“my dress is pretty,” a little girl said.

“did you make it?” i asked. she shook her head.

“no, i didn’t make it,” she laughed in glee.

“it took lots of people to make it,” said she.

“i’ll tell you about it, because i know

what my mother told me is truly so.

“the silkworms grew it, and after a while

men unraveled it into a pile;

girls spun it and wove it and sent it away,

and my mother bought it for me one day;

and the dressmaker cut it and sewed it for me—

these are the reasons i love it,” said she.