THE YOUNGEST TELLS HER STORY.
YOU think that I can't tell a story—
Just wait—no! 'tisn't 'bout Jack
Mory;
This morning, it was early quite,
I saw a little fairy knight,
With silver boots and silver shield,
A-tramping through the clover-field.
He held a spear that looked like grass,
But 'twas a truly spear of glass;
A silver bugle at his lips,
He played with tiny finger-tips;
He held a flag o' grass-green silk;
A branch of lilies white as milk;
He held—"How many hands had he?"
You're cruel to make fun of me!
No! I won't tell another bit;
You've lost the sweetest part of it!