an was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.

And well he might be reckoned so;
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.

His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was--the parent's chief delight--
A good and pleasant child.

He'd gather chips and sticks of wood
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.

In summer time he'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.

He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn.
In part, to silver pence.

He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.

He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.

But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.

He'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.

"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You'll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I haven't dried my feet!"

And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.

And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.

For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.

And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.

While little more--and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.

For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.

And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.

Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And