THE SPOILED DARLING.
OH the ruffles there were on that little
dress, Fanny!
Her mamma does dress her so sweetly, you
know;
And the prettiest sash of pale rose-colored
satin
Tied at her waist in a butterfly-bow.
And her soft, flossy hair, almost a rose-yellow,
Like the roses we had in our garden last year,
Cut short round the fairest blue-veined little
forehead—
Oh, if Miss Marion wasn't a dear!
Just perfect she was, the mite of a darling,
From her flower of a head to her pink
slipper-toes!
You will laugh, but she seemed as I looked
at her, Fanny,
A little girl copied right after a rose!
Well, you know how it is: they have petted
the darling,
Her papa and mamma, her uncles and
aunts—
Till, saving the moon, which they can't get
for princes,
There isn't a thing but she has if she wants.
So, last night at the Christmas-tree, Fanny,
—It was so funny I laugh at it now—
There was Miss Marion sweeter than honey,
All in her ruffles and butterfly-bow;
She had presents, I thought, enough for a
dozen,
But she seemed heavy-hearted in spite of
it all;
Her sweet little mouth was all of a quiver,
And there was a teardrop just ready to
fall.
The aunts and the cousins all round her came
crowding;
"And what is the matter, my darling, my
dear?"
She didn't look sulky, but grieved; and I
saw it
Roll down her pink cheek, that trembling
tear;
And she lisped out so honest, "Mamie and
Bessie,
And the rest, have pwesents—and 'twas
my Tristmas-tree;
And when I tame in, I fought that the pwes-
ents—
The whole of them on it—of tourse were
for me! "
I scarcely could blame her—she didn't seem
angry,
But grieved to the heart, the queer little
mite!
And 'twasn't her fault—she'd been fed so
much honey,
All the sweet in the world she took as her
right.