This dear little Ethel, a dreamer is she,
And sweet are her fancies as zephyrs of morn
That ripple in summer-time over the sea,
Or tangle themselves in the tassels of corn.
She knows what the fairies are talking about
When tiptoe they poise on the rim of a flower;
The snow-birds before her trip fearlessly out,
And gossip away in the cold by the hour.
No poor little kitten comes mewing in vain
To pitying Ethel for shelter and food.
She flies from her prettiest castle in Spain
To play with the baby, who will not be good.
She lives in a beautiful world of her own,
And yet I have heard, and I'm sure it is true,
This dear little dreamer has never been known
To think of herself much; 'tis always of you.
And that's why we love her, and not for the gold
Of her loose waving hair nor the blue of her eyes,
Though the one is more precious than jewels untold,
And the other was borrowed right out of the skies.
And oft as she travels to Nobody's Land--
A wide sunny country, where all things are fair--
Whoever needs Ethel has only to stand
With a word and a smile just in front of her chair.