By Phœbe Cary.
LITTLE GOTTLIEB.
Across the German Ocean,
In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.
They dwelt in a part of the village
Where the houses were poor and small,
But the house of little Gottlieb
Was the poorest one of all.
He was not large enough to work,
And his mother could no more
(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down)
Than keep the wolf from the door.
She had to take their threadbare clothes,
And turn, and patch, and darn;
For never any woman yet
Grew rich by knitting yarn.
And oft at night beside her chair
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan
The wonderful things he would do for her
When he grew to be a man.
One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.