
read, 
and 
reen 

Moself. 
H, E. G. Arey 
yee once I was a little girl, 
A-dwelling far away ; 
My mother made the butter, 
And my father made the hay. 
And I—I wandered, out of school, 
Amid the woodlands wild, 
And scorned the teacher’s measured rule— 
A harum-searum child. 
Of thorny lane, and meadow fair, 
My froek bore token still ; 
The wind would catch my yellow hair, 
And braid it at its will. 
The sun was busy with my face— 
And still it shows it some ; 
And, on my neck, I know how high 
My dresses used to come. 






