Down
to the beach she daily walks,
A maiden sweet and fair;
But
no one seems to notice her,
Of all the boarders there.
And
does she mind this cold neglect,
Which some would count a sin?
Ah,
no; she digs her clams, and there
Leaves when the tide rolls in.
June
6, ‘95
Pub.
in Boston
Courier,
Aug. 11,
1895
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