one thing is in hiding somewhere, I know.'

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more, 
 And heard not a sound, yet I know I was right; 
What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor, 
 The book and the toy, and the faces so bright; 
And what made the husband as still as a mouse? 
I am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that house.