The tired husbandman delights to own.
The very thing for any sick friend’s room.
It coming, silent as Spring’s early bloom.
A great, soft, yielding thing, that no one fears.
A tiny thing, oft wet with mother’s tears.
A thing so holy that we often wear
It carefully hidden from the world’s cold stare.’”
“Well,” remarked Patty, complacently, as he finished reading, “I’ve guessed that.”
“You have! You bright little thing! I haven’t. Now, don’t tell me. Wait a minute! No, I can’t catch it. Tell me the answer.”
“Why, it’s An Old Shoe,” said Patty, laughing. “See how it all fits in.”