Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed,
Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red,
With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox,
And grandmother's fair favorites, old-fashioned hollyhocks.
One night we feared Jack Frost might come to blight the tender
flowers—
We almost felt his cruel breath in the early evening hours;
So Margery took coverings and spread them, thick and warm,
To shield the flowers, as blankets wrap a sleeping baby's form.
Then in the morning, when we looked across the dewy grass,
And saw the traces Jack Frost leaves where he is wont to pass—
For each spreading tree and slender bush had felt his chill caress,
And some had drooped, and some had blushed in crimson loveliness—
We hastened to the garden-bed, and there, in bright array,
The little flowers looked blithely up to greet the smiling day.
Safe hid from Jack Frost's piercing breath, he never saw them there,
And the flowers still bloom for Margery, to thank her for her care.