Poems (Kimball)/Her own Little Room

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

HER OWN LITTLE ROOM.

HERE is my own little room;
Fair as a lily in bloom—
 That is what mother dear said.
Just see how lovely it looks!
Here are my desk and books,
Here is my own little bed.

This is my sewing-chair;
That is my work-box there,
 Everything I shall use;
Thimble and scissors and thread,
Stocking-ball—darning I dread!—
 Emery, needles to choose.

Soon as I learned to sew,
Mend my own linen, you know,
 Take all the care for my own,
Dusting and making my bed,
Mother always has said,
 "Sister shall room all alone."

Not that the children may
Not be allowed here to play
 Sometimes when they are good;
But when I'm reading, you know,
Romping and shouting they go;
 Then I want solitude.

Here I shall often sit,
(Mother can read and knit !)
 Resting my book on this shelf.
Here my birdie will swing
Right overhead, the dear thing,
 Singing away to himself.

Pictures? O yes, I forget!
This is "S. Margaret,"—
 None of them costly, but dear—
This is "Aurora" and this—
This is "The Playmate's Kiss,"
 And "Jesus and Mary" here.

Here in the winter time
I shall have ivies to climb;
 And my Hermosa rose,
All through the winter in bloom,
How it will brighten my room!
 I shall forget that it snows.

This pretty student-lamp's mine;
I may sit up until nine,
 Nut I shall join mother dear
Till I come up for the night,
So I my candle shall light
 Unless she sits with me here.

Sometimes my friends will come in
Very soon I shall begin
 Asking them duly to come.
Here I mean to "receive;"
Oh, you may laugh, but believe!
 For this is my home in my home!