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A Busy Dear


A Bright little maid I know, over the way,
Is up from her pillow at break of day.

Hands and face she washes, and combs her hair:
Twin pretty brown braids she ties up with care.

When breakfast is over, she washes the dishes,
Then hurries away to know Mamma's wishes.

She brushes the chambers, the stairs and the hall,
Puts them in order and that isn't all;
She clears from the steps the dead leaves that fall,
And hastens again at Mamma's low call.

What more she is doing, I'm sure I don't know.
If your mother should need it, would you do so?

Her name, if I knew, I should tell it here,
But I think they do right to call her "Dear."





 


 


 

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