The matrons stoop to kiss her, The children, at their play, Call out, as little Maggie Goes tripping on her way. Not e’en the dreaded gossip, Who through her half-closed blind Peeps forth, with little Maggie Has any fault to find. When winsome little Maggie, With basket on her arm, In which her father’s luncheon Is wrapped so nice and warm— When she enters the long workshop And pauses at his side, Quick down he lays his hammer And turns in love and pride, To look into her limpid eyes, And stroke her sunny hair, And jest and frolic with her— Forgetting toil and care— For the music of her laughter And the mirth of her replies, The while there’s not a happier man, Or richer, ’neath the skies. Ah, well, it is a blessing To have a heart so gay That it keeps your feet a-dancing, Your face alight alway, And that, like winsome Maggie, It seems, where’er you go, As if the clouds had parted To let a sunbeam thro’. A HAPPY PAIR. “_Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair._” Yes, we live down in the orchard, Under an apple tree; We’ve got a palace down there, Little Padoy and me. We built it of sticks and timbers The carpenters threw away. We worked at it hard, I tell you; It took us a whole long day. There’s a door (without any hinges), And a window (without any blind), And a chimney (it’s built of pebbles, And it smokes—but never mind). And the roof (it’s a little leaky), We tried to make it look— With straw laid smooth—like the houses I found in my picture book. There’s a stairway made of corn-cobs, And parlor and kitchen and hall, And sofas and chairs and tables, And a looking-glass on the wall; And in the kitchen a cupboard With real dishes on the shelves; Mother, she gave them to us, But the rest we made ourselves. Oh, just come along now, won’t you? It’s only a little way. I want to show you our palace— How old am I, did you say? I’ll be six years old next summer, And my wife she’s going on four; There she is, waiting for me— There by our palace door. Padoy, see, we’ve got company, Now you must be polite And say “Good morning” pretty, And “Won’t you sit down?” That’s right. And here’s the dinner ready— Biscuit and sauce and tea. The tea it’s water and sugar, And as sweet as sweet can be; And the biscuits—Padoy, she makes ’em: She mixes water and flour, And sets it to rise in the sunshine For almost a half an hour; And then she kneads it and kneads it Into tiny cakes of dough, And it’s fun to play ball with ’em, Before they’re baked, you know.