The Re-echo Club

I remember, I remember,
How good I used to be;
Why, St. Cecelia at her best
Was not as good as me.
I never tore my pinafore,
Or got my slippers wet;
I let my brother steal my cake--
That boy is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
How bad I've sometimes been;
How all my little childish tricks
Were counted fearful sin.
I'm glad I cut up, anyway,
But still 'tis little joy
To know I could have played worse pranks
If I had been a boy.

Mr. Wordsworth took it quietly:

I met a gentle Little Girl,
She was sixteen years, _she said_;
Her hair was thick; that same old curl
Was hanging from her head.

"You're very, very good, you say;
And you look good to me,
Yet you are bad. Tell me, I pray,
Sweet maid, how that may be?"

Then did the Little Girl reply
(The curl bobbed on her forehead),
"When I am good, I'm good as pie,
And when I'm bad, I'm horrid."

At the next m