THE LAMENT OF A LEFT-OVER DOLL.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

I'm a left-over doll, and I grieve to relate How sad is my fortune, how lonely my fate; For I had no notion that I should lie here, Forlorn and neglected, at this time of year. Oh, long before Christmas they dressed me up fine— No dollie had clothes any better than mine; And I rather imagine I looked very nice, As many fine ladies inquired my price. I was handled and dandled, and fondly caressed, My beauty admired, my value confessed, And yet for some reason or other was I Put back in the show-case; the buyer went by. One dear little maiden came into the store; She saw me, and for me began to implore, And said that there wasn't a doll in the place With a handsomer dress or a lovelier face. She stared at me long, so of course I stared back, And saw that her eyes were a beautiful black; And I wanted to speak, but I couldn't, because I hadn't been made with a hinge in my jaws. I dreamed about Christmas, and how I should be Stuck into a stocking or up on a tree, Then carried about in my mistress's arms That all might admire my wonderful charms. But Santa Claus came, and he went on his way, And took with him many a doll, I dare say; But as I've a chance to look round me, I find That dozens and dozens have been left behind. If you were a left-over dollie yourself, You'd know how I feel lying here on the shelf So long after Christmas; and wouldn't expect Me to smile at old Santa Claus' cruel neglect. They've marked down my price; and I very much fear That those who buy cheaply will hold me less dear, And the army of curious shoppers I shun Since I had no part in the holiday fun.