"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And tulips, all of a row."

Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary,

Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"?

Why should Mother Goose, beholding

All these pleasant blooms unfolding,—

Every prim and pretty border

Standing in such shining order,—

Looking o'er the lovely rows,

Ask you "how your garden grows"?

Mary, so precise and chary,

Are you, anyhow, contrary?

While these sweetly perfect lines

Nod their gentle countersigns,

Spending all your strength on this,

Lest the least thing grow amiss,

Weareth some unseen parterre

Quite a different kind of air?

Through your hating of a weed

Runs there any ill to seed,—

Thistle-blow of petulance,

Bitter blade of blame, perchance,

Or a flaunting stem of pride,

In that other garden-side?

Mary, in our women-hearts

Spring such curious counterparts!

Each her home-plot watching wary,

Lest the faultless order vary

By the dropping of a leaf,

Or a blossom come to grief

From the blasting of the storm,

Or the eating of a worm,

Let us both be certain, Mary,

Nothing dearer goes contrary!