Now is the intimate hour. The roof leaks, but the hay's dry within the stall where a newborn infant lies. The stable reeks of a score of animal breaths and all their damp coats and the farm or forest whence they've come. Even so she sings. A rude place, she feels, for this family affair: her personal event. The kings disquiet her as each, approaching, kneels, his gift an embarrassment. A murmur takes her throat, thrumming to be let out. And so she sings. What rough clamor, this noise of creature wing and hoof! They can't with the best will in the world, keep quiet enough to hear her lulling voice. They do try to be still. A child has heard her song separate among the throng. For him she sings.