Alva N. Turner

SHE’S a clever little witch,

And knows it;

But it has not spoiled her heart.

The beauty of her tressed head

Is enhanced by the cunning of her fingers.

Her piquant and mobile face

Reflects

The sunshine of her soul,

And betrays the clouds of it.

I like to study her face.

Her sky-blue eyes

Vie with the softness

Of the summer heavens,

When the nimbus has fled

And cumulus dreams on the sky-line.

The naif beauty of her white teeth

Remains intact,

And laughs

At the dedal ruse of the dentist.

Last Sunday, at the spring

Which pours its potable silver

For the mendicant town of Spring Garden,

She said with a smile,

Before Lillian and the others,

That she believed

She’d made a great hit with me.

I mocked the smile of her,

And confessed that she had.

She’s twenty and I’m forty—

But that’s no difference to her;

For she’s a clever little witch,

And knows it.