  WHEN grandmama was little— It was years and years ago, In what folks call, at this time, The old-fashioned days, you know— Why, she had such a perfect time, The best you ever saw: We wish that we’d been little Same time as grandmama. She tells us all about it, And then, if we are good, And just sit still and listen, The way all children should, And never interrupt a bit, Or question ’bout the rest Till she’s all through, she shows us The things up in her chest. I can’t begin to tell you The half of what is there: The rag-dolls soiled and faded That haven’t any hair, And toys, and—oh, yes!—lady-dolls, And, folded with the rest, A little rose-bud muslin frock, Her one-time very best. And there’s her picture taken In this self-same gown, With ruffles reaching to the waist And panties showing down; Hair parted in the middle; Over each ear a curl: Oh! but our grandmama was pretty! When a little girl! |
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