Katy on the doorstep sat, While her dimpled fingers fat Moved industrious to and fro O’er the gay pink calico; For an apron she was making, All herself, with much painstaking. Pretty picture made she there, Humming a quaint Celtic air, Blue eyes on the work intent, Cheek where tan and roses blent, Brown hair smoothly brushed and braided, Tied at ends with ribbon faded. Such a happy little maid, Sitting in the porch’s shade, Tempted me to questioning, Till she fell a-gossiping, All about her country telling And the peasant’s mode of dwelling; How she came from “ferninst Corrk Tin miles,” how she used to walk There and back without a rest, Only, by the way confessed, That the miles “beyant” “air shorrter” Than they are this side the water; How the houses are of clay, And the roofs are green alway— Thatched with turf; how very sweet The odor of the burning peat, Which warms in winter-time the cottage And cooks the oatmeal or the pottage; How now and then a troop passed by, Fox-hunting, riding gallantly— Fair ladies and fine gentlemen, Who dashed through field, and wood, and glen— Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could stay Their fiery steeds upon the way; How on a hill-side near her home There stands a ruin, ivy-grown, Which long, and long, and long gone by Was a grand castle, strong and high; And now by night the people passing Make haste, for fear a ghost be chasing. Thus and so did Katy chat, As in the shaded porch she sat. The little maiden twelve years old With ready tongue her story told, Better than all the books relate it Or half the travelers can state it. MARIE. Little Marie is lonesome, Little Marie is sad, Tho’ the summer sun is shining And the summer days are glad. Ever she stops to listen As her weary task she plies, Anon at the open window Lingers with dreamy eyes. Not at the distant woodlands, Veiled in a golden haze, Or the miles between of meadow And wheat and rippling maze, Dotted with elms and maples That move in the morning breeze, And now and then a farm-house Shaded by apple trees, The shallow, winding streamlet, Where cattle lazily wade, Here in the sunlight flashing, Trembling there in the shade— Not at the quiet landscape Gazes she; far and dim She sees the white clouds fleecy That crown the horizon’s rim. They are the snow-clad mountains She saw from the chalet low, Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland— Ah! it seems so long ago. Not to the streamlet’s murmur Listens she; far away Gurgles a mountain torrent Over the rocks all day—