Frolic in the sparkling water,
Shallow pool of rainbowed water,
But there cometh one among them,
Maiden of eight summers only,
Heareth not a note of music,
Hath no voice for song or laughter,
Slow of foot and dull of eye she,
And the pitying children shun her.
Then the flower of the Camp Fire,
‘Pretty Flower,’ Morning-Glory,