We have an echo in our house,
An echo three years old,
With dimpled cheeks and wistful eyes,
And hair of sunny gold.
This little echo, soft and sweet,
Repeats what others say,
And trots about on tireless feet,
Up stairs and down, all day.
It makes us very careful not
To use a naughty word,
Lest in the echo's lisping tones,
It should again be heard.
Which would be such a dreadful thing,
As any one can see,
Who has an echo in his house,
A little over three.
---Margaret E. Sangster
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