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Poem by Ann Taylor
"Dear me! what signifies a pin! I'll leave it on the floor; My pincushion has others in, Mamma has plenty more: A miser will I never be," Said little heedless Emily. So tripping on to giddy play, She left the pin behind, For Betty's broom to whisk away, Or some one else to find; She never gave a thought, indeed, To what she might to-morrow need. Next day a party was to ride, To see an air-balloon! And all the company beside Were dress'd and ready soon: But she, poor girl, she could not stir, For just a pin to finish her. 'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand, She did to search begin; There was not one≠not one, the band Of her pelisse to pin! She cut her pincushion in two, But not a pin had slidden through! At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away. Poor Emily! she was not in, For want of just ≠a single pin! There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforseen: And those who venture wilful waste, May woeful want expect to taste.
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