OH the ruffles there were on that little

dress, Fanny!

Her mamma does dress her so sweetly, you

know;

And the prettiest sash of pale rose-colored

satin

Tied at her waist in a butterfly-bow.

And her soft, flossy hair, almost a rose-yellow,

Like the roses we had in our garden last year,

Cut short round the fairest blue-veined little

forehead—

Oh, if Miss Marion wasn't a dear!

Just perfect she was, the mite of a darling,

From her flower of a head to her pink

slipper-toes!

You will laugh, but she seemed as I looked

at her, Fanny,

A little girl copied right after a rose!

Well, you know how it is: they have petted

the darling,

Her papa and mamma, her uncles and

aunts—

Till, saving the moon, which they can't get

for princes,

There isn't a thing but she has if she wants.

So, last night at the Christmas-tree, Fanny,

—It was so funny I laugh at it now—

There was Miss Marion sweeter than honey,

All in her ruffles and butterfly-bow;

She had presents, I thought, enough for a

dozen,

But she seemed heavy-hearted in spite of

it all;

Her sweet little mouth was all of a quiver,

And there was a teardrop just ready to

fall.

The aunts and the cousins all round her came

crowding;

"And what is the matter, my darling, my

dear?"

She didn't look sulky, but grieved; and I

saw it

Roll down her pink cheek, that trembling

tear;

And she lisped out so honest, "Mamie and

Bessie,

And the rest, have pwesents—and 'twas

my Tristmas-tree;

And when I tame in, I fought that the pwes-

ents—

The whole of them on it—of tourse were

for me! "

I scarcely could blame her—she didn't seem

angry,

But grieved to the heart, the queer little

mite!

And 'twasn't her fault—she'd been fed so

much honey,

All the sweet in the world she took as her

right.