Classic Poem

My next door neighbor's little girl,
A cunning two-year-old,
Wondered one day why drooped her flowers,
And pleaded to be told.

Then said her mamma, " Here in-doors
The sunshine doesn't come
To warm and bless and gladden them,
And make them feel at home. "

Next morning when she went to seek
Her darling at her play,
She found her standing in the sun
In just the queerest way;

For there she held aloft a cup
Above her pretty head.
" What are you doing, Lolo dear? "
Mamma, astonished, said.

And she, her cup still held aloft, —
Bless her, ye Heavenly Powers! —
" I'm catching sunshine, mamma dear,
To give my 'ittle f'owers. "

Type of all children there was she,
Who in life's garden stand,
Still holding tenderly aloft
Their life-cup in their hand.

We, buried in our sordid cares,
Are plants that droop and die;
They catch God's sunshine as it flows
For ever from on high.

Upon our weary, aching hearts
They let its blessing fall;
Their office this in every land,
In cottage, hut, and hall.

And so the world is kept alive,
And freshened every minute,
By the dear grace that overflows
The children who are in it.