MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST
My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for
books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,--I know by his
looks.
So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all
the day,
And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edith
away."
But Papa said if I was good I could ask you--alone by myself--
If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to
be smart
But the reading that runs all around them, you know,--just the
easiest part.
You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me,
And Jane,--that's my nurse,--and John,--he's the coachman,--just
only us three.
You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and
all that;
And then you're to write, if you please, something good--very good--
of a cat!
This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and
mild,
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a bad
child;
And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress--that's me--
was so bad,
And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heart
sad."
And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'd
get at.
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