POLLY.
By Charles Dickens.
Although he had arrived at his journey's end for the day at noon, he had since insensibly walked about the town so far and so long that the lamplighters were now at their work in the streets, and the shops were sparkling up brilliantly. Thus reminded to turn towards his quarters, he was in the act of doing so, when a very little hand crept into his, and a very little voice said:
“O! If you please, I am lost!”
He looked down, and saw a very little fair-haired girl.
“Yes,” she said, confirming her words with a serious nod. “I am, indeed.
I am lost.”
Greatly perplexed, he stopped, looked about him for help, descried none, and said, bending low:
“Where do you live, my child?”
“I don't know where I live,” she returned. “I am lost.”
“What is your name?”