JESSE's BIRTHDAY.
THE snow-flakes tap soft at my window,
And tell, in their queer little way,
That Jesse, my little boy-neighbor,
Is another year older to-day.
And tell, in their queer little way,
That Jesse, my little boy-neighbor,
Is another year older to-day.
"Eight years," said one gossiping fellow,
"Have rolled over Jesse's bright head."
"And how do you know?" asked another,
Who looked like a small feather-bed;
"Have rolled over Jesse's bright head."
"And how do you know?" asked another,
Who looked like a small feather-bed;
"I've known," said the first, "since last summer:
When I was a dew-drop, one morn
The little boy gathered the rose-bud
Where I glistened, just under the thorn,
When I was a dew-drop, one morn
The little boy gathered the rose-bud
Where I glistened, just under the thorn,
"I heard what he said to a playmate:
'Next March, if I live, I'll be eight;'
Then he shook the bud hard and I tumbled
Down under his feet by the gate.
'Next March, if I live, I'll be eight;'
Then he shook the bud hard and I tumbled
Down under his feet by the gate.
(27)
