Like so many idle butterflies."

So bustled and scolded the worthy dame,
Until she had passed the outer sill,
To do her justice, it seldom chanced
That her hands were idle, or tongue was still.


So Phoebe gathered her knitting up,
And sat her down in the chimney niche;
But her mind was on other thoughts intent,
And here and there she dropped a stitch.

The yellow kitten purred on the hearth,
While the kitchen clock, with its frame of oak,
In the corner stood, like a sentinel,
And challenged time with its measured stroke.

But Phoebe's mind was on none of these:
The bread in the oven, her good aunt's frown,
And the scene before her faded away,
And blended with thoughts of Reuben Brown:

How they walked together on summer days,
Or bravely faced the winter's chill,
And chatted merrily all the way
To the little school-house on Sligo Hill.

How both grew older, and school-days passed,
When he was a youth, and a maiden she;