MARJORIE.
“Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day,
“I never saw such weather!
The rain will spoil my meadow hay
And all my crops together.”
His little daughter climbed his knee;
“I guess the sun will shine,” said she.
“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,
“Should bring a dry September,
With vines and stalks all wilted down,
And fields scorched to an ember—”
“Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,
The little girl upon his knee.
“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,
“Now, what’s the use of living?
No plan of mine succeeds at all—”
“Why, next month comes Thanksgiving!
And then, of course,” said Marjorie,
“We’re all as happy as can be.”
“Well, what should I be thankful for?”
Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble
This summer has grown more and more,
My losses have been double,
I’ve nothing left—” “Why, you’ve got me!”
Said Marjorie, upon his knee.