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Poems by a Little Girl

by Hilda Conkling

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Ferns

Small ferns up-coming through the mossy green,
Up-curling and springing,
See trees circling round them,
And the straight brook like a lily-stem:
Hear the water laughing
At the stern old pine-tree
Who keeps sighing to himself all day long
What’s the use! What’s the use!

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