I HAVE brought your dinner, father,”
The blacksmith’s daughter said,
As she took from her arm the kettle,
And lifted its shining lid.
“There is not any pie or pudding;
So I will give you this;”
And upon his toil-worn forehead
She left the childish kiss.
The blacksmith took off his apron,
And dined in happy mood,
Wondering much at the savor
Hid in his humble food,
While all about him were visions
Full of prophetic bliss;
But he never thought of the magic
In his little daughter’s kiss.
While she, with her kettle swinging,
Merrily trudged away,
Stopping at sight of a squirrel,
Catching some wild bird’s lay,
O, I thought, how many a shadow
Of life and fate we would miss,
If always our frugal dinners
Were seasoned with a kiss!