"I'M losted! Could you find me, please?" Poor little frightened baby! The wind had tossed her golden fleece, The stones had scratched her dimpled knees, I stooped and lifted her with ease, And softly whispered: "Maybe." "Tell me your name, my little maid, I can't find you without it." "My name is Shiny-eyes," she said. "Yes, but your last?" She shook her head. "Up to my house 'ey never said A single fing about it." "But, dear," I said, "what is your name?" "Why, di'n't you hear me told you? Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought came: "Yes, when you're good: but when they blame You, little one—is't just the same When mamma has to scold you?" "My mamma never scolds," she moans, A little blush ensuing, "'Cept when I've been a-fowing stones, And then she says," (the culprit owns), "Mehitabel Sapphira Jones, What has you been a-doing?" |