It was snowing outside in
New York City, and the
lights on the stores were
so bright and pretty.
The stores were filled with
toys big and small; gifts for
children, parents and all.

Nutcrackers stood brave for
the children to see and porcelain
dolls smiled back at me.

But none did I love more than
the glass carousel, with its
dreamy gay music and its small
ringing bell.

Mother would not buy it for me,
much too fragile for my touch.
I didn't cry or brood or whine
though, too old for things of such.
So I went home to bed, no music
for my ear. I lay quiet and
patiently for my pillow to absorb
my tears.

Then late that night I awoke to
the sound of a bell, and I saw
outside my window,
my beloved carousel.