Caty Jane

One summer morning, as I walked Along a shady lane, I met a black-eyed little girl, Whose name was Caty Jane.

She had a pretty basket full Of blossoms blue and white, And when I asked her where she went, She hid her face from sight;

And sitting where the clover grew So sweet and thick and red, She said, “I had a sister once Who loved me, and is dead;

“And yonder, to the slope on which You see the willows wave, I’m going with my flowers, for there Is little Annie’s grave.

“Her goodness and her gentleness I oftentimes forgot; She never said an unkind word,— I wish that I had not.

“We had a play-house once, beside This very shady lane; I wish it never had been made,” Said little Caty Jane.

“’T was carpeted with grass, and weeds Were piled to make the walls; The beds were spread with burdock-leaves, And mother gave us dolls.

“We had some broken cups, and had Some skeins of thread, I know, And sometimes we pretended we Were women, and would sew;

“And often I would visit her, And she would come again, And make believe to visit me,” Said little Caty Jane.

“One day, when cloudily the sun Was going down the hill, Dear Annie said, ‘We must go home,’ The wind was growing chill.

“And when she wrapt her apron round Her neck and shoulders bare, I laughed, and called her grandmamma, And said it wasn’t fair

“That she should run away, nor care For playing, nor for me. ‘O Caty Jane,’ said Annie, then, ‘I’m cold as I can be.’

“‘It seems as if no fire nor quilt Could make me warm again.’ And, sure enough, they never did,” Said little Caty Jane.

“She said that more and more her head Kept aching all the while, And from her hands the playthings fell, But still she tried to smile.

“And when the moon came up and shone So cold across the floor, She said that we would never play Together any more.

“‘Well, if you feel so very bad, Do let’s go home,’ said I, ‘That you may have a chance to make Your will before you die.’

“And so I ran and left her in Our play-house by the lane, And ran the faster when she called, ‘Don’t leave me, Caty Jane.’

“And sitting by the warm wood-fire, In little Annie’s chair, I fell asleep, and woke in fright,— My sister wasn’t there.

“‘She must be in a neighbor’s house,’ My mother said; but I Hid in her lap my face, and cried As hard as I could cry;

“And told her I had left her in Our play-house by the lane; And there they found her, sure enough,” Said little Caty Jane,

“Lying upon the frozen ground, As cold as cold could be; And when I called her pretty names She did not speak to me.

“But with pale cheek and shut eyes lay Upon our little bed. And when the sun arose at morn,” Poor mourning Caty said,

“I called her to get up, and kissed Her cheek to make her wake; And when she did not speak nor smile, I thought my heart would break.

“I brought my playthings and my dolls, And laid them on the bed, And told her they were hers to keep,” Poor little Caty said.

“And, waiting there in fear and doubt, They softly kissed my brow, And told me I must live without My sister Annie, now.

“O then I knew how dear she was,” Said little Caty Jane, “And thought if she could be alive, And play with me again,

“I’d say a thousand things to her That I had never said. ’T was easy work to think kind words To say when she was dead.”

And with her eyes brimful of tears, She went along the lane; No sister now had she to love,— Poor little Caty Jane!

Seeing how very long she stayed By Annie’s lonesome bed, I thought, If other little girls, Whose sisters are not dead,

Could know how blest they are, and see The sad look Caty wore, They never would be heard to speak A cross word any more.

For we must do to others just As we would be done by, If we would learn to live in peace, Or peacefully to die.