A little naughty child,
whose face was mild.
Stood behind the window,
watching the tree shadow.
Her bright little black eye,
peeping out like a spy.
The fine fingers held a toy,
Which she never knew why.
The red little lips passed out a rhyme,
which went on and on after each time.
Her fingers counted the rose,
all that the garden had to pose.
The shadow of the trees grew longer,
as the sun sat across the border.
Far away came marching her father,
with a opened box beneath the shoulder.
The child climbed up the window frame,
like the lion keeper failing to tame.
The child’d eyebrows took a bowed stretch,
to find what it was inside the box trench.
Rose a white kitten with a red neck bell,
it was looking too young to even spell.
With her father making the kitten indulge,
the child’s rose cheeks took a deep bulge.