A NAUGHTY child just pulled me out of bed. "O what an ugly, squashy worm!" he said, And he meant me!— 'Tis strange how ignorant a child can be. I "squashy"?—I, so gently born and bred, That rose-leaves make a pillow for my head, While in the heart Of some sweet bud I watch its petals part? And "ugly"?—I, so slim, so full of grace That when my silky length is coiled in place, Brown row on row, A finer sight no summer day can show. I wish that I might take these children rough And show them where I live! 'Twould be enough To make them stare In wonder and amazement and despair— No child that lives has such a home as I! For roof it has a bit of bluest sky So that the rain And dew and sun peep in and out again. Its walls are hung with crimson and its floor Is strewn with golden pollen, and its door, All made of green, Is just the daintiest portal ever seen! My food is delicate. I daily fare On crumpled petals, dew-steeped, very rare— Oh, happy I!— Until some naughty little child comes by! |