Little Garnett

IN a hut of logs, while storms beat wild,Sitting alone in the dark,Sitting alone, in a corner piledWith ashes, with chips, and bark,Little Garnett, with bright golden hair,With beautiful face and form,She nestled and hummed a plaintive air,The burden, "Those who are warm,Only those who are warm."

Here scarcely a ray of fire-light gleamedInto this desolate place,And scarcely a ray of sunshine beamedFrom Garnett's wasted face;Closer she folded her garments round,Round about her fragile form;A pitiful sight, a sadder soundHer song, "Who are always warm,Only those who are warm."

An ambassador of Christ stepped in,Aye, into this hovel drear;And said, "My child, pray why do you sit,Sit mourning and singing here?Who do you think, say, my dear Garnett,Are happy through cold and storm?"She smiled, her dark eyes were wet,—"Those who are always warm,Only those who are warm.

"My father, sleeping in the cold ground,And mother working so late—She is always working, working round—I can do little but wait.;Very seldom have we any fire at all,Kitty sits singing to me,My fingers get cold—Kitty I call(Kitty is my friend, you see),She's warm as warm can be."

"Garnett, think you that children who liveIn houses with dresses so gay,Who plenty enjoy, riches to give,Are happy throughout the day?"She rose up, and said, "Sir, I am eightTo-morrow; soon can performDuty that's light, work early and late,And keep my dear mother warm;I envy those who're warm."

The visitor's words, so touching, kind,Few can know to her how dear;His gifts, his love, and prayers combined,Her abode, so cold, to cheer;And here he left this sorrowful child,While terrible raged the storm.He bade adieu; then sweet Garnett smiled,She sang, "Now we shall be warm,Truly happy, when warm."