On the Sunday afternoon walks when we all went up into the hills together I learned, among other classics:
“Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make a mighty ocean
And the wondrous land.”
But it was at night when I was safely put in my bed that I heard through the open door, mamma, at the parlor piano, singing to me:
“I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand,
A crown upon my head,
A harp within my hand.”