That her grandmother made, with the skill of old
From the tender stems like the polished gold.
The little one then, as she planned and played
And a tiny loaf in a teaspoon made,
Knew not what a world of grief is this,
For her woes were healed with the mother’s kiss.
And she never thought as she went to rub
All her dolly’s clothes in a basin-tub,
And then hung them out on a tiny cord,
As white as the ruff of an ancient lord,