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31
THE LITTLE MOUNTAINEER.
By L. E. L.
Her naked feet are nothing loath
To touch their mother earth;
The pebble and the flower have been
Their comrades from their birth.
The wind is in her long fair hair,
She bares her listening ear,
And questions if a storm be nigh—
The little mountaineer.
The birds are sweeping through the sky,
Their white wings bear away
The brightness of the morning time,
The sunshine's lingering ray.
Like armies summoned by a king,
The clouds come far and near;
They gather round her native hills—
The little mountaineer.
