THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 323

The servants, too, were all engaged ;
“The day is come at last,”

Said Marian, “ but oh, I wish,
My pilgrimage was past.”

She knelt beside the apple-tree,
And for God’s assistance prayed ;

Then, with her basket in her hand,
Forth tripped the little maid.

Behind the house where Marian dwelt,
Far off in the distance, lay

A high steep hill, which the sun at mora
Tinged with its earliest ray.

“ Difficulty ” was its rightful name,

The child had often thought ;

Towards this hill she turned her steps,
With hopeful visions fraught.

The flowers seemed to welcome her,
*Twas a lovely autumn morn,

The little lark sang merrily,
Above the waving corn.

“ Ah, little lark, you sing,” said she,

“On your early pilgrimage ;

I, too, will sing, for pleasant thonghts
Should now my mind engage.”

In clear sweet strains she sung a hymn,
And tripped lightly on her way ;

Until a pool of soft thick mud
Across her pathway lay.

“ This is the Slough of Despond,” she cried,

But she bravely ventured through ;

And safely reached the other side,
But she lost one little shoe.

On an old gray stone she sat her down,
To eat some fruit and bread ;

Then took her little Bible out,
And a cheering psalm she read.

Then with fresh hope she journeyed on,
For many miles away ;

And she reached the bottom of the hill,

Before the close of day.
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