Up and down through the rain and sleet,

Singing her innocent songs all day,

In a sweet and merry childish way;

Asking sometimes for the night a bed,

A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread.

She had sung on the corners and city square,

But no one had time to remember her there;

Numbers had passed her who never before

Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more.

It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light—

But poor little Winnie’s forgotten to-night.

Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown,

The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down;

Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall

Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl;

Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm,

Poor little Winnie is out in the storm.

Backward and forward the tired feet go,

From her lips little ripples of music still flow.

Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread,

Receiving a curse and reproaches instead;

Shiv’ring with fear in the pitiless light,

Poor little Winnie is starving to-night.

Alone in the street, yet the little lips move,

Trying to echo those accents of love.

Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet

Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat!

You are trying so faithful to lead them aright

When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night.

See her! How slowly she’s moving along—

Her lips are too icy to echo the song.

How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak!

The revel is over in parlor and park,

The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark;

The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap,

The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep;

But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight,

Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night.