VAIN LITTLE LUCY
Her godmamma once sent to her
A frock of ruffled lace.
VAIN LITTLE LUCY
MISS LUCY was a pretty child,
But vain as she could be,
She loved all sorts of furbelows,
And frills and finery.
Her godmamma once sent to her
A frock of ruffed lace,
A flowered hat, and parasol
With which to shade her face.
And in the box was also packed
A pair of pink kid shoes.
“Oh dear!” her mother sighed; “they all
Are quite too fine to use.”
But Lucy cried, “Oh mother, no!
I’m sure they’re what I need.
When I am dressed and walking out
I will look fine indeed.”
And then she begged to put them on,
And with a peacock pride
She stood before the looking-glass
And turned from side to side.
“May I go out and show them off?”
Cried Lucy eagerly.
“How all the little girls will stare!
And how they’ll envy me!”
“Why Lucy! What a way to speak!”
Her loving mother cried.
“I am surprised my child should show
Such vain and silly pride.”
“Now go put on your calico,
And run outdoors and play.
These things were meant for special times,
And not for every day.”
But Lucy has another plan.
She sulks, and hangs about,
Till later in the afternoon,
When her mamma goes out.
Then quick she dresses up again
In all her frills and lace,
And out she runs, to trip along
With air of dainty grace.
She walked with such a haughty air,
She held her head so high,
The other children scarcely dared
To speak as she passed by.
But even as, with scornful air,
She minced along the street,
There came a sudden rushing wind
That swept her from her feet.
It caught her by her parasol,
It caught her by her frills,
It swept her up into the sky,
And off across the hills.
No knowing where she would have gone,
Still driven by the blast,
But luckily a branching tree
Has caught her skirts at last.
It catches her and holds to her,—
It will not let her go;
Whatever will become of her
Poor Lucy does not know.
In vain she twists herself about
And strives with all her might.
“Oh, dear kind tree,” she says to it,
“Don’t hold me quite so tight.”
The tree replies, “My branches
Shall quickly set you free
If you’ll give me your parasol
To wear as finery.”
“Oh, take it, do,” cries Lucy.
“I do not care at all,
If you will only set me free;
But do not let me fall.”
So now the twigs and branches
Bend back to let her go,
And safely Lucy clambers down
Into the field below.
Now Lucy looks about her
With frightened, tearful eyes.
“Oh dear, oh dear, I’m lost I fear!
What shall I do!” she cries.
High overhead a raven
Is sitting in the tree,
“I know the way you ought to go.”
Cries Lucy, “Tell it me!”
“Oh it is not for nothing
I tell the things I know,
But if you’ll let me have your hat
I’ll tell you how to go.”
“Alas, I meant to keep it,
And wear it for my best.
But take it,” cries poor Lucy.
“’Twill make a pretty nest.”
Now with his wing the raven points,
“There yonder lies your way.”
And off Miss Lucy runs in haste.
She does not stop nor stay.
But see! across the pathway
A thorn tree towers high.
Its thorns will surely catch her
Before she can go by.
“Oh prickly, stickly thorn-tree,
That stands to bar the way,
Draw back your boughs,” cries Lucy,
“And let me pass, I pray.”
The thorn replies, “My blossoms
Have dropped and left me bare,
I’ll let you pass if I may have
That little frock you wear.”
“Here take my frock,” cries Lucy,
And gives it to the tree,
Then quick it draws aside its thorns
And leaves the pathway free.
Now on again runs Lucy.
Indeed she is in haste.
If she would reach her home by dark
She has no time to waste.
And now she sees a river,
It flows so deep and wide
There seems no way for Lucy
To reach the other side.
But look! A duck is sailing
Upon the flowing tide,
His legs are strong for swimming,
His back is flat and wide.
“Oh pretty duck,” cries Lucy,
“Come here, come here to me.
If you will carry me across
How thankful I will be.”
“In winter time,” replies the duck,
“My toes get nipped with frost.
If you will give your shoes to me
I’ll carry you across.”
“Here! Take them quick,” cries Lucy.
“Indeed I do not care!
I have a stouter pair at home,
And they will do to wear.”
And now see little Lucy
On ducky’s back astride,
As steadily he swims across
Unto the other side.
Now on she runs—she reaches home—
In through the door she creeps,
“Oh mother dear, I’m back again,”
With joyful tears she weeps.
Now Lucy’s grown more sensible,
She’s quite content when dressed
In just the plain and simple things
That mother thinks are best.
