Full of cakes, with a doll, and candy, and all
Clad in a simple muslin gown whose 'broi-
curls, around her neck a string of pearls--
ancient gloom, a-seeking you all o'er the room,
And when she had heard so much "election"
That her heart for the others began to bleed,
She sensed the better God's love behind it
Was her dear old face on the Sabbath Day;
She drank the sweet there was in the sermon
Though you may not fancy its taste indeed,
Yet still it shall grow there down in the garden
`_(Pink blows the brier in summer-weather. )_
`Which all of the neighbors loved and knew
`_(Pink blows the brier in summer-weather.)_
`_(Black turns the brier in winter-weather.)_
`Where are the little blue birds--who knows?
`And where, oh where! is the pink brier-rose?
`_(Ahy sweet things come and depart together!)_
`The roses swayed, and the warm rain came,
`With her lily cheeks and her rosebud lips,
`The darling she sat in a straight-backed chair,
`There were jewelled spires, and a slender
`And up to the gold-hasped door there ran,
`Then the beautiful door swung open wide,
`And she gleefully sped from hall to hall,
`And chambers she found whose lofty walls
`(The south wind blew; on the garret-roof
`Poppies, with bees asleep in their cups,
`And the darling herself in a violet gown,
`With her apron full of roses and pearls,
`That the bees and the yellow butterflies
`Then the darling danced down a flowery path,
`And she found a beautiful blue-eyed prince
`Thro' the leaves and roses she scarce could see
`And the poor little prince, if he chanced to
`Was pierced by a thorn of the bramble-rose--
`Then a bright tear dropt on the bramble-rose,
`And he woke from his sleep--and loud and
`The darling sat in her straight-backed chair,
`And she sighed, for the prince and the castle
`She wistfully looked thro' the rain-splashed
`And not so much as a rose have I brought
`She did not know as she sat and watched,
`On her soft little cheek she carried a rose,
Fear not to enter in, dear child; for close be-
`Just say, "Away! or I will tell my mother
For she was singing to herself, and hers was
So sang the sober little maid, so softly no one
Caw away, you old birds, in your rusty black
There are not enough clouds in the world,
|SING a song of a queer little girl who lived