"I'm losted! Could you find me, please?"
Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece,
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;
I stooped, and lifted her with ease,
And softly whispered, "Maybe."

"Tell me your name, my little maid:
I can't find you without it."
"My name is Shiny-eyes," she said.
"Yes; but your last name?" She shook her head:
"Up to my house 'ey never said
A single word about it."

"But, dear," I said, "what is your name?"
"Why, didn't you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought came:
"Yes, when you're good. But when they blame
You, little one,—is it just the same
When mamma has to scold you?"

"My mamma never scolds," she moans,
A little blush ensuing,
"'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones;
And then she says [the culprit owns],—
'Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,
What has you been a-doing?'"