She will read to Tom for hours on hours,
And sit with him on the grass all day;
You see she is wreathing pretty flowers
About his neck, in her pleasant play.
TOPSY AT THE LOOKING GLASS.
See little Topsy at the glass quite gay,
Her mistress has forgot the keys to-day,
So she has rummaged every drawer, and dressed
Herself out in Miss Feely's very best.
Mark where she stands! the shawl of gorgeous red
Wound like a Turk's great turban round her head;
A finer shawl far trailing on the floor,
Just shews her bare black elbows, and no more.
With what an air she flaunts the ivory fan,
And tries to step as stately as she can,
Mincing fine words to her own shadow, "Dear!
How very ungenteel the folks are here!"
But while that shadow only Topsy sees,
Back comes the careful lady for her keys,
And finds her in the grandeur all arrayed—
Poor Topsy will be punished, I'm afraid.
Now it is wrong, as every reader knows,
To rummage people's drawers, and wear their clothes;
But Topsy is a negro child, you see,
Who never learned to read like you and me.
A child whom bad men from her mother sold,
Whom a harsh mistress used to cuff and scold,
Whom no one taught or cared for all her days,
No wonder that the girl had naughty ways.
TOPSY AT THE LOOKING-GLASS.
Mark where she stands! the shawl of gorgeous red
Wound like a Turk's great turban round her head,
A finer shawl for trailing on the floor,
Just shows her bare black elbows, and no more.