Chapter I: TAKE my broom and sweep my step,

To make it smooth and brown;
Then I sit down and wait with Jep
Until the sun goes down.

I think some day that I may see
A little brownie elf
Peep out of there, and speak to me,
When I am by myself.

I like my roses at the side,
Much better than the flower-row
Along your path where people ride.
I leave my roses just to grow.

I like the place that's broken, too,
With splintered edges all around,
And grasses growing right up through,
That smell so fresh like dew and ground.

Your steps are nice, but then my own
Seem nicer somehow, just for me;
Pine steps are more like home than stone,
For once they lived and were a tree.

THE BIG CLOCK

OUR Big Clock goes so slow,
When I am waiting on the stairs,
With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to go
Out with Aunt Beth to see the bears
And funny possums at the Zoo!
But oh, at night how fast
Our Big Clock goes! It's very rude
To company, and when time's past
When I must always go to bed,
The hands just fly in wicked glee.
It strikes out long ahead
And makes them all look round at me.

THE NEW DRESS

I HAVE a very pretty dress,
It's made of pink and white,
And there are ribbons on it, too,
Which make it bright.

And yet I think I like it less
Than this dear other one--
The worn-out, patched-up blue
I wear when I have fun.

It clings to me as if it loved
To have me wear it every day.
The pink stands out so straight and stiff
It's in my way.

How can I get to know it well,
When it's so _Sunday_-clean?
Perhaps when it is old and stained
With dust and grass, it will not seem
So strange and dignified as now.
But then I think
I never _could_ make mud pies right
If I had on my pink.

A QUESTIONING

I WONDER, when I die,
If some one there will see,
And hold me close,
And take good care of me,
As when I came on earth to be
A little child?

A TEST

SOME day when I've had lots to eat,
Then I should like to be
A ragged beggar child,
A little while, to see
If you--and _you_--are kind.

A QUANDARY

WHEN they are tall and all grown up,
I wonder where the children go?
I wonder how one finds the place--
My mother says she doesn't know.

The little boy that's I, must go
To this strange meeting-place some day,
When I outgrow my starchy kilts,
And nursery things are put away.

Must I go there quite by myself?
How shall I find the proper door,
That hides so close and shuts away
The little children gone before?

SPRING MUSIC