lown that curl away. I remember, I remember, How good I used to be; Why, St. Cecelia at her best Was not as good as me. I never tore my pinafore, Or got my slippers wet; I let my brother steal my cake-- That boy is living yet! I remember, I remember, How bad I've sometimes been; How all my little childish tricks Were counted fearful sin. I'm glad I cut up, anyway, But still 'tis little joy To know I could have played worse pranks If I had been a boy. Mr. Wordsworth took it quietly: I met a gentle Little Girl, She was sixteen years, _she said_; Her hair was thick; that same old curl Was hanging from her head. "You're very, very good, you say; And you look good to me, Yet you are bad. Tell me, I pray, Sweet maid, how that may be?" Then did the Little Girl reply (The curl bobbed on her forehead), "When I am good, I'm good as pie, And when I'm bad, I'm horrid." At the next m
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