  'Art thou weary, Dove Annette—say, hast thou been roaming far? Seeking flowers fresh and wild, watching for the evening star? Heavily thy basket weighs; 'tis a cruel load for thee; Shades of night are stealing o'er; thou at home, fair child, shouldst be.' Dove Annette laughed merrily as she ope'd her basket lid; There no hyacinthine bell or sweet eglantine was hid: Pine cones, and fallen leaves, and slender twigs were gathered there; Far more precious these to her than the woodland treasures fair. 'My old grandam she is cold, for the autumn nights are chill; So I search the golden woods over dale and over hill; Sticks, leaves, and cones together, make a warm and blazing fire; Shame 'twould be if Dove Annette on this errand e'er could tire! 'My old grandam she is blind, but our scholars are a score; And she tells them how to spell, and the blessed Bible lore; At A B C I toil all day—alas, they are not quick to learn! Little 'tis that we are paid—poor the living thus we earn. 'Forest glades are dusk and drear, save when pretty deer skip by; Evening stars I cannot see, trees arch overhead so high; Safely sleep the birds around: He who numbers them each one Cares, I know, for Dove Annette in the wild wood all alone. 'So I fill my basket full—sure it is a heavy load; But I sing a pleasant song all along my homeward road: And within our cabin walls, gleaming with the ruddy blaze, Grandam teaches Dove Annette hymns of thankfulness and praise.' C. A. M. W. |
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