You must ne’er think of looking for here.
For the window I love has no hangings of plush,
Neither festooned as if for display,
And yet I have seen it at evening’s soft hush
Decked out in a wond’rous array
Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls,
Little aprons and many a toy—
More plainly to speak—there are three little girls,
And the king of the house is a boy.
How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look,