Little Sunshine.

A poem by John Hartley

Winsome, wee and witty,
Like a little fay,
Carolling her ditty
All the livelong day,
Saucy as a sparrow
In the summer glade,
Flitting o'er the meadow
Came the little maid.
A youth big and burly,
Loitered near the stile,
He had risen early,
Just to win her smile.
And she came towards him
Trying to look grave,
But she couldn't do it,
Not her life to save.
For the fun within her,
Well'd out from her eyes,
And the tell-tale blushes
To her brow would rise.
Then he gave her greeting,
And with bashful bow,
Said in tones entreating,
"Darling tell me now,
You are all the sunshine,
This world holds for me;
Be my little valentine,
I have come for thee."
But she only tittered
When he told his love,
And the gay birds twittered
On the boughs above;
He continued pleading,
Calling her his sun -
Said his heart was bleeding, -
Which seemed famous fun.
Then he turned to leave her.
But she caught his hand,
And its gentle pressure
Made him understand,
That in spite of teasing,
He her heart had won,
And through life hereafter,
She would be his sun.

- - - - -

Now they have been married
Twenty years or more,
But she's just as wilful
As she was before.
And she's just as winsome
In his eyes to-day,
As when first be met her,
Mischievous and gay.
Will the years ne'er tame her?
Will she ne'er grow old?
Does the grave man blame her?
Does he never scold?
Does he never weary
Of her ready tongue?
Does he love her dearly
As when he was young?
Yes - she was the sunshine
Of his youthful day,
And her light laugh cheers him
Now he's growing gray.
Happy little woman,
That time cannot tame;
Happy sober husband,
Loving still the same.
Happy in her lightness
When life's morn was bright,
Happy in her brightness
As draws on the night.