Her sisters shunned her, half in fear
And half in pity. " 'Tis too bad
She is not made as we — poor dear! "
(Four leaves instead of Three she had)

Said Doctor Bee: " Her case is rare
And due to Influence prenatal
To amputate I would not dare,
The operation might be fatal.

" With Rest and Care and Simple Food
She may outlive both you and me;
A change of scene might do her good. "
(One bag of Honey was his fee.)

" Take me! take me! " the clovers cry,
To a maid bending wistful-eyed
With gentle hand she puts them by,
Till all but one are passed aside.

Before her sisters' wondering eyes
Her leaves with kisses are told over.
" At last! at last! " the maiden cries,
" I've found you, little four-leaved clover. "