EIGHT YEARS OLD. THE SINGING-LESSON.
Reading edition
A slender, liquid note,
Long-drawn and silver-sweet.
Obediently the little maid
Tries, timid still, and half afraid,
The lesson to repeat.
A breezy turn or two,
A blithe and bold refrain,
A ripple up and down the scale,
And still the learner does not fail
To echo soft the strain.
A burst of melody
Wild, rapturous, and long.
A thousand airy runs and trills
Like drops from overflowing rills,—
The vanquished pupil’s song
Breaks into laughter sweet.
And does her master chide?
Nay; little Ethel’s music-room
Is mid the sunny garden’s bloom,
Her roof the branches wide.
With parted lips she stands
Among the flowers alone.
Her teacher—hark! again he sings!
A stir—a flash of startled wings—
The little bird has flown!
MARGARET JOHNSON.
