Читать книгу Five Minute Stories - Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe, Laura Richards - Страница 2

When I sit and hold her little hand,

My Betty,

Then all the little troubles seem to shrink,

Grow small and petty.

It does not matter any more

That ink is spilt on parlor floor,

That gown is caught upon the latch,

And not the smallest bit to match,

That cook is going, housemaid gone,

And coming guests to meet alone;

It matters not at all, you see,

For I have Betty, and Betty has me.

When I sit and hold her little hand,

My Betty,

Then all the simple, foolish baby talk

Grows wise and witty.

I’m glad to know that Pussy Mow

Was frightened at the wooden cow,

I weep for Dolly’s broken head,

And for the sawdust she has shed;

I take with joy the cups of tea

From wooden teapot poured for me,

And all goes well, because, you see,

I play with Betty, and Betty with me.

When I walk and hold her little hand,

My Betty,

Then every humble weed beside the way

Grows proud and pretty.

The clover never was so red,

Their purest white the daisies spread,

The buttercups begin to dance,

The reeds salute with lifted lance,

The very tallest trees we pass

Bend down to greet my little lass;

And these things make my joy, you see,

For I love Betty, and Betty loves me!