MY FIRST MUFF.
BY F. C.
Here's my little lady,
Dressed with thoughtful care,
Smiling at the sunlight,
Smiling at the air.
Whither, little lady,
Whither shall we go?
O'er the lofty hill-tops—
Through the winter's snow?
Will you with me wander
Through the copses bare,
Where the dead leaves linger?—
Autumn left them there.
No, my little lady;
Snows would damp your feet;
Thorns would tear your jacket,
Trimmed with ermine neat.
I will fetch a carriage,
Drawn by ponies fine,
Lined with silken cushions,
Fit for lady mine.
We will drive right swiftly
O'er the hill-tops then—
Drive as quick as lightning
Through the merry glen.
Then my little lady
Safe from harm will be,
And her rich soft ermine
From sharp thorns be free.