WERE you ever heavy-hearted, little May?
She tossed her pretty head,
As right merrily she said,
"Heavy hearted? No, not I;
Yet a little makes me cry,
And a little less than half
Makes me laugh--
My mother often calls me 'April Day.'"
Were you ever very happy, little May?
Again she shook her head.
"I do not know," she said.
"_Very_ happy? Who is so?
Not a single soul, you know;
Mother often tells me this,
With a kiss;
Our life, she says, is like an April day."
Were you ever very naughty, little May?
She flushed a rosy red,
As, right saucily, she said,
"Very naughty? Let me see:
Why, I _have_ been bad--for me;
I have trod on, Pussy's toes,
And I've torn my Sunday clo'es;
And, oh!--now, don't you tell!--
I mean to--well,
Fool every one I know on April-day."
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THERE'S a fragrance in the blossom,
But the fruit is better still;
And the river rushes farther
Than ever could the rill.
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