Polly's patchwork--oh, dear me!--
Truly is a sight to see.
Rumpled, crumpled, soiled, and frayed--
Will the quilt be ever made?
See the stitches yawning wide--
Can it be that Polly _tried_?
Some are right and some are wrong,
Some too short and some too long,
Some too loose and some too tight;
Grimy smudges on the white,
And a tiny spot of red,
Where poor Polly's finger bled.
Strange such pretty, dainty blocks--
Bits of Polly's summer frocks--
Should have proved so hard to sew,
And the cause of so much woe!
One day it was _very_ hot,
And the thread got in a knot,
Drew the seam up in a heap--
Polly calmly fell asleep.
Then she had a lovely dream;
Straight and even was the seam,
Pure and spotless was the white;
All the blocks were finished quite--
Each joined to another one.
Lo, behold! the quilt was done,--
Lined and quilted,--and it seemed
To cover Polly as she dreamed!
