Beneath an apple tree she sat Amid bright leaf and flower, Telling of what she would do, Were it within her power: She'd civilize the heathen poor,— She'd meet the wary foe, And drive them till their trackless paths Were through eternal snow.
With strong nerve she would care for those Who are stricken down in war And cheer the sick and suffering ones Without a bit of awe. She'd soothe the fevered ones to rest And bathe each aching head,— And never would she shrink from pain, But bravely work, instead.
But ah! what caused her cheek to pale Ere she had ceased to speak— What made her start, with fingers clenched, And give that awful shriek? Where is the maiden, once so brave? Ah! nothing now can still her,— For lo! upon her sleeve there lay A little caterpillar!
