Tiny leaves like tiny parasols reach toward the firmament.
Restless swings a childish figure to and fro upon the gate,
Some one’s coming down the highway—’tis for him she there doth wait.
Ah! you recognize the picture, I can tell it by your smile;
You have recognized the sugar trees, and recognized your child.
Through the pasture now we’re strolling, looking down the avenue,
See you not another picture? Yes; the figures there are two.
Mother sits upon the portico her knitting in her hand,
And my brother talks beside her of that wild and Western land
Where he raced his Indian ponies and lassoed the buffaloes