Query any poem you want.

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.