  BESIDE the curbstone, in gusty whirl Of dust and snow-drift, stood a little girl; The piteous tears ran down her baby face; In dumb despair she stood, nor moved a pace, Her flying curls and fluttering short dress Pathetic signals of forlorn distress; Her fondling hands, all purple with the cold, Unto her breast a china doll did hold. “What is the matter, dear, why do you cry?” Her chill-cramped lips made dolefullest reply: “I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.” That was the most her helplessness could say. Ere long, before a laughing, ruddy flame, She smiled through tears and shyly told her name; I led the strayling to her mother’s door, And in she flew,—I never saw her more. She is my bosom’s guest, that timid one; She steals into my heart and sobbing stands, A naked doll in her caressing hands; I see her shiver and I hear her say, “I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.” |
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