Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there.
George M. Vickers.
Echo and the Ferry.
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!
A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.
It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.