And the prettiest sash of pale rose-colored
satin
Tied at her waist in a butterfly-bow.
And her soft, flossy hair, almost a rose-yellow,
Like the roses we had in our garden last year,
Cut short round the fairest blue-veined little
forehead—
Oh, if Miss Marion wasn't a dear!
Just perfect she was, the mite of a darling,
From her flower of a head to her pink