Puts on her grave thinking-cap, shakes her brown curls,
And talks to herself, in a curious way,
Of “snow” and a “ball” and a “hot summer’s day!”
Then, down to the brook, where the gnarled willows grow,
And the ice-covered reeds stand like soldiers in row,
Our brave little girl trudges off all alone,
And rolls a large snow-ball just under the stone
That lies on the brink of the streamlet, and then
In this wise begins her soliloquy: “When
The Fourth of July comes, what fun it will be