I HAVE a very pretty dress,
It's made of pink and white,
And there are ribbons on it, too,
Which make it bright.
And yet I think I like it less
Than this dear other one—
The worn-out, patched-up blue
I wear when I have fun.
It clings to me as if it loved
To have me wear it every day.
The pink stands out so straight and stiff
It's in my way.
How can I get to know it well,
When it's so Sunday-clean?
Perhaps when it is old and stained
With dust and grass, it will not seem
So strange and dignified as now.
But then I think
I never could make mud pies right
If I had on my pink.