What Every Girl Knows

In my bedroom, in my boudoir,
There’s a box I ope no more;
It is packed with all my treasures
From the ten cent store.

Saturday, a longing seizes—
Grips me so I scarce can speak,
And I ask for my allowance,
Mostly thirty cents a week.

Then I call on Margie Lynam,
And we hasten from the door;
And we go inspecting counters
In the ten cent store.

We get flushed most every visit
When we lay our money down;
There are no expert advisors—
Mr. Woolworth’s out of town.

Homeward, purchases we carry,
And examine them with care;
Then we pile them in the play-box,
And we always leave them there.

Riches never will be ours,
We have said it o’er and o’er,
Till they make things all “One Dollar”
In the ten cent store.