I
N many a lowly cottage in France The bobbins keep threading a mazy dance The whole day long, from morning to night, Weaving the lace so pretty and light How swiftly the nimble fingers twist The threads on the pillow—not one is missed: Each bobbin would seem to rise from its place To meet the fingers that form the lace. How wondrously quick the pattern shows From the threads, as under our eyes it grows :— How quickly follow stem, leaves, and flower, As if under the spell of enchanter's power. Look at old Nannette—she can scarcely see, Yet none can make lovelier lace than she; And her grand-daughter Julie—just seven years old, Is learning already the bobbins to hold. Without drawings to follow, or patterns to trace, How can these poor cottagers fashion their lace? From the plant and the flower and unfolding fern And the frost on the pane their patterns they learn,— From gossamer web by the spider wove,— From natural taste and natural love For every form of beauty and grace, They 've learned to fashion their wonderful lace.
