By Clara Doty Bates. One Sunny Day, In The Early Spring, Before A Bluebird Dared To Sing, Cloaked And Furred As In Winter Weather,-- Seal-Brown Hat And Cardinal Feather,-- Forth With A Piping Song, Went Gold-Locks "After Flowers." "Tired Of Waiting So Long," Said This Little Girl Of Ours. She Searched The Bare Brown Meadow Over, And Found Not Even A Leaf Of Clover; Nor Where The Sod Was Chill And Wet Could She Spy One Tint Of Violet; But Where The Brooklet Ran A Noisy Swollen Billow, She Picked In Her Little Hand A Branch Of Pussie-Willow. She Shouted Out, In A Happy Way, At The Catkins' Fur, So Soft And Gray; She Smoothed Them Down With Loving Pats, And Called Them Her Little Pussie-Cats. She Played At Scratch And Bite; She Played At Feeding Cream; And When She Went To Bed That Night, Gold-Locks Dreamed A Dream. Curled In A Little Cosy Heap, Under The Bed-Clothes, Fast Asleep, She Heard, Although She Scarce Knew How, A Score Of Voices "M-E-O-W! M-E-O-W!" And Right Before Her Bed, Upon A Branching Tree, Were Kittens, And Kittens, And Kittens, As Thick As They Could Be. Maltese, Yellow, And Black As Ink; White, With Both Ears Lined With Pink; Striped, Like A Royal Tiger'S Skin; Yet All Were Hollow-Eyed, And Thin; And Each One Wailed Aloud, Once, And Twice, And Thrice: "We Are The Willow-Pussies; O, Where Are The Willow-Mice!" Meanwhile, Outside, Through Branch And Bough, The March Wind Wailed, "M-E-O-W! M-E-O-W!" 'Twas Dark, And Yet Gold-Locks Awoke, And Softly To Her Mother Spoke: "If They Were Fed, Mamma, It Would Be Very Nice; But I Hope The Willow-Pussies Won't Find The Willow-Mice!" Little Girl, Little Girl, Where Have You Been? Gathering Roses To Give To The Queen.