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A LITTLE GIRL

I

I see a little girl sitting bent over

On a white stone door-step.

In the street are other children running about;

The shadows of the waving trees flicker on their white dresses.

Some one opens the door of the house

And speaks to the child on the steps.

She looks up and asks an eager question:

The figure shakes her head and shuts the door;

The child covers up her face

To hide her tears.

II

Three children are playing in the garden—
Two boys and an awe-struck little girl.

They have plastered the summer-house with clay,
Making it an unlovely object.

A grown-up person comes along the path.

The little girl runs to her

Asking the same question, "Where is my mother?"

The grown-up person does not make any answer.

She looks at the summer-house and passes along the path.

The little girl goes slowly into the house And climbs the stairs.

A Little Girl

III

The little girl is alone in the garden,
A white-haired lady of whom she is afraid
Comes to find her and tell her a joyful thing.

The little girl runs to the nursery.

The young nurse is doing her hair in front of the glass— The little girl sees how white her neck is

And her uplifted arms.

Tomorrow they will be gone-they will not be hereThey are going to find Her.

The young nurse turns and smiles,

And takes the little girl in her arms.

IV

The little girl is travelling on a railway train.

Everything rushes by very fast

Houses, and children in front of them,

Children who are just staying at home.

The train cannot go fast enough,
The little girl is saying over and over again,
"My mother-my onliest mother-
I am coming to you, coming very fast."

V

The little girl looks up at a great red building With a great doorway.

It opens and she is led in,

Looking all about her.

A lady in a white dress and white cap comes.

After a long, long time

A man in a black coat comes in.

He says, "She is not well enough, I am afraid."
The little girl is led away.

She always remembers the words

The man in the black coat said.

VI

The little girl is waiting in the big hallway,

In the house of the white-haired lady,

At the end of the path she can see the summer-house With its queer gray cover.

The hall clock ticks very slowly. The hands must go all around again Before the mother will come.

Now it is night,

The little girl is lying in her bed.

There is a piano going somewhere downstairs.

She is telling herself a story and waiting

Soon She will come in at the door.

A Little Girl

There will be a swift shaft of light

Across the floor,

And She will come in with a rustling sound.

She will lie down on the bed,

And the little girl will stroke her dress and crinkle it
To make the sound again.

Pretty soon the mother will step slowly and softly to the door,

And quietly turn the handle.

The little girl will speak and stop her

Asking something she has asked many times before

"My Father?"

But the mother has never anything to answer.

VII

The mother and the little girl are sitting together sewing.

Outside there is snow.

A woman with a big white apron

Comes to the door of the room and speaks.

The mother drops her work on the floor

And runs down the stairs.

The little girl stands at the head of the stairs
And cries out, "My Father!" but no one hears,
They pass along the hall..

The little girl creeps down the stairs,
But the door is closed.

VIII

The little girl is held and rockedHeld so tightly it hurts her.

She moves herself free.

Then quickly she puts her face up close, And there is a taste of salt on her tongue.

IX

In a bed in an upper chamber,

A bed with high curtains,

A woman sits bowed over.

Her hair streams over her shoulders;

Her arms are about two children.

The older one is trying to say comforting things. The little girl wants to slip away—

There are so many people at the foot of the bed.

Out of the window, across the yellow river, There are houses climbing up the hillside. The little girl wonders if anything like this Is happening in any of those houses.

X

Many children and grown-up people

Are standing behind their chairs around a bright table, Waiting for the youngest child to say grace.

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