"Mendelssohn's 'Spring Song,' Mother."
The little gray Grandmother looked out-of-doors again to where you played, singing, in the sun.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she murmured.
You waved your hand to her and laughed, and she nodded back at you, smiling at your fun.
"Bless his heart, he's playing the music, too," she said.
Little Sister
n the daytime she played with you, and believed all you said, and was always ready to cry. At night she slept with you and the four dolls. She was your little sister, Lizbeth.
"Whose little girl are you?" they would ask her. If she were sitting in Father's lap, she would doubtless reply—
"Father's little girl."