Judith dared not say she wished she might, she dared not pity her, or look at her; she unfolded her poem and began to read:—
THE LAST APPLE.
I am a rosy-cheeked apple,
Left all alone on the tree,
And in the cold wind I am sighing,
‘Oh, what will become of me.’
Nettie nodded approval, and the poet read modestly on:—
They’ve picked my sisters and cousins,
But I was too little to see;
Now, they will be eaten at Christmas,