'But we don't know what Curly Locks decided to do,' said the mother, 'for the rhyme doesn't go any farther. Perhaps she did marry him, and is sitting to this day on her cushion, and has grown dreadfully fat through never moving and eating so much sugar and cream, and hasn't even the energy to curl her hair any more. But perhaps she was wise, and kept to the pigs.'
CURLY LOCKS.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
'Ach nein!' gently disagreed the babies, 'the strawberries is better.'
The mother laughed. Strawberries did seem rather pleasant things just then, with the snow on the ground, and no prospect of them for months. 'Curly Locks was a little dear, anyhow,' she said, putting down her tune, 'and I am sure she chose whatever was best.'
'Ach ja!' murmured the babies, 'she chose the strawberries.'
'Well, well,' said the mother.
This is the tune for Curly Locks:—