Page:Poems Curwen.djvu/255

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Then from beneath her tattered shawl
 A hunch of bread she drew,
And held a battered orange up
 To the little sufferer's view,
Saying, "My child, is not God good,
 To send these things for you?"

And the child looked up, with smiling eyes,
 To the mother's worn, pinched face,
Then folding her little skeleton hands,
 Said, simply, "Please, say grace."—
Mab's tears rained down—On the cellar floor?
 No! On pillows adorned with lace.

For 'twas all a dream, and Mab awoke
 In her own warm, cosy bed;
She rubbed her eyes," Was it only a dream?
 It seemed so real," she said,
As she turned to look for the stocking nurse
 Had pinned to her little cot head.

There hung her stocking as limp as could be,
 Quite empty, there wasn't a doubt,
But just to make sure, Mab unpinned it,
 And then turned it the wrong side out;
Quite empty—but Mab shed never a tear,
 She would never more sulk or pout.

She thought awhile, then "It serves me right,"
 She said, with a sage little nod,"
Old Santa spoke truly—I never have felt
 As I ought to do, grateful to God."