Where it stood, and nodded all alone
      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”—­
      There’s plenty of girls to fill our places. 
    They’re kind enough to their own, no doubt—­
      Our head just worships his own young daughter,
    Just my age, sir—­she’s gone away
      To spend the Summer across the water. 
    But us—­oh, well, we’re only “hands,”
      Do you think to please us they’ll bear losses? 
    No, not a cent’s worth—­ah, you’ll see—­
      I’m a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.

    SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
    A PARABLE.

    You remember the nursery legend—­
      We heard in the early days,
    Ere we knew of the world’s deception
      Or walked in its dusty ways,
    And dwelt in a land of the fairies
      Where the air was golden haze—­

    Of the maid, o’er whom the Summers
      Of youth passed, like a swell
    Of melody all unbroken,
      Till evil wrought its spell,
    And dream-embroidered curtains
      Of slumber round her fell.

    The wood grew up round her castle,
      The centuries o’er it rolled,
    Wrapping its slumb’rous turrets
      In clinging robes of mould,
    And her name became a legend
      By Winter fire-sides told.

    Till the Prince came over the mountains
      In the morning-glow of youth;
    The forest sank before him
      Like wrong before the truth,
    And he passed the dim old portal,
      With its warders so uncouth,

    Woke with a kiss the Princess,
      And broke enchantment’s chain,
    The sleepy old castle wondered,
      In its cobweb-cumbered brain,
    At the tide of life and pleasure
      That poured through each stony vein.

    And so love conquered an evil
      Centuries old in might,
    Scattering drowsy glamour,
      Piercing the murky night,
    Leading from thrall and darkness
      Beauty, and joy, and light.