‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ said Patty next, holding the dolly out at arm’s length the better to see and admire. ‘Her curls are beautiful, and so are her eyes, and her dress, and her cunning little brown shoes. What shall I name her, Grandmother? Don’t you think she is beautiful? Isn’t she the most beautiful dolly that you have ever seen?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ answered Grandmother, smiling to see Patty’s pleasure. ‘She is as beautiful as a butterfly.’
And, to Patty’s further delight, Grandmother began to sing a little song:
‘She’s as beautiful as a butterfly,
And none can compare
With pretty little Polly Perkins,
Of Abingdon Square.’
Patty clapped her hands and spun round for a moment like a top.
‘Sing it again, sing it again,’ she cried.
So Grandmother obligingly sang her little song again.