Then when we come to number three,
I stretch my hand up—so!
And find the old brass knocker’s ring;
I rap, and in we go.
There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim,
Sits by the chimney-piece;
Her knitting-needles clicking go,
And never seem to cease.
Aunt Lucy’s eyes are blue and kind,
Her wrinkled face is fair;
She hides with cap or snowy lace
Her pretty silver hair.
Aunt Lucy’s voice is sweet and low,
Her smile is quick and bright;
She wears a gown of lavender,
And kerchief soft and white.
I fold my hands in front of me
And sit quite still and staid,
Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says,
“Come hither, little maid!”
