LITTLE GARNETT.
The Rev. Dr. Guernsy, of Washington, D. C., in a sermon on Thanksgiving-day, in which he made a pathetic appeal for the poor, related the following touching incident connected with one of his visitations. Upon asking a lovely child of a widowed mother who she thought were the happiest people in the world, she constantly replied to all his interrogations, "Those who are always warm."
IN a hut of logs, while storms beat wild,
Sitting alone in the dark,
Sitting alone, in a corner piled
With ashes, with chips, and bark,
Little Garnett, with bright golden hair,
With beautiful face and form,
She nestled and hummed a plaintive air,
The burden, "Those who are warm,
Only those who are warm."
Sitting alone in the dark,
Sitting alone, in a corner piled
With ashes, with chips, and bark,
Little Garnett, with bright golden hair,
With beautiful face and form,
She nestled and hummed a plaintive air,
The burden, "Those who are warm,
Only those who are warm."
Here scarcely a ray of fire-light gleamed
Into this desolate place,
And scarcely a ray of sunshine beamed
From Garnett's wasted face;
Closer she folded her garments round,
Round about her fragile form;
A pitiful sight, a sadder sound
Her song, "Who are always warm,
Only those who are warm."
Into this desolate place,
And scarcely a ray of sunshine beamed
From Garnett's wasted face;
Closer she folded her garments round,
Round about her fragile form;
A pitiful sight, a sadder sound
Her song, "Who are always warm,
Only those who are warm."
