Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.

"Fond of flowers!" I like them—yes—

Though, goodness knows, I don't see many—

I'd have to buy them—they cost so much—

And I never can spare a single penny.

"Go to the park!"—how can I, sir?

The only day that I have is Sunday;

And then there's always so much to do

That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.

Like it sir, like it!—why, when I think

Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—

I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so

That I—there, there, what's the use of thinking!

If I could write, sir—"make a cross,

And let you write my name below it"—

No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,—

I don't want all the girls to know it.

And what's the use of it, anyway?

They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,

"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"—

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