Little Ellie

Darling Little Ellie, Stout of heart and limb,— What, I often wonder, Will the future make of him?

Where will be the roses That keep his cheeks so red, When years with their temptations And trials shall have fled?

Stirring with the morning, As if he owned the farm; On the floor at sunset, Sleeping on his arm:

Tom and faded jacket, Feet brown and bare, Sunshine laughing in his eyes, And tangled in his hair.

In his little bucket, Helping milk the cows,— Riding on the horses, Tumbling down the mows;

Wading in the water, Working mimic mills,— Chasing through the meadows, Rolling down the hills;

Making strings of elm-bark, Stealing mother’s yarn,— All to see his kite fly Higher than the barn;

Planning long aforetime, With ambitious pride, How, when snow has fallen, He’ll have a sled and ride.

Gravely puzzling over Each childish little plan,— Working, and tugging, And scheming like a man.

Now upon grandfather’s knee, Listening with delight To the stories that are new Every day and night.

Now, with joyous make-believe In despite his frown, Turning chairs to railcars, And riding into town.

Ah, ’tis wisely well for us That we cannot see What in years that are to come He will grow to be.