The Youngest Tells Her Story

You think that I can’t tell a story—

Just wait—no! ’tisn’t ’bout Jack

Mory;

This morning, it was early quite,

I saw a little fairy knight,

With silver boots and silver shield,

A-tramping through the clover-field.

He held a spear that looked like grass,

But ’twas a truly spear of glass;

A silver bugle at his lips,

He played with tiny finger-tips;

He held a flag o’ grass-green silk;

A branch of lilies white as milk;

He held—“How many hands had he?”

You’re cruel to make fun of me!

No! I won’t tell another bit;

You’ve lost the sweetest part of it!