PRITHE tell me, don’t you think
Little girls are dearest
With their cheeks of tempting pink,
And their eyes the clearest?
Don’t you know that they are best
And of all the loveliest?
Of all girls with roguish ways
They are surely truest;
Sunshine gleams through all their days,
They see skies the bluest,
And they wear a diadem
Summer has bestowed on them.
Lydia doesn’t care a cent
For the newest dances;
She is not on flirting bent,
Has no killing glances,
But without the slightest art
She has captured many a heart.
Older sisters cut you dead,
Little sisters never;
They don’t giggle when they’ve said
Something very clever,—
They just get behind a chair,
Frowning, smiling at you there.
Florence, Lydia, Margaret
Or a gentle Mary,
They form friendships that, once set,
Never more can vary,—
Stanch young friends they are and true
Always clinging close to you.
Buds must into blossoms blow,
(Morn so early leaves us!)
Maids must into women grow,
(There’s the thing that grieves us!)
Psyche knots of flying curls,
That’s good-bye to little girls!