The little Louisa I told you about, who wrote verses and stories in her diary, used to like to play that she was a princess, and that her kingdom was her own mind. When she had unkind or dissatisfied thoughts, she tried to get rid of them by playing they were enemies of the kingdom; and she drove them out with soldiers; the soldiers were patience, duty, and love. It used to help Louisa to be good to play this, and I think it may have helped make her the splendid woman she was afterward. Maybe you would like to hear a poem she wrote about it, when she was only fourteen years old.[20] It will help you, too, to think the same thoughts.
| A little kingdom I possess, |
| Where thoughts and feelings dwell, |
| And very hard I find the task |
| Of governing it well; |
| For passion tempts and troubles me, |
| A wayward will misleads, |
| And selfishness its shadow casts |
| On all my words and deeds. |
| |
| How can I learn to rule myself, |
| To be the child I should, |
| Honest and brave, nor ever tire |
| Of trying to be good? |
| How can I keep a sunny soul |
| To shine along life's way? |
| How can I tune my little heart |
| To sweetly sing all day? |
| |
| Dear Father, help me with the love |
| That casteth out my fear, |
| Teach me to lean on Thee, and feel |
| That Thou art very near, |
| That no temptation is unseen, |
| No childish grief too small, |
| Since Thou, with patience infinite, |
| Doth soothe and comfort all. |
| |
| I do not ask for any crown |
| But that which all may win, |
| Nor seek to conquer any world, |
| Except the one within. |
| Be Thou my Guide until I find, |
| Led by a tender hand, |
| Thy happy kingdom inmyself, |
| And dare to take command. |
| Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear |
| What happened to Piccola, children dear? |
| 'Tis seldom Fortune such favour grants |
| As fell to this little maid of France. |
| |
| 'Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor |
| Could hardly drive the wolf from the door, |
| Striving with poverty's patient pain |
| Only to live till summer again. |
| |
| No gifts for Piccola! Sad were they |
| When dawned the morning of Christmas-day; |
| Their little darling no joy might stir, |
| St Nicholas nothing would bring to her! |
| |
| But Piccola never doubted at all |
| That something beautiful must befall |
| Every child upon Christmas-day, |
| And so she slept till the dawn was gray. |
| |
| And full of faith, when at last she woke, |
| She stole to her shoe as the morning broke; |
| Such sounds of gladness filled all the air, |
| Twas plain St Nicholas had been there! |
| |
| In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild: |
| Never was seen such a joyful child. |
| "See what the good saint brought!" she cried, |
| And mother and father must peep inside. |
| |
| Now such a story who ever heard? |
| There was a little shivering bird! |
| A sparrow, that in at the window flew, |
| Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe! |
| |
| "How good poor Piccola must have been!" |
| She cried, as happy as any queen, |
| While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed, |
| And danced with rapture, she was so charmed. |
| |
| Children, this story I tell to you, |
| Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. |
| In the far-off land of France, they say, |
| Still do they live to this very day. |