Her Little Face Is Like A Walnut Shell With Wrinkling Lines; Her Soft, White Hair Adorns Her Withered Brows In Quaint, Straight Curls, Like Horns; And All About Her Clings An Old, Sweet Smell. Prim Is Her Gown And Quakerlike Her Shawl. Well Might Her Bonnets Have Been Born On Her. Can You Conceive A Fairy Godmother The Subject Of A Strong Religious Call? In Snow Or Shine, From Bed To Bed She Runs, All Twinkling Smiles And Texts And Pious Tales, Her Mittened Hands, That Ever Give Or Pray, Bearing A Sheaf Of Tracts, A Bag Of Buns: A Wee Old Maid That Sweeps The Bridegroom'S Way, Strong In A Cheerful Trust That Never Fails.