SHE sat on her little wooden stool,

With a wistful, thoughtful face,

Her blue eyes staring straight ahead

Into the chimney-place

Where the oaken logs that winter night sent

up a merry blaze.

"Now, what is the thought, Maid Dorothy,

You think so long, I pray?"

"Oh, mother! last night I dreamed a dream

About that Christmas Day

Which they have in the green old England

over the sea, you say.

And I thought I had hung up a stocking

Right over the chimney there;

And it was not one of the coarse blue socks

I knit myself to wear—

But fine and soft; and, on the sides, some silk-

en 'broidery fair.

"And out of the stocking I pulled a book—

And it was a sin, you'll say—

But my old 'New England Primer'

I thought I would throw away;

For it was not a book like this one, but had

covers and pictures gay.

"And I pulled out a doll with real brown hair

In satins and laces drest—

Oh! she truly cried, and she closed her eyes

When I laid her down to rest.

But I made up my mind I would always love

my old poppet the best.

"Oh! I'm sure that the Governor's lady

Has never one ribbon so fine

As some in that stocking; of blue and gold

And crimson like elder-wine.

I could have tied up my hair with them if

they had been really mine.

"But "—soberly said Maid Dorothy,

A hundred years ago,

"It was a dream—and dreams of course

By opposites always go;

And such fine things will never be in this vain

world, I know."