Sweet little red feet! why should you die?
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree;
Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?"
This poem seemed to me so simple, so sweet, that I recited it while I did the washing or cleaned the floor. It is a habit of mine to recite a poem whenever my occupation permits it; the even movement of a verse produces a most soothing effect on me, and I know of no other thing in existence holding so much grace and sweetness as the symmetrical flow of poetry. In this quiet manner, time slipped away. During the first month of my stay in England my friend had written to me often, but little by little his letters became rare; sometimes he kept me waiting for months, and then I thought that he had forgotten me. At such hours my longing for him was beyond all telling; how I watched for him and waited, expecting vaguely that something unaccountable, something wonderful would happen to bring him to me; and so firmly did I believe this, that I began to tremble each time the bell was rung, thinking that he had come. But he never came.
One day my mistress told me that she had received an invitation to go to Scotland, but could not take me with her.
"I think," she said, "as you have not seen much of London yet, you might like to become better acquainted with the town. So the best thing for you would be to stay at the home for a few weeks."
"I don't think I should like to stay at the home," I replied.