My Doggie

She sat on the sliding cushion,

The dear, wee woman of four;

Her feet, in their shiny slippers,

Hung dangling over the floor.

She meant to be good; she had promised,

And so with her big, brown eyes,

She stared at the meetinghouse windows

And counted the crawling flies.

She looked far up at the preacher,

But she thought of the honeybees

Droning away at the blossoms

That whitened the cherry trees.

She thought of a broken basket,

Where curled in a dusky heap,

Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears.

Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle,

Such queer little hearts to beat,

Such swift round tongues to kiss,

Such sprawling, cushiony feet;

She could feel in her clasping fingers

The touch of the satiny skin,

And a cold, wet nose exploring

The dimples under her chin.

Then a sudden ripple of laughter

Ran over the parted lips

So quick that she could not catch it

With her rosy finger-tips.

The people whispered “Bless the child,”

As each one waked from a nap,

But the dear, wee woman hid her face

For shame in her mother’s lap.

ANONYMOUS.