DOROTHY'S DREAM.
SHE sat on her little wooden stool,
With a wistful, thoughtful face,
Her blue eyes staring straight ahead
Into the chimney-place
Where the oaken logs that winter night sent
up a merry blaze.
"Now, what is the thought, Maid Dorothy,
You think so long, I pray?"
"Oh, mother! last night I dreamed a dream
About that Christmas Day
Which they have in the green old England
over the sea, you say.
And I thought I had hung up a stocking
Right over the chimney there;
And it was not one of the coarse blue socks
I knit myself to wear—
But fine and soft; and, on the sides, some silk-
en 'broidery fair.
"And out of the stocking I pulled a book—
And it was a sin, you'll say—
But my old 'New England Primer'
I thought I would throw away;
For it was not a book like this one, but had
covers and pictures gay.
"And I pulled out a doll with real brown hair
In satins and laces drest—
Oh! she truly cried, and she closed her eyes
When I laid her down to rest.
But I made up my mind I would always love
my old poppet the best.
"Oh! I'm sure that the Governor's lady
Has never one ribbon so fine
As some in that stocking; of blue and gold
And crimson like elder-wine.
I could have tied up my hair with them if
they had been really mine.
"But "—soberly said Maid Dorothy,
A hundred years ago,
"It was a dream—and dreams of course
By opposites always go;
And such fine things will never be in this vain
world, I know."