EASTER MORNING.

Too early, of course! How provoking!

I told Ma just how it would be.

I might as well have on a wrapper,

For there is n't a soul here to see.

There! Sue Delaplaine's pew is empty,—

I declare if it is n't too bad!

I know my suit cost more than hers did,

And I wanted to see her look mad.

I do think that sexton's too stupid —

He's put some one else in our pew —

And the girl's dress just kills mine completely;

Now what am I going to do?

The psalter, and Sue is n't here yet!

I do n't care, I think it's a sin

For people to get late to service,

Just to make a great show coming in.

Perhaps she is sick, and can n't get here —

She said she'd a headache last night.

How mad she'll be after her fussing!

I declare, it would serve her just right.

Oh, you've got here at last, my dear, have you?

Well, I do n't think you need be so proud

Of that bonnet, if Virot did make it,

It's horrid fast-looking and loud.

What a dress!— for a girl in her senses

To go on the street in light blue!—

And those coat-sleeves — they wore them last Summer —

Do n't doubt, though, that she thinks they're new.

Mrs. Gray's polonaise was imported —

So dreadful!— a minister's wife,

And thinking so much about fashion!—

A pretty example of life!

The altar's dressed sweetly. I wonder

Who sent those white flowers for the font!—

Some girl who's gone on the assistant —

Do n't doubt it was Bessie Lamont.

Just look at her now, little humbug!—

So devout — I suppose she do n't know

That she's bending her head too far over,

And the ends of her switches all show.

What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning!

That woman will kill me some day.

With her horrible lilacs and crimsons;

Why will these old things dress so gay?

And there's Jenny Welles with Fred. Tracy —

She's engaged to him now — horrid thing!

Dear me! I'd keep on my glove sometimes,

If I did have a solitaire ring!

How can this girl next to me act so —

The way that she turns round and stares,

And then makes remarks about people;

She'd better be saying her prayers.

Oh dear, what a dreadful long sermon!

He must love to hear himself talk!

And it's after twelve now,— how provoking!

I wanted to have a nice walk.

Through at last. Well it is n't so dreadful

After all, for we do n't dine till one;

How can people say church is poky!—

So wicked!— I think it's real fun.