Said Edith at last, "and I think I'll ask
Papa to excuse my Arithmetic,—
In such warm weather I might be sick
If I taxed this poor little brain of mine."
So she listened, you see, to shadow and shine;
And then full-length on the velvet grass,
She dreamed of delights that would come to pass
When she, too large for the rigid rule
Of the happy home, or the stricter school,
Should be a woman, and quite at ease