Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.

And though hard be the task, keep a stiff upper lip.

O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

But whenever she thanks the givers for favors great and small, she thinks of the good little sister who gave her more than they all.