A LAUGH IN CHURCH
She sat on the sliding cushion, The dear, wee woman of four; Her feet, in their shiny slippers, Hung dangling over the floor. She meant to be good; she had promised, And so with her big, brown eyes, She stared at the meetinghouse windows And counted the crawling flies.
She looked far up at the preacher, But she thought of the honeybees Droning away at the blossoms That whitened the cherry trees. She thought of a broken basket, Where curled in a dusky heap, Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears. Lay snuggled and fast asleep.
Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle, Such queer little hearts to beat, Such swift round tongues to kiss, Such sprawling, cushiony feet; She could feel in her clasping fingers The touch of the satiny skin, And a cold, wet nose exploring The dimples under her chin.
Then a sudden ripple of laughter Ran over the parted lips So quick that she could not catch it With her rosy finger-tips. The people whispered "Bless the child," As each one waked from a nap, But the dear, wee woman hid her face For shame in her mother's lap.
ANONYMOUS.
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