four o'clock
She was an under dog , and we had no mercy on her . We `` plagued '' her , God forgive us ! And what the word means , in its full horror , only a child can compass . We laughed at her cudbar petticoats , her little `` chopped hands ; '' and when she stumbled over the arithmetic lesson , because she had been up at four o'clock every morning since the first bluebirds came , we laughed at that . Life in general seems to have treated Polly in somewhat the same way . I hear that she did not marry well , and that her children had begun to `` turn out bad , '' when she died , prematurely bent and old , not many weeks ago . But when I think of what we might have given and what we did withhold , when I realize that one drop of water from each of us would have filled her little cup to overflowing , there is one compensating thought , and I murmur , conscience-smitten , `` I 'm glad she had the pink dress ! ''