where have they gone to—the little girls,

with natural manners and natural curls?

who love their dollies and like their toys,

and talk of something besides the boys?

little old women in plenty i find,

mature in manners and old in mind;

little old flirts, who talk of their “beaus,”

and with each other in stylish clothes.

little old belles, who, at nine and ten,

are sick of pleasure and tired of men,

weary of travel, of balls, of fun—

and find no new thing under the sun.

once, in the beautiful long ago,

some dear little children i used to know;

girls who were merry as lambs at play,

and laughed and rollicked the livelong day.

they thought not at all of the “style” of their clothes;

they never imagined that boys were “beaus;”

“other girls’ brothers” and “mates” were they,

splendid fellows to help them play.

where have they gone to? if you see

one of them anywhere, send her to me.

i would give a medal of purest gold

to one of those dear little girls of old,

with an innocent heart and open smile,

who knows not the meaning of “flirt” or “style.”