A LOST CHILD.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?”Poor little frightened baby!The wind had tossed her golden fleece,The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;I stooped, and lifted her with ease,And softly whispered, “Maybe.”“Tell me your name, my little maid:I can’t find you without it.”“My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said.“Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head:“Up to my house ’ey never saidA single word about it.”“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?”“Why, didn’t you hear me told you?Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came:“Yes, when you’re good. But when they blameYou, little one,—is it just the sameWhen mamma has to scold you?”“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,A little blush ensuing,“’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones;And then she says [the culprit owns],—‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,What has you been a-doing?’”Anna F. Burnham.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?”Poor little frightened baby!The wind had tossed her golden fleece,The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;I stooped, and lifted her with ease,And softly whispered, “Maybe.”“Tell me your name, my little maid:I can’t find you without it.”“My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said.“Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head:“Up to my house ’ey never saidA single word about it.”“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?”“Why, didn’t you hear me told you?Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came:“Yes, when you’re good. But when they blameYou, little one,—is it just the sameWhen mamma has to scold you?”“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,A little blush ensuing,“’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones;And then she says [the culprit owns],—‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,What has you been a-doing?’”Anna F. Burnham.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?”Poor little frightened baby!The wind had tossed her golden fleece,The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;I stooped, and lifted her with ease,And softly whispered, “Maybe.”
“Tell me your name, my little maid:I can’t find you without it.”“My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said.“Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head:“Up to my house ’ey never saidA single word about it.”
“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?”“Why, didn’t you hear me told you?Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came:“Yes, when you’re good. But when they blameYou, little one,—is it just the sameWhen mamma has to scold you?”
“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,A little blush ensuing,“’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones;And then she says [the culprit owns],—‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,What has you been a-doing?’”Anna F. Burnham.