Page 63—Pride Land

To A Little Girl Who Liked To Look In The GlassWhy is my silly girl so vain,Looking in the glass again?For the meekest flower of springIs a gayer little thing.Is your merry eye so blueAs the violet, wet with dew?Yet it loves the best to hideBy the hedge's shady side.Is your bosom half so fairAs the modest lilies are?Yet their little bells are hungBright and shady leaves among.When your cheek the brightest glows,Is it redder than the rose?But its sweetest buds are seenAlmost hid with moss and green.Little flowers that open gay,Peeping forth at break of day,In the garden, hedge, or plain,Have more reason to be vain.The Ragged Girl's Sunday"Oh, dear Mamma, that little girlForgets this is the dayWhen children should be clean and neat,And read and learn and pray!Her face is dirty and her frock,Holes in her stockings, see;Her hair is such a fright, oh, dear!How wicked she must be!She's playing in the kennel dirtWith ragged girls and boys;But I would not on Sunday touchMy clean and pretty toys.I go to church, and sit so still,I in the garden walk,Or take my stool beside the fire,And hear nice Sunday talk.I read my bible, learn my hymns,My catechism say;That wicked little girl does not—She only cares to play.""Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,Repress self-glorying pride;You can do nothing of yourself—Friends all your actions guide."Criminal PrideHark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the brede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.J. R. LowellFoolish FannyOh! Fanny was so vain a lass,If she came near a looking-glass,She'd stop right there for many a minuteTo see how pretty she looked in it.She'd stand and prink, and fix her hairAround her forehead with great care;And take some time to tie a bowThat must, to please her, lie just so.Her mother's bonnet she'd put on,And all her richest dresses don,And up and down the room parade,And much enjoy her promenade.She always liked to wear the bestShe had, and being so much dress'dCould not enjoy the romps with thoseWho wore much less expensive clothes.Each day she grew so fond of dressIt gave her great unhappinessIf every day, and all the while,She wasn't in the latest style.If asked to turn the jumping-ropeHer pretty parasol she'd ope,Lest she should freckle in the sun:And that was her idea of fun!She didn't dare to take the catOr poodle-dog from off the mat,Lest they should catch their little toesIn laces, frills, or furbelows.The very things that gave her joy,Her peace and comfort would destroy,For oft an ugly nail would tearThe costly dress she chose to wear.The foolish girl turned up her noseAt those who dressed in plainer clothes,And lived in quiet style, for sheWith wealthy people chose to beShe never was the least inclinedWith knowledge to enrich her mind;And all the mental food she ateWas served upon a fashion-plate.As this was so, you'll see at onceThat Fan grew up a silly dunce:An there was nothing to admireAbout her, but her fine attire.Foolish Fanny.Previous-Index-NextPage 63—Pride LandMr. Importance walking along the street.PrideCome, come, Mr. Peacock,You must not be so proud,Although you can boast such a train,For there's many a birdFar more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Let me tell you, gay bird,That a suit of fine clothesIs a sorry distinction at most,And seldom much valuedExcepting by thoseWho only such graces can boast.The nightingale certainlyWears a plain coat,But she cheers and delights with her song;While you, though so vain,Cannot utter a noteTo please by the use of your tongue.The hawk cannot boastOf a plumage so gay,But more piercing and clear is her eye;And while you are struttingAbout all the day,She gallantly soars in the sky.The dove may be cladIn a plainer attire,But she is not so selfish and cold;And her love and affectionMore pleasure inspireThan all your fine purple and gold.So, you see, Mr. Peacock,You must not be proud,Although you can boast such a train,For many a birdIs more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Sinful PrideHow proud we are, how fond to shewOur clothes, and call them rich and new,When the poor sheep and silkworm woreThat very clothing long before!The tulip and butterflyAppear in gayer coats than I;Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.Dr. WattsFineryIn a frock richly trimm'dWith a beautiful lace,And hair nicely dress'dHanging over her face,Thus deck'd, Harriet wentTo the house of a friend,With a large little partyThe ev'ning to spend."Ah! how they will allBe delighted, I guess,And stare with surpriseAt my elegant dress!"Thus said the vain girl,And her little heart beat,Impatient the happyYoung party to meet.But, alas! they were allTo intent on their fun,To observe the gay clothesThis fine lady had on;And thus all her troubleQuite lost its design,For they saw she was proud,But forgot she was fine.'Twas Lucy, tho' onlyIn simple white clad,(Nor trimmings, nor laces,Nor jewels she had,)Whose cheerful good natureDelighted them more,Than all the fine garmentsThat Harriet wore.'Tis better to haveA sweet smile on one's face,Than to wear a rich frockWith an elegant lace,For the good-natur'd girlIs lov'd best in the main,If her dress is but decent,Tho' ever so plain.T IA FopA little cane,A high-crowned hat,A fixed impression,Rather flat.A pointed shoe,A scanty coat,A stand-up collarRound his throatA gorgeous necktieSpreading wide,A small moustache—Nine on a side.Arms at right angles,Curved with ease,A stilted walkAnd shaky knees.A languid drawl,The "English" swing,An air of knowingEverything.A vacant stare,Extremely rude,And there you haveThe perfect dude.PrideHark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Shaping from her bitter thought,Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,Satirizing her despairWith the emblems woven there,Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the blede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.J. R. LowellVain LizzieIt surely is not good to see,Lizzie so full of vanity,So fond of dress and show.For when a fine new frock she wears,She gives herself most silly airs,Wherever she may go.She thinks herself a charming girl;But when folks see her twist and twirl,They stop in every street,They smile, or fairly laugh outright,And say: "She's really quite a sight,Was ever such conceit?"Vain Lizzie.Previous-Index-NextPage 64—Naughtiness LandNelly giving Ned her Apple.Greedy NedMamma gave our Nelly an apple,So round, and big, and red;It seemed, beside dainty wee Nelly,To be almost as large as her head.Beside her young Neddie was standing—And Neddie loves apples, too,"Ah! Nelly!" said Neddie, "give brotherA bite of your apple—ah! do!"Dear Nelly held out the big apple;Ned opened his mouth very wide—So wide, that the startled red appleCould almost have gone inside!And oh! what a bite he gave it!The apple looked small, I declare,When Ned gave it back to his sister,Leaving that big bite there.Poor Nelly looked frightened a moment,Then a thought made her face grow bright;"Here, Ned, you can take the apple—I'd rather have the bite!"Eva L. Carson, In "St. Nicholas"The Biggest Piece Of PieOnce, when I was a little boy,I sat me down to cry,Because my little brother hadThe biggest piece of pie.They said I was a naughty boy,But I have since seen menBehave themselves as foolishlyAs I behaved then.For we are often thankless forRich blessings when we sigh,To think some lucky neighbour hasA "bigger piece" of pie.The Greedy, Impatient Girl"Oh! I am so hungry,I'm sure I can't wait,For my apple-pudding to cool,So, Mary, be quick nowAnd bring me a plate,For waiting for dinnerI always did hate,Tho' forced oft to do it at school."But at home, when mammaIs not in the way,I surely will do as I choose;And I do not care forWhat you please to say—The pudding won't burn me—No longer I'll stay.What business have you to refuse?"And now a large sliceOf the pudding she got,And, fearful she should have no more,She cramm'd her mouth fullOf the apple so hot,Which had but a minuteCome out of the pot,But quickly her triumph was o'er.Her mouth and her tongueWere so dreadfully sore,And suffer'd such terrible pain,Her pride and her consequenceSoon were all o'er,And she said, now unableTo eat any more,"Oh! I never will do so again!"And thus, by not mindingWhat she had been told,Young Ellinor lost all her treat;Too greedy to waitTill the pudding was cold,By being impatient,Conceited, and bold,Not a mouthful at last could she eat.C. Horwood.A Story Of An AppleLittle Tommy, and Peter, and Archie, and BobWere walking, one day, when they foundAn apple: 'twas mellow, and rosy, and red,And lying alone on the ground.Said Tommy: "I'll have it." Said peter: "'Tis mine."Said Archie: "I've got it; so there!"Said Bobby: "Now, let us divide it in four partsAnd each of us boys have a share.""No, no!" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it myself."Said Peter: "I want it, I say."Said Archie: "I've got it, and I'll have it all,I won't give a morsel away."Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter he fought,('Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archie held on with his might and his main,Till out from his fingers it fell.Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flewAnd then, down a green little hillThat apple it roll'd, and it roll'd, and it roll'dAs if it would never be still.A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass,And switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!"I wish," whimpered Archie, and Peter, and Tom,"We'd kept it and cut it in four."Sydney DyerGreedy Richard"I think I want some pies this morning"Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;So down he threw his slate and books,And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.And there he cast his greedy eyesRound on the jellies and the pies,So to select, with anxious care,The very nicest that was there.At last the point was thus decided:As his opinion was divided'Twixt pie and jelly, he was lothEither to leave, so took them both.Now Richard never could be pleas'dTo stop when hunger was appeas'd,But he'd go on to eat and stuff,Long after he had had enough."I shan't take any more," said Dick,"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:I cannot eat this other bit;I wish I had not tasted it."Then slowly rising from his seat,He threw the cheesecake in the street,And left the tempting pastry-cook'sWith very discontented looks.Jane TaylorPrevious-Index-NextPage 65—Greediness LandThe Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a rare feast I'll make,I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;Morning, noontime, and night,It shall be my delight;—What a happy young fellow I am."Thus said little George,And, beginning to gorge,With zeal to his cake he applied;While fingers and thumbs,For the sweetmeats and plums,Were hunting and digging besides.But, woeful to tell,A misfortune befell,Which ruin'd this capital fun!After eating his fill,He was taken so ill,That he trembled for what he had done.As he grew worse and worse,The doctor and nurse,To cure his disorder were sent;And rightly, you'll think,He had physic to drink,Which made him his folly repent.And while on his bedHe roll'd his hot head,Impatient with sickness and pain;He could not but takeThis reproof from his cake,"Don't be such a glutton again!"Another Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a feast let us make,Come, school-fellows, come at my call;I assure you 'tis nice,And we'll each have a slice,Here's more than enough for us all."Thus said little Jack,As he gave it a smack,And sharpen'd his knife for the job!While round him a troop,Formed a clamorous group,And hail'd him the king of the mob.With masterly strengthHe cut thro' it at length,And gave to each playmate a share;Dick, William, and James,And many more names,Partook of his benevolent care.And when it was done,And they'd finish'd their fun,To marbles or hoop they went back,And each little boyFelt it always a joyTo do a good turn for good Jack.In his task and his book,His best pleasures he took,And as he thus wisely began,Since he's been a man grown,He has constantly shownThat a good boy will make a good man.Ann TaylorThe Great Glutton'Twas the voice of the glutton,I heard him complain:My waistcoat unbutton,I'll eat once again.The GluttonThe voice of the gluttonI heard with disdain—"I've not eaten this hour,I must eat again;Oh! give me a pudding,A pie, or a tart,A duck or a fowl,Which I love from my heart."How sweet is the pickingOf capon or chicken!A turkey and chineAre most charming and fine;To eat and to drinkAll my pleasure is still,I care not who wantsSo that I have my fill."Oh! let me not be,Like a glutton, inclinedIn feasting my bodyAnd starving my mind,With moderate viandsBe thankful, and prayThat the Lord may supply meWith food the next day.Not always a-cravingWith hunger still raving;But little and sweetBe the food that I eat.To learning and wisdomOh let me apply.And leave to the gluttonHis pudding and pie.J. TaylorSelfish EdithSelfish Edith, not to giveHer sister one, when she has two!I wouldn't and I couldn't loveA selfish girl like her, could you?Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,"Please, Edith, let me play with one!"While naughty Edith shakes her head:I fear she'll have but little funWith toys unshared so selfishly;But when she tires of lonely play,Perhaps she'll secretly resolveTo be more kind another day.Hoggish HenryOh! Henry eats like any pig;He drives his mother mad.She scolds. He does not care a fig,It's really very sad.She says: "Your sister, little dear,Is always clean and neat;And though she's younger by a year,How nicely she can eat."It's all in vain. He does not care;He's shocking to behold.The table-cloth and napkin thereAre smeared in every fold.Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,As though for chickens laid,Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!Is dirt of every shade.He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,Just like some savage wild,His hands as forks are used, it's plain.For shame! You dirty child!SelfishnessLook at the selfish man! see how he locksTight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,And gold and silver close around he clasps.But not content with this, behind he dragsA cart well-laden with ponderous bags;The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woeFrom mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;His heart is like the rock where sun nor dewCan rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.No thought of mercy there may have its birth,For helpless misery or suffering worth;The end of all his life is paltry pelf,And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.Our selfish Brother who became a Screw.Previous-Index-NextPage 66—Lying LandBad Boy blaming dog for Broken Vase.Bad Boy having broken a Vase told his Mother that the Dog did it, but when his Mother was going to beat the poor Innocent Dog he felt sorry, and told the truth.Truthful Dottie; Or The Broken VaseNellie and DottieBoth here mamma say,"Pray from the drawing-roomKeep away.Don't take your toys there,Lest someone should call:Run out in the gardenWith rope, bat and ball."The garden is lovely,This bright summer day;But Nellie and DottieToo soon came away.Into the drawing-roomDottie comes skipping,With her new ropeAll the furniture flipping:Down goes the tall vase,So golden and gay,Smashed all to pieces,"What will mamma say?"Cries Nell with her hands raised,"Oh Dottie, let's run;They'll think it was pussy,Who did it in fun."Dot answers, through big tears,"But, Nell, don't you see,Though nobody watched us,God knows it was me.Mamma always says,That, whatever we do,The harm's not so great,If we dare to be true.So I'll go up and tell herIt caught in my rope;Perhaps she won't scold much,At least, so I'll hope.""That's right!" cries her mother,Who stands by the door,"I would rather have ten vasesWere smashed on the floorThan my children should once breakThe bright words of truth,The dearest possessionOf age or of youth.The vase can be mended,And scarce show a crack,But a falsehood once spokenWill never come back."However much grieved forBy young folks or old,An untruth once uttered,Forever is told.The Liar ReclaimedO! 'tis a lovely thing for youthTo walk betimes in wisdom's way;To fear a lie, to speak the truth,That we may trust to all they say.But liars we can never trust,Tho' they should speak the thing that's true,And he that does one fault at first,And lies to hide it, makes it two.The TruthWhy should you fear the truth to tell?Does falsehood ever do you so well?Can you be satisfied to knowThere's something wrong to hide belowNo! let your fault be what it may,To own it is the happy way.So long as you your crime conceal,You cannot light or gladsome feel;Your heart will ever feel oppressed,As if a weight were on your breast:And e'en your mother's eye to meetWill tinge your face with shame and heat.False AlarmsLittle Mary one day most loudly did call,"Mamma! oh, mamma, pray come here!A fall I have had—oh! a very sad fall."Mamma ran in haste and in fear;Then Mary jump'd up, and she laugh'd in great glee,And cried, "Why, how fast you can run!No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,My screaming was only in fun."Her mother was busy at work the next day,She heard from without a loud cry,"The big dog has got me! O help me! Oh! pray!He tears me—he bites me—I die!"Mamma, all in terror, quick to the courtAnd there little Mary she found;Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you do!"And curtsey'd quite down to the ground.That night little Mary, when long gone to bed,Shrill cries and loud shriekings were heard;"I'm on fire, O mamma, come up or I'm dead!"Mamma she believ'd not a word."Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she call'd out from below,"How often have I been deceived?You're telling a story, you very well know:Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."Yet still the child scream'd—now the house fill'd with smoke.That fire is above Jane declares.Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,When ev'ryone hastened upstairs.All burnt and all seam'd is her once pretty face,And how terribly mark'd are her arms,Her features all scarr'd, leave a lasting disgrace,For giving Mamma false alarms.Adelaide TaylorTo A Little Girl That Has Told A LieAnd has my darling told a lie?Did she forget that God was by?That God who saw the thing she did,From whom no action can be hid;Did she forget that God could see,And hear, wherever she might be?He made you eyes and can discernWhichever way you think to turn;He made your ears, and He can hearWhen you think nobody is near;In ev'ry place, by night or day,He watches all you do and say.You thought, because you were alone,Your falsehood never could be known,But liars always are found out,Whatever ways they wind about;And always be afraid, my dear,To tell a lie,—for God can hear!I wish, my dear, you'd always tryTo act as shall not need a lie;And when you wish a thing to do,That has been once forbidden to you,Remember that, and never dareTo disobey—For God is there!Why should you fear to tell me true?Confess, and then I'll pardon you:Tell me you're sorry, and you'll tryTo act the better by and bye,And then whate'er your crime has been,It won't be half so great a sin.But cheerful, innocent, and gay,As passes by the smiling day,You'll never have to turn aside,From any one your faults to hide;Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear,That either God or I should hear.Ann TaylorBlind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man.The Blind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man after business hours, and their wicked Dog looking out.Previous-Index-NextPage 67—Laziness LandNaughty lazy Boy who would not go to School.Idle MaryOh, Mary, this will never do!This work is sadly done, my dear,And such little of it too!You have not taken pains, I fear.On no, your work has been forgotten,Indeed you've hardly thought of that;I saw you roll your ball of cottonAbout the floor to please the cat.See, here are stitches straggling wide,And others reaching down so far;I'm very sure you have not triedAt all to-day to please mamma.The little girl who will not sewShould never be allowed to play;But then I hope, my love, that youWill take more pains another day.Lazy SalA lazy, lazy, lazy girl!Her hair forever out of curl,Her feet unshod, her hands unclean,Her dress in tatters always seen.Lounging here and dawdling there,Lying out 'most anywhereAbout the barn-yard. Not a thoughtOf studying lessons as she ought;But happiest when in sunny weatherShe and "the other pig" togetherAre playing tricks. No wonder, then,The farmer, jolliest of men,Is apt to say, when tired outWith seeing her sprawling round about,"Beats all what ails that lazy gal!Why, piggy's twice as smart as Sal!"The Work-bagTo Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,Of silk with flowers so gay,That she a place might always haveTo put her work away.And then 'twas furnished quite completeWith cotton, silk and thread,And needless in a case so neat,Of all the sizes made.A little silver thimble, too,Was there among the rest;And a large waxen doll, quite new,That waited to be dress'd.But Jane was very fond of play,And loved to toss her ball;An I am quite ashamed to say,She scarcely worked at all.But if at any time she did,'Twas but a stitch or two;And though she often has been bid,But little more would do.The pretty little bag, indeed,Was hung upon her chair;But cotton, needles, silk, and threadWere scattered here and there.Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,And asked if the doll was dress'd;Miss Jane has been engaged in play,And careless of the rest.The silk, to make her little dress,Was on the table laid,And, with an equal carelessness,The cap had also strayed.With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,All in disorder lay,When, bounding in with gesture rude,Came Jane, returned from play.She little thought her aunt to find,And blushed to see her there;It brought her carelessness to mind,And what her doll should wear."Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?I hope you've dress'd her now;But there is such a litter here,You best know when and how."So spoke her aunt, and, looking roundThe empty bag she spied;Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,Now hid her face and cried."Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,But waste your time in play;The work-bag, of no use to you,I now shall take away."But now, with self-conviction, JaneHer idleness confessed,And ere her aunt could come again,Her doll was neatly dressed.The Two GardensWhen Harry and DickHad been striving to please,Their father (to whom it was known)Made two little gardens,And stocked them with trees,And gave one to each for his own.Harry thank'd his papa,And with rake, hoe, and spade,Directly began his employ;And soon such a neatLittle garden was made,That he panted with labour and joy.There was always some bedOr some border to mend,Or something to tie or stick:And Harry rose earlyHis garden to tend,While snoring lay indolent Dick.The tulip, the rose,And the lily so white,United their beautiful bloom!And often the honey-beeStoop'd from his flight,To sip the delicious perfume.A neat row of peasIn full blossom was seen,French beans were beginning to shoot!And his gooseb'ries and currents,Tho' yet they were green,Foretold of plenty of fruit.But Richard loved betterIn bed to repose,And snug as he curl'd himself round,Forgot that not tulip,Nor lily, nor rose,Nor plant in his garden was found.Rank weeds and tall nettlesDisfigur'd his beds,Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,The slug and the snailShow'd their mischievous heads,And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.Thus Richard the idle,Who shrank from the cold,Beheld his trees naked and bare;Whilst Harry the activeWas charmed to beholdThe fruit of his patience and care.Ann Taylor.Doing NothingI asked a lad what he was doing;"Nothing, good sir," said he to me."By nothing well and long pursuing,Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."I asked a lad what he was thinking;"Nothing," said he. "I do declare.""Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,By idle minds were carried there."There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,Which idle hands and minds supply;Those who all thought and toil despise,Mere nothings live, and nothings die.A thousand naughts are not a feather,When in a sum they all are brought;A thousand idle lads togetherAre still but nothings joined to naught.And yet of merit they will boast,And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,But still 'tis very plain to most,That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.Previous-Index-NextPage 68—Laziness LandLazy SamThere was a lazy boy named Sam,The laziest ever known,Who spent his time in idleness,Like any other drone.He loved to lie in bed till noon,With covers closely drawn,And when he managed to get upHe'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.If asked to do a simple taskHe always would refuse,And say that he was lame or sick,His action to excuse,And over pretty picture-books—Twas really very odd—This lazy boy would soon beginTo nod, and nod, and nod.If on an errand forced to go,He'd slowly, slowly creep,Just like a snail; you might supposeThat he was half asleep.And those who would despatch in hasteA note, or telegram,Would chose a swifter messengerThan such a lazy Sam.If he was caught out in a storm'Twould drench him to the skin,Because he was too indolentTo hurry to get in.Deep in his trouser's pockets heHis idle hands would cram,And children crowded to the doorsTo look at lazy Sam.This lazy boy would lounge aboutThe docks, and often wishThat he could carry home to cookA string of nice, fresh fish;But though he was provided withA reel extremely fine,Said Sam "I do not think 'twill payTo wet my fishing line!"Oh, Sam was always late at meals,And always late at school,And everybody said that heWould be a first-class fool.For boys not half so old as heAbove him swiftly pass,While Sam, the great big dunce! remainsThe lowest in the class.In every way, and every dayThis lazy boy would shirk,And never lift his hand to doA bit of useful work.His clothes were always on awry,His shoe-strings left untied,His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned,Alas, he had no pride!And so he went from bad to worse—The good-for-nothing scamp!—Until he settled down to beA ragged, dirty tramp.Through cities, towns, and villages,He begged his daily bread,And slept at night wherever heCould chance to find a bed.Men shuddered as they passed him by,And murmured sadly, "Oh!How can a human being sinkSo very, very low?"And e'en the jackass pricks his ears,And brays aloud "I amNot such a donkey, I declareAs yonder lazy Sam!"The Beggar ManAbject, stooping, old, and wan,See you wretched beggar-man;Once a father's hopeful heir,Once a mother's tender care.When too young to understand,He but scorched his little hand,By the candle's flaming lightAttracted—dancing, spiral, bright.Clasping fond her darling round,A thousand kisses healed the wound,Now abject, stooping, old and wan,No mother tends the beggar-man.Then nought too good for him to wear,With cherub face and flaxen hair,In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,Cap of lace with rose to aid,Milk-white hat and feather blue,Shoes of red, and coral too,With silver bells to please his ear,And charm the frequent ready tear.Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Neglected is the beggar-man.See the boy advance in age,And learning spreads her useful page;In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,And shows the marbles, tops, and balls,What's learning to the charms of play?The indulgent tutor must give way.A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;The youth in vagrant courses ran;Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Their fondling is the beggar-man.LambGood-for-nothing Lazy ManA good for nothing lazy lout,Wicked within and ragged without.Who can bear to have him about?Turn him out! Turn him out!The Old Beggar ManI see an old man sitting there,His withered limbs are almost bare,And very hoary is his hair.Old man, why are you sitting so?For very cold the wind doth blow:Why don't you to your cottage go?Ah, master, in the world so wide,I have no home wherein to hide,No comfortable fire-side.When I, like you, was young and gay,I'll tell you what I used to say,That I would nothing do but play.And so, instead of being taughtSome useful business as I ought,To play about was all I sought.An now that I am old and grey,I wander on my lonely way,And beg my bread from day to day.But oft I shake my hoary head,And many a bitter tear I shed,To think the useless life I've led.J. T.LazylandThree travellers wandered along the strand,Each with a staff in his feeble hand;And they chanted low:"We are go-o-o-Ing slow-o-ow-Ly to Lazyland."They've left off eating and drinking there;They never do any thinking there;They never walk,And they never talk,And they fall asleep without winking there."Nobody's in a hurry there;They are not permitted to worry there;'Tis a wide, still placeAnd not a faceShows any symptom of flurry there."No bells are rung in the morning there,They care not at all for adorning there;All sounds are hushed,And a man who rushedWould be treated with absolute scorning there."They do not take any papers there;No politicians cut capers there;They have no 'views,'And they tell no news,And they burn no midnight tapers there."No lovers are ever permitted there;Reformers are not admitted there;They argue notIn that peaceful spot,And their clothes all come ready-fitted there."Electricity has not been heard of there;And steam has been spoken no word of there;They stay where they are,And a coach or a carThey have not so much as a third of there."Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;We cannot stay,We must find the way—If there is a way—to Lazyland."Two Donkeys.Previous-Index-NextPage 69—Laziness LandLazy Willie getting out of Bed.Lazy WillieOh! Willie is a lazy boy,A "Sleepy Head" is he,"Wake up!" his little sister cries,"Wake up and talk to me."The birds are singing in the trees,The sun is shining bright,But sleepy Willie slumbers onAs though it yet were night.Oh! lazy boys will never growTo clever manhood, you must know,So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,Wake up, and scramble out of bed.The Lazy BoyThe lazy boy! and what's his name?I should not like to tell;But don't you think it is a shame,That he can't read or spell.He'd rather swing upon a gate,Or paddle in a brook,Than take his pencil and his slate,Or try to con a book.There, see! he's lounging down the street,His hat without a brim,He rather drags than lifts his feet—His face unwashed and grim.He's lolling now against a post;But if you've seen him once,You'll know the lad among a hostFor what he is—a dunce.Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;I do not choose to tell;But this you'll know—it is the sameAs his who does not blush for shameThat he don't read or spell.The Sluggard'Tis the voice of the sluggard;I heard him complain,"You have waked me too soon,I must slumber again."As the door on it's hinges,So he on his bedTurns his sides, and his shoulders,And his heavy head."A little more sleepAnd a little more slumber;"Thus he wastes half his daysAnd his hours without number,And when he gets upHe sits folding his hands,Or walking about sauntering,Or trifling he stands.I pass'd by his garden,And saw the wild brier,The thorn and the thistleGrow broader and higher;The clothes that hung on himAre turning to rags,And his money still wastesTill he starves or he begs.I made him a visit,Still hoping to findThat he took better careFor improving his mind;He told me his dreams,Talked of eating and drinking,But he scarce reads his Bible,And never loves thinking.Said I then to my heart,"Here's a lesson for me;This man's but a pictureOf what I might be;But thanks to my friendsFor their care in my breeding,Who taught me bedtimesTo love working and reading."WattsIdle Dicky And The GoatJohn Brown is a manWithout houses or lands,Himself he supportsBy the work of his hands.He brings home his wagesEach Saturday night,To his wife and his children,A very good sight.His eldest boy, Dicky,On errands when sent,To loiter and chatterWas very much bent;The neighbours all call'd himAn odd little trout,His shoes they were broke,And his toes they peep'd out.To see such old shoesAll their sorrows were rife;John Brown he much grieved,And so did his wife,He kiss'd his boy Dicky,And stroked his white head,"You shall have a new pair,My dear boy," he then said."I've here twenty shillings,And money has wings;Go first get this note changed,I want other things."Now here comes the mischief—This Dicky would stopAt an ill-looking, mean-lookingGreengrocer's shop.For here lived a chatteringDunce of a boy;To prate with this urchinGave Dicky great joy.And now, in his boasting,He shows him his note,And now to the green-stallUp marches a goat.The laughed, for it wasThis young nanny-goat's wayWith those who pass'd by herTo gambol and play.All three they went onIn their frolicsome bouts,Till Dick dropt the noteOn a bunch of green sprouts.Now what was Dick's wonderTo see the vile goat,In munching the green sprouts,Eat up his bank note!He crying ran backTo John Brown with the news,And by stopping to idleHe lost his new shoes.Adelaide TaylorIdleness and MischiefHow doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower.How skilfully she builds her cell;How neat she spreads the wax;And labours hard to store it well;With the sweet food she makes.In works of labour or of skillI would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.In books, or work, or healthful playLet my first years be passed;That I may give you every daySome good account at last.WattsCome and Go.Dick Dawdle had landWorth two hundred a year,Yet from debt and from dunningHe never was free,His intellect was notSurprisingly clear,But he never felt satisfiedHow it could be.The raps at his door,And the rings at his gate.And the threats of a gaolHe no longer could bear:So he made up his mindTo sell half his estate,Which would pay all his debts,And leave something to spare.He leased to a farmerThe rest of his landFor twenty-one years;And on each quarter-dayThe honest man wentWith his rent in his hand,His liberal landlordDelighted to pay.Before half the termOf the lease had expired,The farmer, one dayWith a bagful of gold,Said, "Pardon me, sir,But I long have desiredTo purchase my farm,If the land can be sold."Ten years I've been blestWith success and with health,With trials a few—I thank God, not severe—I am grateful. I hope,Though not proud of my wealth,But I've managed to layBy a hundred a year.""Why how," exclaimed Dick,"Can this possibly be?"(With a stare of surprise,And a mortified laugh,)"The whole of my farmProved too little for me,And you it appears,Have grown rich upon half.""I hope you'll excuse me,"The farmer replies,"But I'll tell you the cause,If your honor would know;In two little wordsAll the difference lies,I always say Come,And you used to say Go.""Well, and what does that mean,My good fellow?" he said."Why this, sir, that IAlways rise with the sun;You said 'Go' to your man,As you lay in your bed,I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'And I see the work done."R. S. SharpePrevious-Index-NextPage 70—Cruelty LandTables Turned: Dogs setting Boys to fighting.The Tables turned—Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.The Cruel BoyTom sat at the kitchen windowWatching the folks go by,But what he was really doingWas pulling the legs from a fly.Yes, there he sat in the twilight,Tormenting the tiny things;First pulling their legs from their sockets,And afterwards pulling their wings.He knew not that his fatherWas standing behind his back;And very much wished to be givingHis cruel young fingers a crack.But he waited till after dinner,When Tommy was having a game;Then he thought he would give him a lesson,And treat him a little the same.So catching his son of a sudden,And giving his elbow a twist;He pulled his two ears till he shouted,Then hit him quite hard with his fist.And did he not roll on the carpet?And did he not cry out in pain?But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"His father would hit him again."Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,You don't seem to like it, my boy;And yet, when you try it on others,You always are singing with joy;"It seems very strange," said his father,And this time his nose had a pull;But Tommy could stand it no longer;He bellowed and roared like a bull."Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,And scrape off the flesh from your shin;What you often yourself do to others,Sure you do not think harm or a sin."Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,"You'll leave these poor things alone,If not, I go on with my lesson.""I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,The wounded bird flutters and dies;Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,To shoot the poor thing as it flies?Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, youMay follow your trades, I must own:So chimneys are swept when they want it—but whoWould sweep them for pleasure alone?If men would but think of the torture they giveTo creatures that cannot complain,They surely would let the poor animals live,And not make a sport of their pain.The WormTurn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless wormThe frame thy wayward looks decideRequired a God to form.The common Lord of all that move,From whom thy being flow'd,A portion of His boundless loveOn that poor worm bestow'd.The sun, the moon, the stars He madeTo all the creatures free;And spreads o'er earth the grassy bladeFor worms as well as thee.Let them enjoy their little day,Their lowly bliss receive;Oh, do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give.GisborneStory Of Cruel FrederickHere is cruel Frederick, see!A horrid wicked boy was he:He caught the flies, poor little things,And tore off their tiny wings;He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,And threw the kitten down the stairs;And Oh! far worse than all beside,He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.The trough was full, and faithful TrayCame out to drink one sultry day;He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.At this, good Tray grew very red,And growl'd and bit him till he bled;Then you should only have been by,To see how Fred did scream and cry!So Frederick had to go to bed,His leg was very sore and red!The doctor came and shook his headAnd made a very great to-do,And gave him nasty physic too.Don't Throw StonesBoys, don't throw stones!That kitten on the wall,Sporting with leaves that fall,Now jumping to and fro,Now crouching soft and low,Then grasps them with a spring,As if some living thing.As happy as can be,Why cause her misery?It is foolish stones to flingBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That squirrel in the tree,Frisking in fun and glee,Is busy in his way,Although it looks all play,Picking up nuts—a storeAgainst the winter hourFrisking from tree to tree,So blithe and merrily,It is cruel stones to fling,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That bird upon the wing,How sweet its song this Spring,Perchance it seeks the food,To feed its infant brood,Whose beaks are open wide,Until they are supplied;To and fro to and fro,The parent bird must go.It is sinful stones to throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That stray dog in the street,Should with your pity meet,And not with shout and cry,And brick-bat whirling by:The dog's a friend to man,Outvie him if you can:So faithful, trusty, true,A pattern unto you;It is wicked stones to throw,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!It can no pleasure giveTo injure things that live;That beauteous butterfly,The bird that soars on high,The creatures every dayThat round our pathway play;If you thought of your cruelty;You wouldn't wish even one to die.Only cowards stones will throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Tables Turned: Dogs beating the poor Boy.Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating the poor Boy.Previous-Index-NextPage 71—Stealing LandBoys caught Stealing Apples.No One Will See Me"No one will see me,"Said little John Day,For his father and motherWere out of the way,And he was at homeAll alone;"No one will see me,"So he climbed on a chair,And peeped in the cupboardTo see what was there,Which of course he oughtNot to have done.There stood in the cupboard,So sweet and so nice,A plate of plum-cakeIn full many a slice,And apples so ripe,And so fine;"Now no one will see me,"Said John to himself,As he stretched out his armTo reach up to the shelf;"This apple, at least,Shall be mine."John paused and put backThe nice apple so red,For he thought of the wordsHis kind mother had said,When she left all theseThings in his care;"And no one will see me,"Thought he, "'tis not true;For I've read that God sees usIn all that we do,And is with usEverywhere."Well done, John;Your father and mother obey,Try ever to please them;And mind what they say,Even when theyAre absent from you;And never forget that,Though no one is nigh,You cannot be hid fromThe Glance of God's eye,Who notices allThat you do.Principle Put To The TestA youngster at school,More sedate than the rest,Had once his integrityPut to the test:—His comrades had plottedThe orchard to rob,And asked him to goAnd assist in the job.He was very much shocked,And answered, "Oh no!What! rob our poor neighbour!I pray you don't go;Besides, the man's poor,His orchard's his bread;Then think of his children,For they must be fed.""You speak very fine,And you look very grave,But apples we want,And apples we'll have;If you will go with us,We'll give you a share,If not, you shall haveNeither apple nor pear."They spoke, and Tom pondered—"I see they will go;Poor man! What a pityTo injure him so!Poor man! I would save himHis fruit if I could,But staying behindWill do him no good."If this matter dependedAlone upon me,His apples might hangTill they dropped from the tree;But since theywilltake them,I think I'll go too,He will lose none by me,Though I get a few."His scruples this silenced,Tom felt more at ease,And went with his comradesThe apples to seize;He blamed and protestedBut joined in the plan,He shared in the plunder,But pitied the man.CowperAdviceWho steals a pinCommits a sinWho tells a lieHas cause to sigh.When ask'd to goAnd sin, say, No!The guilty breastIs ne'er at rest.You must not sinA world to winWhy should you goThe way to woe.The Boy And His MotherIn Aesop, we are told, a boy,Who was his mother's pride and joy,At school a primer stole one day,And homeward then did wend his way.He told his mother of the theft,While she, of principle bereft,Patted him on the head and smil'd.And said, "You are my own dear child."She praised him for the cunning feat,And gave him a nice apple sweet.In course of years the boy grew fast,Till he became a man at last;But all the time he slyly stole—Sometimes a piece—sometimes the whole,Till, finally, he grew so bold,He kill'd a man and took his gold.The day on which he had to swingDid a large crowd together bring.Among the rest his mother came,And called him fondly by his name.The sheriff gave him leave to tellThe broken-hearted dame farewell!About his neck her arms she flung,And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"He answered, "Call me not your dear."And by one stroke bit off her ear;While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!Not satisfied to blast her name.You add this violence to oneWhose happiness you have undone!""Good people," he replied, "I'll vowI would not be a felon now.If my mother had only triedTo win me to the better side.But when in infancy I tookWhat was not mine, a small torn book,Instead of punishing the featShe gave to me an apple sweet;She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,And said, 'You are my own dear child!'I tell you here, both foe and friend,This is the cause of my sad end."Australian Blacks Stealing.Previous-Index-NextPage 72—Stealing LandNaughty Boys Stealing.The Boys And The Apple TreeAs Billy and TommyWere walking one day,They came by a fine orchard side;They'd rather eat applesThan spell, read, or play,And Tommy to Billy then cried,"O brother, look! seeWhat fine clusters hang there,I'll jump and climb over the wall;I will have an apple,I will have a pear,Or else it shall cost me a fall."Said Billy to Tommy,"To steal is a sin,Mamma has oft told this to thee;O never yet stole,Nor now will begin,So red apples hang on the tree.""You are a good boy,As you ever have been,"Said Tommy; let's walk on, my lad;We'll call on our school-fellowLittle Bob Green,And to see us I know he'll be glad."They came to a house,And they rang at the gate,And asked, "Pray, is Bobby at home?"But Bobby's good mannersDid not let them wait;He out of the parlour did come.Bob smil'd, and he laughed,And he caper'd with joy,His little companions to view."We call'd in to see you,"Said each little boy.Said Bobby, "I'm glad to see you."Come walk in our garden,So large and so fine;You shall, for my father gives leave;And more, he insistsThat you'll stay here to dine:A rare jolly day we shall have!"But when in the garden,They found 'twas the sameThey saw as they walk'd in the road;And near the high wall,When these little boys came,They started, as if from a toad."That large ring of iron,Which lies on the ground,With terrible teeth like a saw,"Said Bobby, "the guardOf our garden is found;It keeps wicked robbers in awe."The warning without,If they should set an nought,This trap tears their legs—O! so sad!"Said Billy to Tommy,"So you'd have been caught,A narrow escape you have had."Cried Tommy, I'll mindWhat my good mamma says,And take the advice of a friend;I never will stealTo the end of my days,I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."AdelaideHonestyWith honest heart go on your way,Down to your burial sod,And never for a moment strayBeyond the path of God;And everything along your wayIn colours bright shall shine;The water from the jug of clayShall taste like costly wine!HolteThou Shalt Not StealOn the goods that are not thine,Little child, lay not a finger;Round thy neighbour's better thingsLet no wistful glances linger.Pilfer not the smallest thing;Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,Though the owner have enough,Though he know it not, nor need it.Taste not the forbidden fruit,Though resistance be a trial;Grasping hand and roving eye,Early teach them self-denial.Upright heart and honest nameTo the poorest are a treasure;Better than ill-gotten wealth,Better far than pomp and pleasure.Poor and needy though thou art,Gladly take what God has given;With clean hands and humble heart,Passing through this world to heaven.The ThiefWhy should I deprive my neighbourOf his goods against his will?Hands were meant for honest labour,Not to plunder, nor to steal.'Tis a foolish self-deceivingBy such tricks to hope for gain:All that's ever got by thievingTurns to sorrow, shame, and pain.Oft we see the young beginnerPractice little pilfering ways,Till grown up a hardened sinner,Then the gallows ends his days.Theft will not be always hidden,Though we fancy none can spy;When we take a thing forbidden,God holds it with His eye.Guard my heart, O God of heaven,Lest is covet what's not mine;Lest I take what is not given,Guard my heart and hands from sin.WattsHighway Robbery.Previous-Index-Next

To A Little Girl Who Liked To Look In The GlassWhy is my silly girl so vain,Looking in the glass again?For the meekest flower of springIs a gayer little thing.Is your merry eye so blueAs the violet, wet with dew?Yet it loves the best to hideBy the hedge's shady side.Is your bosom half so fairAs the modest lilies are?Yet their little bells are hungBright and shady leaves among.When your cheek the brightest glows,Is it redder than the rose?But its sweetest buds are seenAlmost hid with moss and green.Little flowers that open gay,Peeping forth at break of day,In the garden, hedge, or plain,Have more reason to be vain.The Ragged Girl's Sunday"Oh, dear Mamma, that little girlForgets this is the dayWhen children should be clean and neat,And read and learn and pray!Her face is dirty and her frock,Holes in her stockings, see;Her hair is such a fright, oh, dear!How wicked she must be!She's playing in the kennel dirtWith ragged girls and boys;But I would not on Sunday touchMy clean and pretty toys.I go to church, and sit so still,I in the garden walk,Or take my stool beside the fire,And hear nice Sunday talk.I read my bible, learn my hymns,My catechism say;That wicked little girl does not—She only cares to play.""Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,Repress self-glorying pride;You can do nothing of yourself—Friends all your actions guide."Criminal PrideHark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the brede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.J. R. LowellFoolish FannyOh! Fanny was so vain a lass,If she came near a looking-glass,She'd stop right there for many a minuteTo see how pretty she looked in it.She'd stand and prink, and fix her hairAround her forehead with great care;And take some time to tie a bowThat must, to please her, lie just so.Her mother's bonnet she'd put on,And all her richest dresses don,And up and down the room parade,And much enjoy her promenade.She always liked to wear the bestShe had, and being so much dress'dCould not enjoy the romps with thoseWho wore much less expensive clothes.Each day she grew so fond of dressIt gave her great unhappinessIf every day, and all the while,She wasn't in the latest style.If asked to turn the jumping-ropeHer pretty parasol she'd ope,Lest she should freckle in the sun:And that was her idea of fun!She didn't dare to take the catOr poodle-dog from off the mat,Lest they should catch their little toesIn laces, frills, or furbelows.The very things that gave her joy,Her peace and comfort would destroy,For oft an ugly nail would tearThe costly dress she chose to wear.The foolish girl turned up her noseAt those who dressed in plainer clothes,And lived in quiet style, for sheWith wealthy people chose to beShe never was the least inclinedWith knowledge to enrich her mind;And all the mental food she ateWas served upon a fashion-plate.As this was so, you'll see at onceThat Fan grew up a silly dunce:An there was nothing to admireAbout her, but her fine attire.Foolish Fanny.Previous-Index-NextPage 63—Pride LandMr. Importance walking along the street.PrideCome, come, Mr. Peacock,You must not be so proud,Although you can boast such a train,For there's many a birdFar more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Let me tell you, gay bird,That a suit of fine clothesIs a sorry distinction at most,And seldom much valuedExcepting by thoseWho only such graces can boast.The nightingale certainlyWears a plain coat,But she cheers and delights with her song;While you, though so vain,Cannot utter a noteTo please by the use of your tongue.The hawk cannot boastOf a plumage so gay,But more piercing and clear is her eye;And while you are struttingAbout all the day,She gallantly soars in the sky.The dove may be cladIn a plainer attire,But she is not so selfish and cold;And her love and affectionMore pleasure inspireThan all your fine purple and gold.So, you see, Mr. Peacock,You must not be proud,Although you can boast such a train,For many a birdIs more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Sinful PrideHow proud we are, how fond to shewOur clothes, and call them rich and new,When the poor sheep and silkworm woreThat very clothing long before!The tulip and butterflyAppear in gayer coats than I;Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.Dr. WattsFineryIn a frock richly trimm'dWith a beautiful lace,And hair nicely dress'dHanging over her face,Thus deck'd, Harriet wentTo the house of a friend,With a large little partyThe ev'ning to spend."Ah! how they will allBe delighted, I guess,And stare with surpriseAt my elegant dress!"Thus said the vain girl,And her little heart beat,Impatient the happyYoung party to meet.But, alas! they were allTo intent on their fun,To observe the gay clothesThis fine lady had on;And thus all her troubleQuite lost its design,For they saw she was proud,But forgot she was fine.'Twas Lucy, tho' onlyIn simple white clad,(Nor trimmings, nor laces,Nor jewels she had,)Whose cheerful good natureDelighted them more,Than all the fine garmentsThat Harriet wore.'Tis better to haveA sweet smile on one's face,Than to wear a rich frockWith an elegant lace,For the good-natur'd girlIs lov'd best in the main,If her dress is but decent,Tho' ever so plain.T IA FopA little cane,A high-crowned hat,A fixed impression,Rather flat.A pointed shoe,A scanty coat,A stand-up collarRound his throatA gorgeous necktieSpreading wide,A small moustache—Nine on a side.Arms at right angles,Curved with ease,A stilted walkAnd shaky knees.A languid drawl,The "English" swing,An air of knowingEverything.A vacant stare,Extremely rude,And there you haveThe perfect dude.PrideHark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Shaping from her bitter thought,Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,Satirizing her despairWith the emblems woven there,Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the blede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.J. R. LowellVain LizzieIt surely is not good to see,Lizzie so full of vanity,So fond of dress and show.For when a fine new frock she wears,She gives herself most silly airs,Wherever she may go.She thinks herself a charming girl;But when folks see her twist and twirl,They stop in every street,They smile, or fairly laugh outright,And say: "She's really quite a sight,Was ever such conceit?"Vain Lizzie.Previous-Index-NextPage 64—Naughtiness LandNelly giving Ned her Apple.Greedy NedMamma gave our Nelly an apple,So round, and big, and red;It seemed, beside dainty wee Nelly,To be almost as large as her head.Beside her young Neddie was standing—And Neddie loves apples, too,"Ah! Nelly!" said Neddie, "give brotherA bite of your apple—ah! do!"Dear Nelly held out the big apple;Ned opened his mouth very wide—So wide, that the startled red appleCould almost have gone inside!And oh! what a bite he gave it!The apple looked small, I declare,When Ned gave it back to his sister,Leaving that big bite there.Poor Nelly looked frightened a moment,Then a thought made her face grow bright;"Here, Ned, you can take the apple—I'd rather have the bite!"Eva L. Carson, In "St. Nicholas"The Biggest Piece Of PieOnce, when I was a little boy,I sat me down to cry,Because my little brother hadThe biggest piece of pie.They said I was a naughty boy,But I have since seen menBehave themselves as foolishlyAs I behaved then.For we are often thankless forRich blessings when we sigh,To think some lucky neighbour hasA "bigger piece" of pie.The Greedy, Impatient Girl"Oh! I am so hungry,I'm sure I can't wait,For my apple-pudding to cool,So, Mary, be quick nowAnd bring me a plate,For waiting for dinnerI always did hate,Tho' forced oft to do it at school."But at home, when mammaIs not in the way,I surely will do as I choose;And I do not care forWhat you please to say—The pudding won't burn me—No longer I'll stay.What business have you to refuse?"And now a large sliceOf the pudding she got,And, fearful she should have no more,She cramm'd her mouth fullOf the apple so hot,Which had but a minuteCome out of the pot,But quickly her triumph was o'er.Her mouth and her tongueWere so dreadfully sore,And suffer'd such terrible pain,Her pride and her consequenceSoon were all o'er,And she said, now unableTo eat any more,"Oh! I never will do so again!"And thus, by not mindingWhat she had been told,Young Ellinor lost all her treat;Too greedy to waitTill the pudding was cold,By being impatient,Conceited, and bold,Not a mouthful at last could she eat.C. Horwood.A Story Of An AppleLittle Tommy, and Peter, and Archie, and BobWere walking, one day, when they foundAn apple: 'twas mellow, and rosy, and red,And lying alone on the ground.Said Tommy: "I'll have it." Said peter: "'Tis mine."Said Archie: "I've got it; so there!"Said Bobby: "Now, let us divide it in four partsAnd each of us boys have a share.""No, no!" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it myself."Said Peter: "I want it, I say."Said Archie: "I've got it, and I'll have it all,I won't give a morsel away."Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter he fought,('Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archie held on with his might and his main,Till out from his fingers it fell.Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flewAnd then, down a green little hillThat apple it roll'd, and it roll'd, and it roll'dAs if it would never be still.A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass,And switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!"I wish," whimpered Archie, and Peter, and Tom,"We'd kept it and cut it in four."Sydney DyerGreedy Richard"I think I want some pies this morning"Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;So down he threw his slate and books,And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.And there he cast his greedy eyesRound on the jellies and the pies,So to select, with anxious care,The very nicest that was there.At last the point was thus decided:As his opinion was divided'Twixt pie and jelly, he was lothEither to leave, so took them both.Now Richard never could be pleas'dTo stop when hunger was appeas'd,But he'd go on to eat and stuff,Long after he had had enough."I shan't take any more," said Dick,"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:I cannot eat this other bit;I wish I had not tasted it."Then slowly rising from his seat,He threw the cheesecake in the street,And left the tempting pastry-cook'sWith very discontented looks.Jane TaylorPrevious-Index-NextPage 65—Greediness LandThe Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a rare feast I'll make,I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;Morning, noontime, and night,It shall be my delight;—What a happy young fellow I am."Thus said little George,And, beginning to gorge,With zeal to his cake he applied;While fingers and thumbs,For the sweetmeats and plums,Were hunting and digging besides.But, woeful to tell,A misfortune befell,Which ruin'd this capital fun!After eating his fill,He was taken so ill,That he trembled for what he had done.As he grew worse and worse,The doctor and nurse,To cure his disorder were sent;And rightly, you'll think,He had physic to drink,Which made him his folly repent.And while on his bedHe roll'd his hot head,Impatient with sickness and pain;He could not but takeThis reproof from his cake,"Don't be such a glutton again!"Another Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a feast let us make,Come, school-fellows, come at my call;I assure you 'tis nice,And we'll each have a slice,Here's more than enough for us all."Thus said little Jack,As he gave it a smack,And sharpen'd his knife for the job!While round him a troop,Formed a clamorous group,And hail'd him the king of the mob.With masterly strengthHe cut thro' it at length,And gave to each playmate a share;Dick, William, and James,And many more names,Partook of his benevolent care.And when it was done,And they'd finish'd their fun,To marbles or hoop they went back,And each little boyFelt it always a joyTo do a good turn for good Jack.In his task and his book,His best pleasures he took,And as he thus wisely began,Since he's been a man grown,He has constantly shownThat a good boy will make a good man.Ann TaylorThe Great Glutton'Twas the voice of the glutton,I heard him complain:My waistcoat unbutton,I'll eat once again.The GluttonThe voice of the gluttonI heard with disdain—"I've not eaten this hour,I must eat again;Oh! give me a pudding,A pie, or a tart,A duck or a fowl,Which I love from my heart."How sweet is the pickingOf capon or chicken!A turkey and chineAre most charming and fine;To eat and to drinkAll my pleasure is still,I care not who wantsSo that I have my fill."Oh! let me not be,Like a glutton, inclinedIn feasting my bodyAnd starving my mind,With moderate viandsBe thankful, and prayThat the Lord may supply meWith food the next day.Not always a-cravingWith hunger still raving;But little and sweetBe the food that I eat.To learning and wisdomOh let me apply.And leave to the gluttonHis pudding and pie.J. TaylorSelfish EdithSelfish Edith, not to giveHer sister one, when she has two!I wouldn't and I couldn't loveA selfish girl like her, could you?Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,"Please, Edith, let me play with one!"While naughty Edith shakes her head:I fear she'll have but little funWith toys unshared so selfishly;But when she tires of lonely play,Perhaps she'll secretly resolveTo be more kind another day.Hoggish HenryOh! Henry eats like any pig;He drives his mother mad.She scolds. He does not care a fig,It's really very sad.She says: "Your sister, little dear,Is always clean and neat;And though she's younger by a year,How nicely she can eat."It's all in vain. He does not care;He's shocking to behold.The table-cloth and napkin thereAre smeared in every fold.Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,As though for chickens laid,Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!Is dirt of every shade.He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,Just like some savage wild,His hands as forks are used, it's plain.For shame! You dirty child!SelfishnessLook at the selfish man! see how he locksTight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,And gold and silver close around he clasps.But not content with this, behind he dragsA cart well-laden with ponderous bags;The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woeFrom mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;His heart is like the rock where sun nor dewCan rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.No thought of mercy there may have its birth,For helpless misery or suffering worth;The end of all his life is paltry pelf,And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.Our selfish Brother who became a Screw.Previous-Index-NextPage 66—Lying LandBad Boy blaming dog for Broken Vase.Bad Boy having broken a Vase told his Mother that the Dog did it, but when his Mother was going to beat the poor Innocent Dog he felt sorry, and told the truth.Truthful Dottie; Or The Broken VaseNellie and DottieBoth here mamma say,"Pray from the drawing-roomKeep away.Don't take your toys there,Lest someone should call:Run out in the gardenWith rope, bat and ball."The garden is lovely,This bright summer day;But Nellie and DottieToo soon came away.Into the drawing-roomDottie comes skipping,With her new ropeAll the furniture flipping:Down goes the tall vase,So golden and gay,Smashed all to pieces,"What will mamma say?"Cries Nell with her hands raised,"Oh Dottie, let's run;They'll think it was pussy,Who did it in fun."Dot answers, through big tears,"But, Nell, don't you see,Though nobody watched us,God knows it was me.Mamma always says,That, whatever we do,The harm's not so great,If we dare to be true.So I'll go up and tell herIt caught in my rope;Perhaps she won't scold much,At least, so I'll hope.""That's right!" cries her mother,Who stands by the door,"I would rather have ten vasesWere smashed on the floorThan my children should once breakThe bright words of truth,The dearest possessionOf age or of youth.The vase can be mended,And scarce show a crack,But a falsehood once spokenWill never come back."However much grieved forBy young folks or old,An untruth once uttered,Forever is told.The Liar ReclaimedO! 'tis a lovely thing for youthTo walk betimes in wisdom's way;To fear a lie, to speak the truth,That we may trust to all they say.But liars we can never trust,Tho' they should speak the thing that's true,And he that does one fault at first,And lies to hide it, makes it two.The TruthWhy should you fear the truth to tell?Does falsehood ever do you so well?Can you be satisfied to knowThere's something wrong to hide belowNo! let your fault be what it may,To own it is the happy way.So long as you your crime conceal,You cannot light or gladsome feel;Your heart will ever feel oppressed,As if a weight were on your breast:And e'en your mother's eye to meetWill tinge your face with shame and heat.False AlarmsLittle Mary one day most loudly did call,"Mamma! oh, mamma, pray come here!A fall I have had—oh! a very sad fall."Mamma ran in haste and in fear;Then Mary jump'd up, and she laugh'd in great glee,And cried, "Why, how fast you can run!No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,My screaming was only in fun."Her mother was busy at work the next day,She heard from without a loud cry,"The big dog has got me! O help me! Oh! pray!He tears me—he bites me—I die!"Mamma, all in terror, quick to the courtAnd there little Mary she found;Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you do!"And curtsey'd quite down to the ground.That night little Mary, when long gone to bed,Shrill cries and loud shriekings were heard;"I'm on fire, O mamma, come up or I'm dead!"Mamma she believ'd not a word."Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she call'd out from below,"How often have I been deceived?You're telling a story, you very well know:Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."Yet still the child scream'd—now the house fill'd with smoke.That fire is above Jane declares.Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,When ev'ryone hastened upstairs.All burnt and all seam'd is her once pretty face,And how terribly mark'd are her arms,Her features all scarr'd, leave a lasting disgrace,For giving Mamma false alarms.Adelaide TaylorTo A Little Girl That Has Told A LieAnd has my darling told a lie?Did she forget that God was by?That God who saw the thing she did,From whom no action can be hid;Did she forget that God could see,And hear, wherever she might be?He made you eyes and can discernWhichever way you think to turn;He made your ears, and He can hearWhen you think nobody is near;In ev'ry place, by night or day,He watches all you do and say.You thought, because you were alone,Your falsehood never could be known,But liars always are found out,Whatever ways they wind about;And always be afraid, my dear,To tell a lie,—for God can hear!I wish, my dear, you'd always tryTo act as shall not need a lie;And when you wish a thing to do,That has been once forbidden to you,Remember that, and never dareTo disobey—For God is there!Why should you fear to tell me true?Confess, and then I'll pardon you:Tell me you're sorry, and you'll tryTo act the better by and bye,And then whate'er your crime has been,It won't be half so great a sin.But cheerful, innocent, and gay,As passes by the smiling day,You'll never have to turn aside,From any one your faults to hide;Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear,That either God or I should hear.Ann TaylorBlind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man.The Blind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man after business hours, and their wicked Dog looking out.Previous-Index-NextPage 67—Laziness LandNaughty lazy Boy who would not go to School.Idle MaryOh, Mary, this will never do!This work is sadly done, my dear,And such little of it too!You have not taken pains, I fear.On no, your work has been forgotten,Indeed you've hardly thought of that;I saw you roll your ball of cottonAbout the floor to please the cat.See, here are stitches straggling wide,And others reaching down so far;I'm very sure you have not triedAt all to-day to please mamma.The little girl who will not sewShould never be allowed to play;But then I hope, my love, that youWill take more pains another day.Lazy SalA lazy, lazy, lazy girl!Her hair forever out of curl,Her feet unshod, her hands unclean,Her dress in tatters always seen.Lounging here and dawdling there,Lying out 'most anywhereAbout the barn-yard. Not a thoughtOf studying lessons as she ought;But happiest when in sunny weatherShe and "the other pig" togetherAre playing tricks. No wonder, then,The farmer, jolliest of men,Is apt to say, when tired outWith seeing her sprawling round about,"Beats all what ails that lazy gal!Why, piggy's twice as smart as Sal!"The Work-bagTo Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,Of silk with flowers so gay,That she a place might always haveTo put her work away.And then 'twas furnished quite completeWith cotton, silk and thread,And needless in a case so neat,Of all the sizes made.A little silver thimble, too,Was there among the rest;And a large waxen doll, quite new,That waited to be dress'd.But Jane was very fond of play,And loved to toss her ball;An I am quite ashamed to say,She scarcely worked at all.But if at any time she did,'Twas but a stitch or two;And though she often has been bid,But little more would do.The pretty little bag, indeed,Was hung upon her chair;But cotton, needles, silk, and threadWere scattered here and there.Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,And asked if the doll was dress'd;Miss Jane has been engaged in play,And careless of the rest.The silk, to make her little dress,Was on the table laid,And, with an equal carelessness,The cap had also strayed.With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,All in disorder lay,When, bounding in with gesture rude,Came Jane, returned from play.She little thought her aunt to find,And blushed to see her there;It brought her carelessness to mind,And what her doll should wear."Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?I hope you've dress'd her now;But there is such a litter here,You best know when and how."So spoke her aunt, and, looking roundThe empty bag she spied;Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,Now hid her face and cried."Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,But waste your time in play;The work-bag, of no use to you,I now shall take away."But now, with self-conviction, JaneHer idleness confessed,And ere her aunt could come again,Her doll was neatly dressed.The Two GardensWhen Harry and DickHad been striving to please,Their father (to whom it was known)Made two little gardens,And stocked them with trees,And gave one to each for his own.Harry thank'd his papa,And with rake, hoe, and spade,Directly began his employ;And soon such a neatLittle garden was made,That he panted with labour and joy.There was always some bedOr some border to mend,Or something to tie or stick:And Harry rose earlyHis garden to tend,While snoring lay indolent Dick.The tulip, the rose,And the lily so white,United their beautiful bloom!And often the honey-beeStoop'd from his flight,To sip the delicious perfume.A neat row of peasIn full blossom was seen,French beans were beginning to shoot!And his gooseb'ries and currents,Tho' yet they were green,Foretold of plenty of fruit.But Richard loved betterIn bed to repose,And snug as he curl'd himself round,Forgot that not tulip,Nor lily, nor rose,Nor plant in his garden was found.Rank weeds and tall nettlesDisfigur'd his beds,Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,The slug and the snailShow'd their mischievous heads,And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.Thus Richard the idle,Who shrank from the cold,Beheld his trees naked and bare;Whilst Harry the activeWas charmed to beholdThe fruit of his patience and care.Ann Taylor.Doing NothingI asked a lad what he was doing;"Nothing, good sir," said he to me."By nothing well and long pursuing,Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."I asked a lad what he was thinking;"Nothing," said he. "I do declare.""Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,By idle minds were carried there."There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,Which idle hands and minds supply;Those who all thought and toil despise,Mere nothings live, and nothings die.A thousand naughts are not a feather,When in a sum they all are brought;A thousand idle lads togetherAre still but nothings joined to naught.And yet of merit they will boast,And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,But still 'tis very plain to most,That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.Previous-Index-NextPage 68—Laziness LandLazy SamThere was a lazy boy named Sam,The laziest ever known,Who spent his time in idleness,Like any other drone.He loved to lie in bed till noon,With covers closely drawn,And when he managed to get upHe'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.If asked to do a simple taskHe always would refuse,And say that he was lame or sick,His action to excuse,And over pretty picture-books—Twas really very odd—This lazy boy would soon beginTo nod, and nod, and nod.If on an errand forced to go,He'd slowly, slowly creep,Just like a snail; you might supposeThat he was half asleep.And those who would despatch in hasteA note, or telegram,Would chose a swifter messengerThan such a lazy Sam.If he was caught out in a storm'Twould drench him to the skin,Because he was too indolentTo hurry to get in.Deep in his trouser's pockets heHis idle hands would cram,And children crowded to the doorsTo look at lazy Sam.This lazy boy would lounge aboutThe docks, and often wishThat he could carry home to cookA string of nice, fresh fish;But though he was provided withA reel extremely fine,Said Sam "I do not think 'twill payTo wet my fishing line!"Oh, Sam was always late at meals,And always late at school,And everybody said that heWould be a first-class fool.For boys not half so old as heAbove him swiftly pass,While Sam, the great big dunce! remainsThe lowest in the class.In every way, and every dayThis lazy boy would shirk,And never lift his hand to doA bit of useful work.His clothes were always on awry,His shoe-strings left untied,His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned,Alas, he had no pride!And so he went from bad to worse—The good-for-nothing scamp!—Until he settled down to beA ragged, dirty tramp.Through cities, towns, and villages,He begged his daily bread,And slept at night wherever heCould chance to find a bed.Men shuddered as they passed him by,And murmured sadly, "Oh!How can a human being sinkSo very, very low?"And e'en the jackass pricks his ears,And brays aloud "I amNot such a donkey, I declareAs yonder lazy Sam!"The Beggar ManAbject, stooping, old, and wan,See you wretched beggar-man;Once a father's hopeful heir,Once a mother's tender care.When too young to understand,He but scorched his little hand,By the candle's flaming lightAttracted—dancing, spiral, bright.Clasping fond her darling round,A thousand kisses healed the wound,Now abject, stooping, old and wan,No mother tends the beggar-man.Then nought too good for him to wear,With cherub face and flaxen hair,In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,Cap of lace with rose to aid,Milk-white hat and feather blue,Shoes of red, and coral too,With silver bells to please his ear,And charm the frequent ready tear.Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Neglected is the beggar-man.See the boy advance in age,And learning spreads her useful page;In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,And shows the marbles, tops, and balls,What's learning to the charms of play?The indulgent tutor must give way.A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;The youth in vagrant courses ran;Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Their fondling is the beggar-man.LambGood-for-nothing Lazy ManA good for nothing lazy lout,Wicked within and ragged without.Who can bear to have him about?Turn him out! Turn him out!The Old Beggar ManI see an old man sitting there,His withered limbs are almost bare,And very hoary is his hair.Old man, why are you sitting so?For very cold the wind doth blow:Why don't you to your cottage go?Ah, master, in the world so wide,I have no home wherein to hide,No comfortable fire-side.When I, like you, was young and gay,I'll tell you what I used to say,That I would nothing do but play.And so, instead of being taughtSome useful business as I ought,To play about was all I sought.An now that I am old and grey,I wander on my lonely way,And beg my bread from day to day.But oft I shake my hoary head,And many a bitter tear I shed,To think the useless life I've led.J. T.LazylandThree travellers wandered along the strand,Each with a staff in his feeble hand;And they chanted low:"We are go-o-o-Ing slow-o-ow-Ly to Lazyland."They've left off eating and drinking there;They never do any thinking there;They never walk,And they never talk,And they fall asleep without winking there."Nobody's in a hurry there;They are not permitted to worry there;'Tis a wide, still placeAnd not a faceShows any symptom of flurry there."No bells are rung in the morning there,They care not at all for adorning there;All sounds are hushed,And a man who rushedWould be treated with absolute scorning there."They do not take any papers there;No politicians cut capers there;They have no 'views,'And they tell no news,And they burn no midnight tapers there."No lovers are ever permitted there;Reformers are not admitted there;They argue notIn that peaceful spot,And their clothes all come ready-fitted there."Electricity has not been heard of there;And steam has been spoken no word of there;They stay where they are,And a coach or a carThey have not so much as a third of there."Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;We cannot stay,We must find the way—If there is a way—to Lazyland."Two Donkeys.Previous-Index-NextPage 69—Laziness LandLazy Willie getting out of Bed.Lazy WillieOh! Willie is a lazy boy,A "Sleepy Head" is he,"Wake up!" his little sister cries,"Wake up and talk to me."The birds are singing in the trees,The sun is shining bright,But sleepy Willie slumbers onAs though it yet were night.Oh! lazy boys will never growTo clever manhood, you must know,So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,Wake up, and scramble out of bed.The Lazy BoyThe lazy boy! and what's his name?I should not like to tell;But don't you think it is a shame,That he can't read or spell.He'd rather swing upon a gate,Or paddle in a brook,Than take his pencil and his slate,Or try to con a book.There, see! he's lounging down the street,His hat without a brim,He rather drags than lifts his feet—His face unwashed and grim.He's lolling now against a post;But if you've seen him once,You'll know the lad among a hostFor what he is—a dunce.Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;I do not choose to tell;But this you'll know—it is the sameAs his who does not blush for shameThat he don't read or spell.The Sluggard'Tis the voice of the sluggard;I heard him complain,"You have waked me too soon,I must slumber again."As the door on it's hinges,So he on his bedTurns his sides, and his shoulders,And his heavy head."A little more sleepAnd a little more slumber;"Thus he wastes half his daysAnd his hours without number,And when he gets upHe sits folding his hands,Or walking about sauntering,Or trifling he stands.I pass'd by his garden,And saw the wild brier,The thorn and the thistleGrow broader and higher;The clothes that hung on himAre turning to rags,And his money still wastesTill he starves or he begs.I made him a visit,Still hoping to findThat he took better careFor improving his mind;He told me his dreams,Talked of eating and drinking,But he scarce reads his Bible,And never loves thinking.Said I then to my heart,"Here's a lesson for me;This man's but a pictureOf what I might be;But thanks to my friendsFor their care in my breeding,Who taught me bedtimesTo love working and reading."WattsIdle Dicky And The GoatJohn Brown is a manWithout houses or lands,Himself he supportsBy the work of his hands.He brings home his wagesEach Saturday night,To his wife and his children,A very good sight.His eldest boy, Dicky,On errands when sent,To loiter and chatterWas very much bent;The neighbours all call'd himAn odd little trout,His shoes they were broke,And his toes they peep'd out.To see such old shoesAll their sorrows were rife;John Brown he much grieved,And so did his wife,He kiss'd his boy Dicky,And stroked his white head,"You shall have a new pair,My dear boy," he then said."I've here twenty shillings,And money has wings;Go first get this note changed,I want other things."Now here comes the mischief—This Dicky would stopAt an ill-looking, mean-lookingGreengrocer's shop.For here lived a chatteringDunce of a boy;To prate with this urchinGave Dicky great joy.And now, in his boasting,He shows him his note,And now to the green-stallUp marches a goat.The laughed, for it wasThis young nanny-goat's wayWith those who pass'd by herTo gambol and play.All three they went onIn their frolicsome bouts,Till Dick dropt the noteOn a bunch of green sprouts.Now what was Dick's wonderTo see the vile goat,In munching the green sprouts,Eat up his bank note!He crying ran backTo John Brown with the news,And by stopping to idleHe lost his new shoes.Adelaide TaylorIdleness and MischiefHow doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower.How skilfully she builds her cell;How neat she spreads the wax;And labours hard to store it well;With the sweet food she makes.In works of labour or of skillI would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.In books, or work, or healthful playLet my first years be passed;That I may give you every daySome good account at last.WattsCome and Go.Dick Dawdle had landWorth two hundred a year,Yet from debt and from dunningHe never was free,His intellect was notSurprisingly clear,But he never felt satisfiedHow it could be.The raps at his door,And the rings at his gate.And the threats of a gaolHe no longer could bear:So he made up his mindTo sell half his estate,Which would pay all his debts,And leave something to spare.He leased to a farmerThe rest of his landFor twenty-one years;And on each quarter-dayThe honest man wentWith his rent in his hand,His liberal landlordDelighted to pay.Before half the termOf the lease had expired,The farmer, one dayWith a bagful of gold,Said, "Pardon me, sir,But I long have desiredTo purchase my farm,If the land can be sold."Ten years I've been blestWith success and with health,With trials a few—I thank God, not severe—I am grateful. I hope,Though not proud of my wealth,But I've managed to layBy a hundred a year.""Why how," exclaimed Dick,"Can this possibly be?"(With a stare of surprise,And a mortified laugh,)"The whole of my farmProved too little for me,And you it appears,Have grown rich upon half.""I hope you'll excuse me,"The farmer replies,"But I'll tell you the cause,If your honor would know;In two little wordsAll the difference lies,I always say Come,And you used to say Go.""Well, and what does that mean,My good fellow?" he said."Why this, sir, that IAlways rise with the sun;You said 'Go' to your man,As you lay in your bed,I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'And I see the work done."R. S. SharpePrevious-Index-NextPage 70—Cruelty LandTables Turned: Dogs setting Boys to fighting.The Tables turned—Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.The Cruel BoyTom sat at the kitchen windowWatching the folks go by,But what he was really doingWas pulling the legs from a fly.Yes, there he sat in the twilight,Tormenting the tiny things;First pulling their legs from their sockets,And afterwards pulling their wings.He knew not that his fatherWas standing behind his back;And very much wished to be givingHis cruel young fingers a crack.But he waited till after dinner,When Tommy was having a game;Then he thought he would give him a lesson,And treat him a little the same.So catching his son of a sudden,And giving his elbow a twist;He pulled his two ears till he shouted,Then hit him quite hard with his fist.And did he not roll on the carpet?And did he not cry out in pain?But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"His father would hit him again."Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,You don't seem to like it, my boy;And yet, when you try it on others,You always are singing with joy;"It seems very strange," said his father,And this time his nose had a pull;But Tommy could stand it no longer;He bellowed and roared like a bull."Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,And scrape off the flesh from your shin;What you often yourself do to others,Sure you do not think harm or a sin."Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,"You'll leave these poor things alone,If not, I go on with my lesson.""I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,The wounded bird flutters and dies;Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,To shoot the poor thing as it flies?Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, youMay follow your trades, I must own:So chimneys are swept when they want it—but whoWould sweep them for pleasure alone?If men would but think of the torture they giveTo creatures that cannot complain,They surely would let the poor animals live,And not make a sport of their pain.The WormTurn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless wormThe frame thy wayward looks decideRequired a God to form.The common Lord of all that move,From whom thy being flow'd,A portion of His boundless loveOn that poor worm bestow'd.The sun, the moon, the stars He madeTo all the creatures free;And spreads o'er earth the grassy bladeFor worms as well as thee.Let them enjoy their little day,Their lowly bliss receive;Oh, do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give.GisborneStory Of Cruel FrederickHere is cruel Frederick, see!A horrid wicked boy was he:He caught the flies, poor little things,And tore off their tiny wings;He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,And threw the kitten down the stairs;And Oh! far worse than all beside,He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.The trough was full, and faithful TrayCame out to drink one sultry day;He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.At this, good Tray grew very red,And growl'd and bit him till he bled;Then you should only have been by,To see how Fred did scream and cry!So Frederick had to go to bed,His leg was very sore and red!The doctor came and shook his headAnd made a very great to-do,And gave him nasty physic too.Don't Throw StonesBoys, don't throw stones!That kitten on the wall,Sporting with leaves that fall,Now jumping to and fro,Now crouching soft and low,Then grasps them with a spring,As if some living thing.As happy as can be,Why cause her misery?It is foolish stones to flingBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That squirrel in the tree,Frisking in fun and glee,Is busy in his way,Although it looks all play,Picking up nuts—a storeAgainst the winter hourFrisking from tree to tree,So blithe and merrily,It is cruel stones to fling,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That bird upon the wing,How sweet its song this Spring,Perchance it seeks the food,To feed its infant brood,Whose beaks are open wide,Until they are supplied;To and fro to and fro,The parent bird must go.It is sinful stones to throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That stray dog in the street,Should with your pity meet,And not with shout and cry,And brick-bat whirling by:The dog's a friend to man,Outvie him if you can:So faithful, trusty, true,A pattern unto you;It is wicked stones to throw,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!It can no pleasure giveTo injure things that live;That beauteous butterfly,The bird that soars on high,The creatures every dayThat round our pathway play;If you thought of your cruelty;You wouldn't wish even one to die.Only cowards stones will throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Tables Turned: Dogs beating the poor Boy.Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating the poor Boy.Previous-Index-NextPage 71—Stealing LandBoys caught Stealing Apples.No One Will See Me"No one will see me,"Said little John Day,For his father and motherWere out of the way,And he was at homeAll alone;"No one will see me,"So he climbed on a chair,And peeped in the cupboardTo see what was there,Which of course he oughtNot to have done.There stood in the cupboard,So sweet and so nice,A plate of plum-cakeIn full many a slice,And apples so ripe,And so fine;"Now no one will see me,"Said John to himself,As he stretched out his armTo reach up to the shelf;"This apple, at least,Shall be mine."John paused and put backThe nice apple so red,For he thought of the wordsHis kind mother had said,When she left all theseThings in his care;"And no one will see me,"Thought he, "'tis not true;For I've read that God sees usIn all that we do,And is with usEverywhere."Well done, John;Your father and mother obey,Try ever to please them;And mind what they say,Even when theyAre absent from you;And never forget that,Though no one is nigh,You cannot be hid fromThe Glance of God's eye,Who notices allThat you do.Principle Put To The TestA youngster at school,More sedate than the rest,Had once his integrityPut to the test:—His comrades had plottedThe orchard to rob,And asked him to goAnd assist in the job.He was very much shocked,And answered, "Oh no!What! rob our poor neighbour!I pray you don't go;Besides, the man's poor,His orchard's his bread;Then think of his children,For they must be fed.""You speak very fine,And you look very grave,But apples we want,And apples we'll have;If you will go with us,We'll give you a share,If not, you shall haveNeither apple nor pear."They spoke, and Tom pondered—"I see they will go;Poor man! What a pityTo injure him so!Poor man! I would save himHis fruit if I could,But staying behindWill do him no good."If this matter dependedAlone upon me,His apples might hangTill they dropped from the tree;But since theywilltake them,I think I'll go too,He will lose none by me,Though I get a few."His scruples this silenced,Tom felt more at ease,And went with his comradesThe apples to seize;He blamed and protestedBut joined in the plan,He shared in the plunder,But pitied the man.CowperAdviceWho steals a pinCommits a sinWho tells a lieHas cause to sigh.When ask'd to goAnd sin, say, No!The guilty breastIs ne'er at rest.You must not sinA world to winWhy should you goThe way to woe.The Boy And His MotherIn Aesop, we are told, a boy,Who was his mother's pride and joy,At school a primer stole one day,And homeward then did wend his way.He told his mother of the theft,While she, of principle bereft,Patted him on the head and smil'd.And said, "You are my own dear child."She praised him for the cunning feat,And gave him a nice apple sweet.In course of years the boy grew fast,Till he became a man at last;But all the time he slyly stole—Sometimes a piece—sometimes the whole,Till, finally, he grew so bold,He kill'd a man and took his gold.The day on which he had to swingDid a large crowd together bring.Among the rest his mother came,And called him fondly by his name.The sheriff gave him leave to tellThe broken-hearted dame farewell!About his neck her arms she flung,And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"He answered, "Call me not your dear."And by one stroke bit off her ear;While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!Not satisfied to blast her name.You add this violence to oneWhose happiness you have undone!""Good people," he replied, "I'll vowI would not be a felon now.If my mother had only triedTo win me to the better side.But when in infancy I tookWhat was not mine, a small torn book,Instead of punishing the featShe gave to me an apple sweet;She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,And said, 'You are my own dear child!'I tell you here, both foe and friend,This is the cause of my sad end."Australian Blacks Stealing.Previous-Index-NextPage 72—Stealing LandNaughty Boys Stealing.The Boys And The Apple TreeAs Billy and TommyWere walking one day,They came by a fine orchard side;They'd rather eat applesThan spell, read, or play,And Tommy to Billy then cried,"O brother, look! seeWhat fine clusters hang there,I'll jump and climb over the wall;I will have an apple,I will have a pear,Or else it shall cost me a fall."Said Billy to Tommy,"To steal is a sin,Mamma has oft told this to thee;O never yet stole,Nor now will begin,So red apples hang on the tree.""You are a good boy,As you ever have been,"Said Tommy; let's walk on, my lad;We'll call on our school-fellowLittle Bob Green,And to see us I know he'll be glad."They came to a house,And they rang at the gate,And asked, "Pray, is Bobby at home?"But Bobby's good mannersDid not let them wait;He out of the parlour did come.Bob smil'd, and he laughed,And he caper'd with joy,His little companions to view."We call'd in to see you,"Said each little boy.Said Bobby, "I'm glad to see you."Come walk in our garden,So large and so fine;You shall, for my father gives leave;And more, he insistsThat you'll stay here to dine:A rare jolly day we shall have!"But when in the garden,They found 'twas the sameThey saw as they walk'd in the road;And near the high wall,When these little boys came,They started, as if from a toad."That large ring of iron,Which lies on the ground,With terrible teeth like a saw,"Said Bobby, "the guardOf our garden is found;It keeps wicked robbers in awe."The warning without,If they should set an nought,This trap tears their legs—O! so sad!"Said Billy to Tommy,"So you'd have been caught,A narrow escape you have had."Cried Tommy, I'll mindWhat my good mamma says,And take the advice of a friend;I never will stealTo the end of my days,I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."AdelaideHonestyWith honest heart go on your way,Down to your burial sod,And never for a moment strayBeyond the path of God;And everything along your wayIn colours bright shall shine;The water from the jug of clayShall taste like costly wine!HolteThou Shalt Not StealOn the goods that are not thine,Little child, lay not a finger;Round thy neighbour's better thingsLet no wistful glances linger.Pilfer not the smallest thing;Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,Though the owner have enough,Though he know it not, nor need it.Taste not the forbidden fruit,Though resistance be a trial;Grasping hand and roving eye,Early teach them self-denial.Upright heart and honest nameTo the poorest are a treasure;Better than ill-gotten wealth,Better far than pomp and pleasure.Poor and needy though thou art,Gladly take what God has given;With clean hands and humble heart,Passing through this world to heaven.The ThiefWhy should I deprive my neighbourOf his goods against his will?Hands were meant for honest labour,Not to plunder, nor to steal.'Tis a foolish self-deceivingBy such tricks to hope for gain:All that's ever got by thievingTurns to sorrow, shame, and pain.Oft we see the young beginnerPractice little pilfering ways,Till grown up a hardened sinner,Then the gallows ends his days.Theft will not be always hidden,Though we fancy none can spy;When we take a thing forbidden,God holds it with His eye.Guard my heart, O God of heaven,Lest is covet what's not mine;Lest I take what is not given,Guard my heart and hands from sin.WattsHighway Robbery.Previous-Index-Next

To A Little Girl Who Liked To Look In The Glass

Why is my silly girl so vain,Looking in the glass again?For the meekest flower of springIs a gayer little thing.

Is your merry eye so blueAs the violet, wet with dew?Yet it loves the best to hideBy the hedge's shady side.

Is your bosom half so fairAs the modest lilies are?Yet their little bells are hungBright and shady leaves among.

When your cheek the brightest glows,Is it redder than the rose?But its sweetest buds are seenAlmost hid with moss and green.

Little flowers that open gay,Peeping forth at break of day,In the garden, hedge, or plain,Have more reason to be vain.

The Ragged Girl's Sunday

"Oh, dear Mamma, that little girlForgets this is the dayWhen children should be clean and neat,And read and learn and pray!

Her face is dirty and her frock,Holes in her stockings, see;Her hair is such a fright, oh, dear!How wicked she must be!

She's playing in the kennel dirtWith ragged girls and boys;But I would not on Sunday touchMy clean and pretty toys.

I go to church, and sit so still,I in the garden walk,Or take my stool beside the fire,And hear nice Sunday talk.

I read my bible, learn my hymns,My catechism say;That wicked little girl does not—She only cares to play."

"Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,Repress self-glorying pride;You can do nothing of yourself—Friends all your actions guide."

Criminal Pride

Hark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the brede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.

J. R. Lowell

Foolish Fanny

Oh! Fanny was so vain a lass,If she came near a looking-glass,She'd stop right there for many a minuteTo see how pretty she looked in it.

She'd stand and prink, and fix her hairAround her forehead with great care;And take some time to tie a bowThat must, to please her, lie just so.

Her mother's bonnet she'd put on,And all her richest dresses don,And up and down the room parade,And much enjoy her promenade.

She always liked to wear the bestShe had, and being so much dress'dCould not enjoy the romps with thoseWho wore much less expensive clothes.

Each day she grew so fond of dressIt gave her great unhappinessIf every day, and all the while,She wasn't in the latest style.

If asked to turn the jumping-ropeHer pretty parasol she'd ope,Lest she should freckle in the sun:And that was her idea of fun!

She didn't dare to take the catOr poodle-dog from off the mat,Lest they should catch their little toesIn laces, frills, or furbelows.

The very things that gave her joy,Her peace and comfort would destroy,For oft an ugly nail would tearThe costly dress she chose to wear.

The foolish girl turned up her noseAt those who dressed in plainer clothes,And lived in quiet style, for sheWith wealthy people chose to be

She never was the least inclinedWith knowledge to enrich her mind;And all the mental food she ateWas served upon a fashion-plate.

As this was so, you'll see at onceThat Fan grew up a silly dunce:An there was nothing to admireAbout her, but her fine attire.

Previous-Index-Next

Mr. Importance walking along the street.

PrideCome, come, Mr. Peacock,You must not be so proud,Although you can boast such a train,For there's many a birdFar more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Let me tell you, gay bird,That a suit of fine clothesIs a sorry distinction at most,And seldom much valuedExcepting by thoseWho only such graces can boast.The nightingale certainlyWears a plain coat,But she cheers and delights with her song;While you, though so vain,Cannot utter a noteTo please by the use of your tongue.The hawk cannot boastOf a plumage so gay,But more piercing and clear is her eye;And while you are struttingAbout all the day,She gallantly soars in the sky.The dove may be cladIn a plainer attire,But she is not so selfish and cold;And her love and affectionMore pleasure inspireThan all your fine purple and gold.So, you see, Mr. Peacock,You must not be proud,Although you can boast such a train,For many a birdIs more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.Sinful PrideHow proud we are, how fond to shewOur clothes, and call them rich and new,When the poor sheep and silkworm woreThat very clothing long before!The tulip and butterflyAppear in gayer coats than I;Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.Dr. WattsFineryIn a frock richly trimm'dWith a beautiful lace,And hair nicely dress'dHanging over her face,Thus deck'd, Harriet wentTo the house of a friend,With a large little partyThe ev'ning to spend."Ah! how they will allBe delighted, I guess,And stare with surpriseAt my elegant dress!"Thus said the vain girl,And her little heart beat,Impatient the happyYoung party to meet.But, alas! they were allTo intent on their fun,To observe the gay clothesThis fine lady had on;And thus all her troubleQuite lost its design,For they saw she was proud,But forgot she was fine.'Twas Lucy, tho' onlyIn simple white clad,(Nor trimmings, nor laces,Nor jewels she had,)Whose cheerful good natureDelighted them more,Than all the fine garmentsThat Harriet wore.'Tis better to haveA sweet smile on one's face,Than to wear a rich frockWith an elegant lace,For the good-natur'd girlIs lov'd best in the main,If her dress is but decent,Tho' ever so plain.T IA FopA little cane,A high-crowned hat,A fixed impression,Rather flat.A pointed shoe,A scanty coat,A stand-up collarRound his throatA gorgeous necktieSpreading wide,A small moustache—Nine on a side.Arms at right angles,Curved with ease,A stilted walkAnd shaky knees.A languid drawl,The "English" swing,An air of knowingEverything.A vacant stare,Extremely rude,And there you haveThe perfect dude.PrideHark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Shaping from her bitter thought,Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,Satirizing her despairWith the emblems woven there,Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the blede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.J. R. LowellVain LizzieIt surely is not good to see,Lizzie so full of vanity,So fond of dress and show.For when a fine new frock she wears,She gives herself most silly airs,Wherever she may go.She thinks herself a charming girl;But when folks see her twist and twirl,They stop in every street,They smile, or fairly laugh outright,And say: "She's really quite a sight,Was ever such conceit?"Vain Lizzie.

Pride

Come, come, Mr. Peacock,You must not be so proud,Although you can boast such a train,For there's many a birdFar more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.

Let me tell you, gay bird,That a suit of fine clothesIs a sorry distinction at most,And seldom much valuedExcepting by thoseWho only such graces can boast.

The nightingale certainlyWears a plain coat,But she cheers and delights with her song;While you, though so vain,Cannot utter a noteTo please by the use of your tongue.

The hawk cannot boastOf a plumage so gay,But more piercing and clear is her eye;And while you are struttingAbout all the day,She gallantly soars in the sky.

The dove may be cladIn a plainer attire,But she is not so selfish and cold;And her love and affectionMore pleasure inspireThan all your fine purple and gold.

So, you see, Mr. Peacock,You must not be proud,Although you can boast such a train,For many a birdIs more highly endowed,And not half so conceited and vain.

Sinful Pride

How proud we are, how fond to shewOur clothes, and call them rich and new,When the poor sheep and silkworm woreThat very clothing long before!

The tulip and butterflyAppear in gayer coats than I;Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.

Dr. Watts

Finery

In a frock richly trimm'dWith a beautiful lace,And hair nicely dress'dHanging over her face,Thus deck'd, Harriet wentTo the house of a friend,With a large little partyThe ev'ning to spend.

"Ah! how they will allBe delighted, I guess,And stare with surpriseAt my elegant dress!"Thus said the vain girl,And her little heart beat,Impatient the happyYoung party to meet.

But, alas! they were allTo intent on their fun,To observe the gay clothesThis fine lady had on;And thus all her troubleQuite lost its design,For they saw she was proud,But forgot she was fine.

'Twas Lucy, tho' onlyIn simple white clad,(Nor trimmings, nor laces,Nor jewels she had,)Whose cheerful good natureDelighted them more,Than all the fine garmentsThat Harriet wore.

'Tis better to haveA sweet smile on one's face,Than to wear a rich frockWith an elegant lace,For the good-natur'd girlIs lov'd best in the main,If her dress is but decent,Tho' ever so plain.

T I

A Fop

A little cane,A high-crowned hat,A fixed impression,Rather flat.

A pointed shoe,A scanty coat,A stand-up collarRound his throat

A gorgeous necktieSpreading wide,A small moustache—Nine on a side.

Arms at right angles,Curved with ease,A stilted walkAnd shaky knees.

A languid drawl,The "English" swing,An air of knowingEverything.

A vacant stare,Extremely rude,And there you haveThe perfect dude.

Pride

Hark the rustle of a dressStiff with lavish costliness!Here comes on whose cheek would flushBut to have her garment brush'Gainst the girl whose fingers thinWove the weary 'broidery in,Bending backward from her toil,Lest her tears the silk might soil,And in midnight's chill and murk,Stitched her life into the work.Shaping from her bitter thought,Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,Satirizing her despairWith the emblems woven there,Little doth the wearer heedOf the heart-break in the blede;A hyena by her sideSkulks, down-looking—it is Pride.

J. R. Lowell

Vain Lizzie

It surely is not good to see,Lizzie so full of vanity,So fond of dress and show.For when a fine new frock she wears,She gives herself most silly airs,Wherever she may go.

She thinks herself a charming girl;But when folks see her twist and twirl,They stop in every street,They smile, or fairly laugh outright,And say: "She's really quite a sight,Was ever such conceit?"

Previous-Index-Next

Nelly giving Ned her Apple.

Greedy NedMamma gave our Nelly an apple,So round, and big, and red;It seemed, beside dainty wee Nelly,To be almost as large as her head.Beside her young Neddie was standing—And Neddie loves apples, too,"Ah! Nelly!" said Neddie, "give brotherA bite of your apple—ah! do!"Dear Nelly held out the big apple;Ned opened his mouth very wide—So wide, that the startled red appleCould almost have gone inside!And oh! what a bite he gave it!The apple looked small, I declare,When Ned gave it back to his sister,Leaving that big bite there.Poor Nelly looked frightened a moment,Then a thought made her face grow bright;"Here, Ned, you can take the apple—I'd rather have the bite!"Eva L. Carson, In "St. Nicholas"The Biggest Piece Of PieOnce, when I was a little boy,I sat me down to cry,Because my little brother hadThe biggest piece of pie.They said I was a naughty boy,But I have since seen menBehave themselves as foolishlyAs I behaved then.For we are often thankless forRich blessings when we sigh,To think some lucky neighbour hasA "bigger piece" of pie.The Greedy, Impatient Girl"Oh! I am so hungry,I'm sure I can't wait,For my apple-pudding to cool,So, Mary, be quick nowAnd bring me a plate,For waiting for dinnerI always did hate,Tho' forced oft to do it at school."But at home, when mammaIs not in the way,I surely will do as I choose;And I do not care forWhat you please to say—The pudding won't burn me—No longer I'll stay.What business have you to refuse?"And now a large sliceOf the pudding she got,And, fearful she should have no more,She cramm'd her mouth fullOf the apple so hot,Which had but a minuteCome out of the pot,But quickly her triumph was o'er.Her mouth and her tongueWere so dreadfully sore,And suffer'd such terrible pain,Her pride and her consequenceSoon were all o'er,And she said, now unableTo eat any more,"Oh! I never will do so again!"And thus, by not mindingWhat she had been told,Young Ellinor lost all her treat;Too greedy to waitTill the pudding was cold,By being impatient,Conceited, and bold,Not a mouthful at last could she eat.C. Horwood.A Story Of An AppleLittle Tommy, and Peter, and Archie, and BobWere walking, one day, when they foundAn apple: 'twas mellow, and rosy, and red,And lying alone on the ground.Said Tommy: "I'll have it." Said peter: "'Tis mine."Said Archie: "I've got it; so there!"Said Bobby: "Now, let us divide it in four partsAnd each of us boys have a share.""No, no!" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it myself."Said Peter: "I want it, I say."Said Archie: "I've got it, and I'll have it all,I won't give a morsel away."Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter he fought,('Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archie held on with his might and his main,Till out from his fingers it fell.Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flewAnd then, down a green little hillThat apple it roll'd, and it roll'd, and it roll'dAs if it would never be still.A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass,And switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!"I wish," whimpered Archie, and Peter, and Tom,"We'd kept it and cut it in four."Sydney DyerGreedy Richard"I think I want some pies this morning"Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;So down he threw his slate and books,And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.And there he cast his greedy eyesRound on the jellies and the pies,So to select, with anxious care,The very nicest that was there.At last the point was thus decided:As his opinion was divided'Twixt pie and jelly, he was lothEither to leave, so took them both.Now Richard never could be pleas'dTo stop when hunger was appeas'd,But he'd go on to eat and stuff,Long after he had had enough."I shan't take any more," said Dick,"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:I cannot eat this other bit;I wish I had not tasted it."Then slowly rising from his seat,He threw the cheesecake in the street,And left the tempting pastry-cook'sWith very discontented looks.Jane Taylor

Greedy Ned

Mamma gave our Nelly an apple,So round, and big, and red;It seemed, beside dainty wee Nelly,To be almost as large as her head.

Beside her young Neddie was standing—And Neddie loves apples, too,"Ah! Nelly!" said Neddie, "give brotherA bite of your apple—ah! do!"

Dear Nelly held out the big apple;Ned opened his mouth very wide—So wide, that the startled red appleCould almost have gone inside!

And oh! what a bite he gave it!The apple looked small, I declare,When Ned gave it back to his sister,Leaving that big bite there.

Poor Nelly looked frightened a moment,Then a thought made her face grow bright;"Here, Ned, you can take the apple—I'd rather have the bite!"

Eva L. Carson, In "St. Nicholas"

The Biggest Piece Of Pie

Once, when I was a little boy,I sat me down to cry,Because my little brother hadThe biggest piece of pie.

They said I was a naughty boy,But I have since seen menBehave themselves as foolishlyAs I behaved then.

For we are often thankless forRich blessings when we sigh,To think some lucky neighbour hasA "bigger piece" of pie.

The Greedy, Impatient Girl

"Oh! I am so hungry,I'm sure I can't wait,For my apple-pudding to cool,So, Mary, be quick nowAnd bring me a plate,For waiting for dinnerI always did hate,Tho' forced oft to do it at school.

"But at home, when mammaIs not in the way,I surely will do as I choose;And I do not care forWhat you please to say—The pudding won't burn me—No longer I'll stay.What business have you to refuse?"

And now a large sliceOf the pudding she got,And, fearful she should have no more,She cramm'd her mouth fullOf the apple so hot,Which had but a minuteCome out of the pot,But quickly her triumph was o'er.

Her mouth and her tongueWere so dreadfully sore,And suffer'd such terrible pain,Her pride and her consequenceSoon were all o'er,And she said, now unableTo eat any more,"Oh! I never will do so again!"

And thus, by not mindingWhat she had been told,Young Ellinor lost all her treat;Too greedy to waitTill the pudding was cold,By being impatient,Conceited, and bold,Not a mouthful at last could she eat.

C. Horwood.

A Story Of An Apple

Little Tommy, and Peter, and Archie, and BobWere walking, one day, when they foundAn apple: 'twas mellow, and rosy, and red,And lying alone on the ground.

Said Tommy: "I'll have it." Said peter: "'Tis mine."Said Archie: "I've got it; so there!"Said Bobby: "Now, let us divide it in four partsAnd each of us boys have a share."

"No, no!" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it myself."Said Peter: "I want it, I say."Said Archie: "I've got it, and I'll have it all,I won't give a morsel away."

Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter he fought,('Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archie held on with his might and his main,Till out from his fingers it fell.

Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flewAnd then, down a green little hillThat apple it roll'd, and it roll'd, and it roll'dAs if it would never be still.

A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass,And switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.

She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!"I wish," whimpered Archie, and Peter, and Tom,"We'd kept it and cut it in four."

Sydney Dyer

Greedy Richard

"I think I want some pies this morning"Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;So down he threw his slate and books,And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.

And there he cast his greedy eyesRound on the jellies and the pies,So to select, with anxious care,The very nicest that was there.

At last the point was thus decided:As his opinion was divided'Twixt pie and jelly, he was lothEither to leave, so took them both.

Now Richard never could be pleas'dTo stop when hunger was appeas'd,But he'd go on to eat and stuff,Long after he had had enough.

"I shan't take any more," said Dick,"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:I cannot eat this other bit;I wish I had not tasted it."

Then slowly rising from his seat,He threw the cheesecake in the street,And left the tempting pastry-cook'sWith very discontented looks.

Jane Taylor

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The Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a rare feast I'll make,I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;Morning, noontime, and night,It shall be my delight;—What a happy young fellow I am."Thus said little George,And, beginning to gorge,With zeal to his cake he applied;While fingers and thumbs,For the sweetmeats and plums,Were hunting and digging besides.But, woeful to tell,A misfortune befell,Which ruin'd this capital fun!After eating his fill,He was taken so ill,That he trembled for what he had done.As he grew worse and worse,The doctor and nurse,To cure his disorder were sent;And rightly, you'll think,He had physic to drink,Which made him his folly repent.And while on his bedHe roll'd his hot head,Impatient with sickness and pain;He could not but takeThis reproof from his cake,"Don't be such a glutton again!"Another Plum Cake"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a feast let us make,Come, school-fellows, come at my call;I assure you 'tis nice,And we'll each have a slice,Here's more than enough for us all."Thus said little Jack,As he gave it a smack,And sharpen'd his knife for the job!While round him a troop,Formed a clamorous group,And hail'd him the king of the mob.With masterly strengthHe cut thro' it at length,And gave to each playmate a share;Dick, William, and James,And many more names,Partook of his benevolent care.And when it was done,And they'd finish'd their fun,To marbles or hoop they went back,And each little boyFelt it always a joyTo do a good turn for good Jack.In his task and his book,His best pleasures he took,And as he thus wisely began,Since he's been a man grown,He has constantly shownThat a good boy will make a good man.Ann TaylorThe Great Glutton'Twas the voice of the glutton,I heard him complain:My waistcoat unbutton,I'll eat once again.The GluttonThe voice of the gluttonI heard with disdain—"I've not eaten this hour,I must eat again;Oh! give me a pudding,A pie, or a tart,A duck or a fowl,Which I love from my heart."How sweet is the pickingOf capon or chicken!A turkey and chineAre most charming and fine;To eat and to drinkAll my pleasure is still,I care not who wantsSo that I have my fill."Oh! let me not be,Like a glutton, inclinedIn feasting my bodyAnd starving my mind,With moderate viandsBe thankful, and prayThat the Lord may supply meWith food the next day.Not always a-cravingWith hunger still raving;But little and sweetBe the food that I eat.To learning and wisdomOh let me apply.And leave to the gluttonHis pudding and pie.J. TaylorSelfish EdithSelfish Edith, not to giveHer sister one, when she has two!I wouldn't and I couldn't loveA selfish girl like her, could you?Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,"Please, Edith, let me play with one!"While naughty Edith shakes her head:I fear she'll have but little funWith toys unshared so selfishly;But when she tires of lonely play,Perhaps she'll secretly resolveTo be more kind another day.Hoggish HenryOh! Henry eats like any pig;He drives his mother mad.She scolds. He does not care a fig,It's really very sad.She says: "Your sister, little dear,Is always clean and neat;And though she's younger by a year,How nicely she can eat."It's all in vain. He does not care;He's shocking to behold.The table-cloth and napkin thereAre smeared in every fold.Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,As though for chickens laid,Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!Is dirt of every shade.He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,Just like some savage wild,His hands as forks are used, it's plain.For shame! You dirty child!SelfishnessLook at the selfish man! see how he locksTight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,And gold and silver close around he clasps.But not content with this, behind he dragsA cart well-laden with ponderous bags;The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woeFrom mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;His heart is like the rock where sun nor dewCan rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.No thought of mercy there may have its birth,For helpless misery or suffering worth;The end of all his life is paltry pelf,And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.Our selfish Brother who became a Screw.

The Plum Cake

"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a rare feast I'll make,I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;Morning, noontime, and night,It shall be my delight;—What a happy young fellow I am."

Thus said little George,And, beginning to gorge,With zeal to his cake he applied;While fingers and thumbs,For the sweetmeats and plums,Were hunting and digging besides.

But, woeful to tell,A misfortune befell,Which ruin'd this capital fun!After eating his fill,He was taken so ill,That he trembled for what he had done.

As he grew worse and worse,The doctor and nurse,To cure his disorder were sent;And rightly, you'll think,He had physic to drink,Which made him his folly repent.

And while on his bedHe roll'd his hot head,Impatient with sickness and pain;He could not but takeThis reproof from his cake,"Don't be such a glutton again!"

Another Plum Cake

"Oh! I've got a plum cake,And a feast let us make,Come, school-fellows, come at my call;I assure you 'tis nice,And we'll each have a slice,Here's more than enough for us all."

Thus said little Jack,As he gave it a smack,And sharpen'd his knife for the job!While round him a troop,Formed a clamorous group,And hail'd him the king of the mob.

With masterly strengthHe cut thro' it at length,And gave to each playmate a share;Dick, William, and James,And many more names,Partook of his benevolent care.

And when it was done,And they'd finish'd their fun,To marbles or hoop they went back,And each little boyFelt it always a joyTo do a good turn for good Jack.

In his task and his book,His best pleasures he took,And as he thus wisely began,Since he's been a man grown,He has constantly shownThat a good boy will make a good man.

Ann Taylor

The Great Glutton

'Twas the voice of the glutton,I heard him complain:My waistcoat unbutton,I'll eat once again.

The Glutton

The voice of the gluttonI heard with disdain—"I've not eaten this hour,I must eat again;Oh! give me a pudding,A pie, or a tart,A duck or a fowl,Which I love from my heart.

"How sweet is the pickingOf capon or chicken!A turkey and chineAre most charming and fine;To eat and to drinkAll my pleasure is still,I care not who wantsSo that I have my fill."

Oh! let me not be,Like a glutton, inclinedIn feasting my bodyAnd starving my mind,With moderate viandsBe thankful, and prayThat the Lord may supply meWith food the next day.

Not always a-cravingWith hunger still raving;But little and sweetBe the food that I eat.To learning and wisdomOh let me apply.And leave to the gluttonHis pudding and pie.

J. Taylor

Selfish Edith

Selfish Edith, not to giveHer sister one, when she has two!I wouldn't and I couldn't loveA selfish girl like her, could you?

Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,"Please, Edith, let me play with one!"While naughty Edith shakes her head:I fear she'll have but little fun

With toys unshared so selfishly;But when she tires of lonely play,Perhaps she'll secretly resolveTo be more kind another day.

Hoggish Henry

Oh! Henry eats like any pig;He drives his mother mad.She scolds. He does not care a fig,It's really very sad.

She says: "Your sister, little dear,Is always clean and neat;And though she's younger by a year,How nicely she can eat."

It's all in vain. He does not care;He's shocking to behold.The table-cloth and napkin thereAre smeared in every fold.

Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,As though for chickens laid,Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!Is dirt of every shade.

He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,Just like some savage wild,His hands as forks are used, it's plain.For shame! You dirty child!

Selfishness

Look at the selfish man! see how he locksTight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,And gold and silver close around he clasps.But not content with this, behind he dragsA cart well-laden with ponderous bags;The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woeFrom mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;His heart is like the rock where sun nor dewCan rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.No thought of mercy there may have its birth,For helpless misery or suffering worth;The end of all his life is paltry pelf,And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.

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Bad Boy blaming dog for Broken Vase.

Bad Boy having broken a Vase told his Mother that the Dog did it, but when his Mother was going to beat the poor Innocent Dog he felt sorry, and told the truth.Truthful Dottie; Or The Broken VaseNellie and DottieBoth here mamma say,"Pray from the drawing-roomKeep away.Don't take your toys there,Lest someone should call:Run out in the gardenWith rope, bat and ball."The garden is lovely,This bright summer day;But Nellie and DottieToo soon came away.Into the drawing-roomDottie comes skipping,With her new ropeAll the furniture flipping:Down goes the tall vase,So golden and gay,Smashed all to pieces,"What will mamma say?"Cries Nell with her hands raised,"Oh Dottie, let's run;They'll think it was pussy,Who did it in fun."Dot answers, through big tears,"But, Nell, don't you see,Though nobody watched us,God knows it was me.Mamma always says,That, whatever we do,The harm's not so great,If we dare to be true.So I'll go up and tell herIt caught in my rope;Perhaps she won't scold much,At least, so I'll hope.""That's right!" cries her mother,Who stands by the door,"I would rather have ten vasesWere smashed on the floorThan my children should once breakThe bright words of truth,The dearest possessionOf age or of youth.The vase can be mended,And scarce show a crack,But a falsehood once spokenWill never come back."However much grieved forBy young folks or old,An untruth once uttered,Forever is told.The Liar ReclaimedO! 'tis a lovely thing for youthTo walk betimes in wisdom's way;To fear a lie, to speak the truth,That we may trust to all they say.But liars we can never trust,Tho' they should speak the thing that's true,And he that does one fault at first,And lies to hide it, makes it two.The TruthWhy should you fear the truth to tell?Does falsehood ever do you so well?Can you be satisfied to knowThere's something wrong to hide belowNo! let your fault be what it may,To own it is the happy way.So long as you your crime conceal,You cannot light or gladsome feel;Your heart will ever feel oppressed,As if a weight were on your breast:And e'en your mother's eye to meetWill tinge your face with shame and heat.False AlarmsLittle Mary one day most loudly did call,"Mamma! oh, mamma, pray come here!A fall I have had—oh! a very sad fall."Mamma ran in haste and in fear;Then Mary jump'd up, and she laugh'd in great glee,And cried, "Why, how fast you can run!No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,My screaming was only in fun."Her mother was busy at work the next day,She heard from without a loud cry,"The big dog has got me! O help me! Oh! pray!He tears me—he bites me—I die!"Mamma, all in terror, quick to the courtAnd there little Mary she found;Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you do!"And curtsey'd quite down to the ground.That night little Mary, when long gone to bed,Shrill cries and loud shriekings were heard;"I'm on fire, O mamma, come up or I'm dead!"Mamma she believ'd not a word."Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she call'd out from below,"How often have I been deceived?You're telling a story, you very well know:Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."Yet still the child scream'd—now the house fill'd with smoke.That fire is above Jane declares.Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,When ev'ryone hastened upstairs.All burnt and all seam'd is her once pretty face,And how terribly mark'd are her arms,Her features all scarr'd, leave a lasting disgrace,For giving Mamma false alarms.Adelaide TaylorTo A Little Girl That Has Told A LieAnd has my darling told a lie?Did she forget that God was by?That God who saw the thing she did,From whom no action can be hid;Did she forget that God could see,And hear, wherever she might be?He made you eyes and can discernWhichever way you think to turn;He made your ears, and He can hearWhen you think nobody is near;In ev'ry place, by night or day,He watches all you do and say.You thought, because you were alone,Your falsehood never could be known,But liars always are found out,Whatever ways they wind about;And always be afraid, my dear,To tell a lie,—for God can hear!I wish, my dear, you'd always tryTo act as shall not need a lie;And when you wish a thing to do,That has been once forbidden to you,Remember that, and never dareTo disobey—For God is there!Why should you fear to tell me true?Confess, and then I'll pardon you:Tell me you're sorry, and you'll tryTo act the better by and bye,And then whate'er your crime has been,It won't be half so great a sin.But cheerful, innocent, and gay,As passes by the smiling day,You'll never have to turn aside,From any one your faults to hide;Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear,That either God or I should hear.Ann TaylorBlind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man.

Truthful Dottie; Or The Broken Vase

Nellie and DottieBoth here mamma say,"Pray from the drawing-roomKeep away.

Don't take your toys there,Lest someone should call:Run out in the gardenWith rope, bat and ball."

The garden is lovely,This bright summer day;But Nellie and DottieToo soon came away.

Into the drawing-roomDottie comes skipping,With her new ropeAll the furniture flipping:

Down goes the tall vase,So golden and gay,Smashed all to pieces,"What will mamma say?"

Cries Nell with her hands raised,"Oh Dottie, let's run;They'll think it was pussy,Who did it in fun."

Dot answers, through big tears,"But, Nell, don't you see,Though nobody watched us,God knows it was me.

Mamma always says,That, whatever we do,The harm's not so great,If we dare to be true.

So I'll go up and tell herIt caught in my rope;Perhaps she won't scold much,At least, so I'll hope."

"That's right!" cries her mother,Who stands by the door,"I would rather have ten vasesWere smashed on the floor

Than my children should once breakThe bright words of truth,The dearest possessionOf age or of youth.

The vase can be mended,And scarce show a crack,But a falsehood once spokenWill never come back."

However much grieved forBy young folks or old,An untruth once uttered,Forever is told.

The Liar Reclaimed

O! 'tis a lovely thing for youthTo walk betimes in wisdom's way;To fear a lie, to speak the truth,That we may trust to all they say.

But liars we can never trust,Tho' they should speak the thing that's true,And he that does one fault at first,And lies to hide it, makes it two.

The Truth

Why should you fear the truth to tell?Does falsehood ever do you so well?Can you be satisfied to knowThere's something wrong to hide belowNo! let your fault be what it may,To own it is the happy way.

So long as you your crime conceal,You cannot light or gladsome feel;Your heart will ever feel oppressed,As if a weight were on your breast:And e'en your mother's eye to meetWill tinge your face with shame and heat.

False Alarms

Little Mary one day most loudly did call,"Mamma! oh, mamma, pray come here!A fall I have had—oh! a very sad fall."Mamma ran in haste and in fear;Then Mary jump'd up, and she laugh'd in great glee,And cried, "Why, how fast you can run!No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,My screaming was only in fun."

Her mother was busy at work the next day,She heard from without a loud cry,"The big dog has got me! O help me! Oh! pray!He tears me—he bites me—I die!"Mamma, all in terror, quick to the courtAnd there little Mary she found;Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you do!"And curtsey'd quite down to the ground.

That night little Mary, when long gone to bed,Shrill cries and loud shriekings were heard;"I'm on fire, O mamma, come up or I'm dead!"Mamma she believ'd not a word."Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she call'd out from below,"How often have I been deceived?You're telling a story, you very well know:Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."

Yet still the child scream'd—now the house fill'd with smoke.That fire is above Jane declares.Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,When ev'ryone hastened upstairs.All burnt and all seam'd is her once pretty face,And how terribly mark'd are her arms,Her features all scarr'd, leave a lasting disgrace,For giving Mamma false alarms.

Adelaide Taylor

To A Little Girl That Has Told A Lie

And has my darling told a lie?Did she forget that God was by?That God who saw the thing she did,From whom no action can be hid;Did she forget that God could see,And hear, wherever she might be?

He made you eyes and can discernWhichever way you think to turn;He made your ears, and He can hearWhen you think nobody is near;In ev'ry place, by night or day,He watches all you do and say.

You thought, because you were alone,Your falsehood never could be known,But liars always are found out,Whatever ways they wind about;And always be afraid, my dear,To tell a lie,—for God can hear!

I wish, my dear, you'd always tryTo act as shall not need a lie;And when you wish a thing to do,That has been once forbidden to you,Remember that, and never dareTo disobey—For God is there!

Why should you fear to tell me true?Confess, and then I'll pardon you:Tell me you're sorry, and you'll tryTo act the better by and bye,And then whate'er your crime has been,It won't be half so great a sin.

But cheerful, innocent, and gay,As passes by the smiling day,You'll never have to turn aside,From any one your faults to hide;Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear,That either God or I should hear.

Ann Taylor

The Blind Man reading to the Deaf and Dumb Man after business hours, and their wicked Dog looking out.

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Naughty lazy Boy who would not go to School.

Idle MaryOh, Mary, this will never do!This work is sadly done, my dear,And such little of it too!You have not taken pains, I fear.On no, your work has been forgotten,Indeed you've hardly thought of that;I saw you roll your ball of cottonAbout the floor to please the cat.See, here are stitches straggling wide,And others reaching down so far;I'm very sure you have not triedAt all to-day to please mamma.The little girl who will not sewShould never be allowed to play;But then I hope, my love, that youWill take more pains another day.Lazy SalA lazy, lazy, lazy girl!Her hair forever out of curl,Her feet unshod, her hands unclean,Her dress in tatters always seen.Lounging here and dawdling there,Lying out 'most anywhereAbout the barn-yard. Not a thoughtOf studying lessons as she ought;But happiest when in sunny weatherShe and "the other pig" togetherAre playing tricks. No wonder, then,The farmer, jolliest of men,Is apt to say, when tired outWith seeing her sprawling round about,"Beats all what ails that lazy gal!Why, piggy's twice as smart as Sal!"The Work-bagTo Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,Of silk with flowers so gay,That she a place might always haveTo put her work away.And then 'twas furnished quite completeWith cotton, silk and thread,And needless in a case so neat,Of all the sizes made.A little silver thimble, too,Was there among the rest;And a large waxen doll, quite new,That waited to be dress'd.But Jane was very fond of play,And loved to toss her ball;An I am quite ashamed to say,She scarcely worked at all.But if at any time she did,'Twas but a stitch or two;And though she often has been bid,But little more would do.The pretty little bag, indeed,Was hung upon her chair;But cotton, needles, silk, and threadWere scattered here and there.Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,And asked if the doll was dress'd;Miss Jane has been engaged in play,And careless of the rest.The silk, to make her little dress,Was on the table laid,And, with an equal carelessness,The cap had also strayed.With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,All in disorder lay,When, bounding in with gesture rude,Came Jane, returned from play.She little thought her aunt to find,And blushed to see her there;It brought her carelessness to mind,And what her doll should wear."Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?I hope you've dress'd her now;But there is such a litter here,You best know when and how."So spoke her aunt, and, looking roundThe empty bag she spied;Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,Now hid her face and cried."Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,But waste your time in play;The work-bag, of no use to you,I now shall take away."But now, with self-conviction, JaneHer idleness confessed,And ere her aunt could come again,Her doll was neatly dressed.The Two GardensWhen Harry and DickHad been striving to please,Their father (to whom it was known)Made two little gardens,And stocked them with trees,And gave one to each for his own.Harry thank'd his papa,And with rake, hoe, and spade,Directly began his employ;And soon such a neatLittle garden was made,That he panted with labour and joy.There was always some bedOr some border to mend,Or something to tie or stick:And Harry rose earlyHis garden to tend,While snoring lay indolent Dick.The tulip, the rose,And the lily so white,United their beautiful bloom!And often the honey-beeStoop'd from his flight,To sip the delicious perfume.A neat row of peasIn full blossom was seen,French beans were beginning to shoot!And his gooseb'ries and currents,Tho' yet they were green,Foretold of plenty of fruit.But Richard loved betterIn bed to repose,And snug as he curl'd himself round,Forgot that not tulip,Nor lily, nor rose,Nor plant in his garden was found.Rank weeds and tall nettlesDisfigur'd his beds,Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,The slug and the snailShow'd their mischievous heads,And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.Thus Richard the idle,Who shrank from the cold,Beheld his trees naked and bare;Whilst Harry the activeWas charmed to beholdThe fruit of his patience and care.Ann Taylor.Doing NothingI asked a lad what he was doing;"Nothing, good sir," said he to me."By nothing well and long pursuing,Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."I asked a lad what he was thinking;"Nothing," said he. "I do declare.""Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,By idle minds were carried there."There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,Which idle hands and minds supply;Those who all thought and toil despise,Mere nothings live, and nothings die.A thousand naughts are not a feather,When in a sum they all are brought;A thousand idle lads togetherAre still but nothings joined to naught.And yet of merit they will boast,And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,But still 'tis very plain to most,That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.

Idle Mary

Oh, Mary, this will never do!This work is sadly done, my dear,And such little of it too!You have not taken pains, I fear.

On no, your work has been forgotten,Indeed you've hardly thought of that;I saw you roll your ball of cottonAbout the floor to please the cat.

See, here are stitches straggling wide,And others reaching down so far;I'm very sure you have not triedAt all to-day to please mamma.

The little girl who will not sewShould never be allowed to play;But then I hope, my love, that youWill take more pains another day.

Lazy Sal

A lazy, lazy, lazy girl!Her hair forever out of curl,Her feet unshod, her hands unclean,Her dress in tatters always seen.

Lounging here and dawdling there,Lying out 'most anywhereAbout the barn-yard. Not a thoughtOf studying lessons as she ought;

But happiest when in sunny weatherShe and "the other pig" togetherAre playing tricks. No wonder, then,The farmer, jolliest of men,

Is apt to say, when tired outWith seeing her sprawling round about,"Beats all what ails that lazy gal!Why, piggy's twice as smart as Sal!"

The Work-bag

To Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,Of silk with flowers so gay,That she a place might always haveTo put her work away.

And then 'twas furnished quite completeWith cotton, silk and thread,And needless in a case so neat,Of all the sizes made.

A little silver thimble, too,Was there among the rest;And a large waxen doll, quite new,That waited to be dress'd.

But Jane was very fond of play,And loved to toss her ball;An I am quite ashamed to say,She scarcely worked at all.

But if at any time she did,'Twas but a stitch or two;And though she often has been bid,But little more would do.

The pretty little bag, indeed,Was hung upon her chair;But cotton, needles, silk, and threadWere scattered here and there.

Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,And asked if the doll was dress'd;Miss Jane has been engaged in play,And careless of the rest.

The silk, to make her little dress,Was on the table laid,And, with an equal carelessness,The cap had also strayed.

With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,All in disorder lay,When, bounding in with gesture rude,Came Jane, returned from play.

She little thought her aunt to find,And blushed to see her there;It brought her carelessness to mind,And what her doll should wear.

"Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?I hope you've dress'd her now;But there is such a litter here,You best know when and how."

So spoke her aunt, and, looking roundThe empty bag she spied;Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,Now hid her face and cried.

"Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,But waste your time in play;The work-bag, of no use to you,I now shall take away."

But now, with self-conviction, JaneHer idleness confessed,And ere her aunt could come again,Her doll was neatly dressed.

The Two Gardens

When Harry and DickHad been striving to please,Their father (to whom it was known)Made two little gardens,And stocked them with trees,And gave one to each for his own.

Harry thank'd his papa,And with rake, hoe, and spade,Directly began his employ;And soon such a neatLittle garden was made,That he panted with labour and joy.

There was always some bedOr some border to mend,Or something to tie or stick:And Harry rose earlyHis garden to tend,While snoring lay indolent Dick.

The tulip, the rose,And the lily so white,United their beautiful bloom!And often the honey-beeStoop'd from his flight,To sip the delicious perfume.

A neat row of peasIn full blossom was seen,French beans were beginning to shoot!And his gooseb'ries and currents,Tho' yet they were green,Foretold of plenty of fruit.

But Richard loved betterIn bed to repose,And snug as he curl'd himself round,Forgot that not tulip,Nor lily, nor rose,Nor plant in his garden was found.

Rank weeds and tall nettlesDisfigur'd his beds,Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,The slug and the snailShow'd their mischievous heads,And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.

Thus Richard the idle,Who shrank from the cold,Beheld his trees naked and bare;Whilst Harry the activeWas charmed to beholdThe fruit of his patience and care.

Ann Taylor.

Doing Nothing

I asked a lad what he was doing;"Nothing, good sir," said he to me."By nothing well and long pursuing,Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."

I asked a lad what he was thinking;"Nothing," said he. "I do declare.""Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,By idle minds were carried there."

There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,Which idle hands and minds supply;Those who all thought and toil despise,Mere nothings live, and nothings die.

A thousand naughts are not a feather,When in a sum they all are brought;A thousand idle lads togetherAre still but nothings joined to naught.

And yet of merit they will boast,And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,But still 'tis very plain to most,That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.

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Lazy SamThere was a lazy boy named Sam,The laziest ever known,Who spent his time in idleness,Like any other drone.He loved to lie in bed till noon,With covers closely drawn,And when he managed to get upHe'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.If asked to do a simple taskHe always would refuse,And say that he was lame or sick,His action to excuse,And over pretty picture-books—Twas really very odd—This lazy boy would soon beginTo nod, and nod, and nod.If on an errand forced to go,He'd slowly, slowly creep,Just like a snail; you might supposeThat he was half asleep.And those who would despatch in hasteA note, or telegram,Would chose a swifter messengerThan such a lazy Sam.If he was caught out in a storm'Twould drench him to the skin,Because he was too indolentTo hurry to get in.Deep in his trouser's pockets heHis idle hands would cram,And children crowded to the doorsTo look at lazy Sam.This lazy boy would lounge aboutThe docks, and often wishThat he could carry home to cookA string of nice, fresh fish;But though he was provided withA reel extremely fine,Said Sam "I do not think 'twill payTo wet my fishing line!"Oh, Sam was always late at meals,And always late at school,And everybody said that heWould be a first-class fool.For boys not half so old as heAbove him swiftly pass,While Sam, the great big dunce! remainsThe lowest in the class.In every way, and every dayThis lazy boy would shirk,And never lift his hand to doA bit of useful work.His clothes were always on awry,His shoe-strings left untied,His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned,Alas, he had no pride!And so he went from bad to worse—The good-for-nothing scamp!—Until he settled down to beA ragged, dirty tramp.Through cities, towns, and villages,He begged his daily bread,And slept at night wherever heCould chance to find a bed.Men shuddered as they passed him by,And murmured sadly, "Oh!How can a human being sinkSo very, very low?"And e'en the jackass pricks his ears,And brays aloud "I amNot such a donkey, I declareAs yonder lazy Sam!"The Beggar ManAbject, stooping, old, and wan,See you wretched beggar-man;Once a father's hopeful heir,Once a mother's tender care.When too young to understand,He but scorched his little hand,By the candle's flaming lightAttracted—dancing, spiral, bright.Clasping fond her darling round,A thousand kisses healed the wound,Now abject, stooping, old and wan,No mother tends the beggar-man.Then nought too good for him to wear,With cherub face and flaxen hair,In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,Cap of lace with rose to aid,Milk-white hat and feather blue,Shoes of red, and coral too,With silver bells to please his ear,And charm the frequent ready tear.Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Neglected is the beggar-man.See the boy advance in age,And learning spreads her useful page;In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,And shows the marbles, tops, and balls,What's learning to the charms of play?The indulgent tutor must give way.A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;The youth in vagrant courses ran;Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Their fondling is the beggar-man.LambGood-for-nothing Lazy ManA good for nothing lazy lout,Wicked within and ragged without.Who can bear to have him about?Turn him out! Turn him out!The Old Beggar ManI see an old man sitting there,His withered limbs are almost bare,And very hoary is his hair.Old man, why are you sitting so?For very cold the wind doth blow:Why don't you to your cottage go?Ah, master, in the world so wide,I have no home wherein to hide,No comfortable fire-side.When I, like you, was young and gay,I'll tell you what I used to say,That I would nothing do but play.And so, instead of being taughtSome useful business as I ought,To play about was all I sought.An now that I am old and grey,I wander on my lonely way,And beg my bread from day to day.But oft I shake my hoary head,And many a bitter tear I shed,To think the useless life I've led.J. T.LazylandThree travellers wandered along the strand,Each with a staff in his feeble hand;And they chanted low:"We are go-o-o-Ing slow-o-ow-Ly to Lazyland."They've left off eating and drinking there;They never do any thinking there;They never walk,And they never talk,And they fall asleep without winking there."Nobody's in a hurry there;They are not permitted to worry there;'Tis a wide, still placeAnd not a faceShows any symptom of flurry there."No bells are rung in the morning there,They care not at all for adorning there;All sounds are hushed,And a man who rushedWould be treated with absolute scorning there."They do not take any papers there;No politicians cut capers there;They have no 'views,'And they tell no news,And they burn no midnight tapers there."No lovers are ever permitted there;Reformers are not admitted there;They argue notIn that peaceful spot,And their clothes all come ready-fitted there."Electricity has not been heard of there;And steam has been spoken no word of there;They stay where they are,And a coach or a carThey have not so much as a third of there."Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;We cannot stay,We must find the way—If there is a way—to Lazyland."Two Donkeys.

Lazy Sam

There was a lazy boy named Sam,The laziest ever known,Who spent his time in idleness,Like any other drone.He loved to lie in bed till noon,With covers closely drawn,And when he managed to get upHe'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.

If asked to do a simple taskHe always would refuse,And say that he was lame or sick,His action to excuse,And over pretty picture-books—Twas really very odd—This lazy boy would soon beginTo nod, and nod, and nod.

If on an errand forced to go,He'd slowly, slowly creep,Just like a snail; you might supposeThat he was half asleep.And those who would despatch in hasteA note, or telegram,Would chose a swifter messengerThan such a lazy Sam.

If he was caught out in a storm'Twould drench him to the skin,Because he was too indolentTo hurry to get in.Deep in his trouser's pockets heHis idle hands would cram,And children crowded to the doorsTo look at lazy Sam.

This lazy boy would lounge aboutThe docks, and often wishThat he could carry home to cookA string of nice, fresh fish;But though he was provided withA reel extremely fine,Said Sam "I do not think 'twill payTo wet my fishing line!"

Oh, Sam was always late at meals,And always late at school,And everybody said that heWould be a first-class fool.For boys not half so old as heAbove him swiftly pass,While Sam, the great big dunce! remainsThe lowest in the class.

In every way, and every dayThis lazy boy would shirk,And never lift his hand to doA bit of useful work.His clothes were always on awry,His shoe-strings left untied,His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned,Alas, he had no pride!

And so he went from bad to worse—The good-for-nothing scamp!—Until he settled down to beA ragged, dirty tramp.Through cities, towns, and villages,He begged his daily bread,And slept at night wherever heCould chance to find a bed.

Men shuddered as they passed him by,And murmured sadly, "Oh!How can a human being sinkSo very, very low?"And e'en the jackass pricks his ears,And brays aloud "I amNot such a donkey, I declareAs yonder lazy Sam!"

The Beggar Man

Abject, stooping, old, and wan,See you wretched beggar-man;Once a father's hopeful heir,Once a mother's tender care.When too young to understand,He but scorched his little hand,By the candle's flaming lightAttracted—dancing, spiral, bright.Clasping fond her darling round,A thousand kisses healed the wound,Now abject, stooping, old and wan,No mother tends the beggar-man.

Then nought too good for him to wear,With cherub face and flaxen hair,In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,Cap of lace with rose to aid,Milk-white hat and feather blue,Shoes of red, and coral too,With silver bells to please his ear,And charm the frequent ready tear.Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Neglected is the beggar-man.

See the boy advance in age,And learning spreads her useful page;In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,And shows the marbles, tops, and balls,What's learning to the charms of play?The indulgent tutor must give way.A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;The youth in vagrant courses ran;Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,Their fondling is the beggar-man.

Lamb

Good-for-nothing Lazy Man

A good for nothing lazy lout,Wicked within and ragged without.Who can bear to have him about?Turn him out! Turn him out!

The Old Beggar Man

I see an old man sitting there,His withered limbs are almost bare,And very hoary is his hair.

Old man, why are you sitting so?For very cold the wind doth blow:Why don't you to your cottage go?

Ah, master, in the world so wide,I have no home wherein to hide,No comfortable fire-side.

When I, like you, was young and gay,I'll tell you what I used to say,That I would nothing do but play.

And so, instead of being taughtSome useful business as I ought,To play about was all I sought.

An now that I am old and grey,I wander on my lonely way,And beg my bread from day to day.

But oft I shake my hoary head,And many a bitter tear I shed,To think the useless life I've led.

J. T.

Lazyland

Three travellers wandered along the strand,Each with a staff in his feeble hand;And they chanted low:"We are go-o-o-Ing slow-o-ow-Ly to Lazyland.

"They've left off eating and drinking there;They never do any thinking there;They never walk,And they never talk,And they fall asleep without winking there.

"Nobody's in a hurry there;They are not permitted to worry there;'Tis a wide, still placeAnd not a faceShows any symptom of flurry there.

"No bells are rung in the morning there,They care not at all for adorning there;All sounds are hushed,And a man who rushedWould be treated with absolute scorning there.

"They do not take any papers there;No politicians cut capers there;They have no 'views,'And they tell no news,And they burn no midnight tapers there.

"No lovers are ever permitted there;Reformers are not admitted there;They argue notIn that peaceful spot,And their clothes all come ready-fitted there.

"Electricity has not been heard of there;And steam has been spoken no word of there;They stay where they are,And a coach or a carThey have not so much as a third of there.

"Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;We cannot stay,We must find the way—If there is a way—to Lazyland."

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Lazy Willie getting out of Bed.

Lazy WillieOh! Willie is a lazy boy,A "Sleepy Head" is he,"Wake up!" his little sister cries,"Wake up and talk to me."The birds are singing in the trees,The sun is shining bright,But sleepy Willie slumbers onAs though it yet were night.Oh! lazy boys will never growTo clever manhood, you must know,So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,Wake up, and scramble out of bed.The Lazy BoyThe lazy boy! and what's his name?I should not like to tell;But don't you think it is a shame,That he can't read or spell.He'd rather swing upon a gate,Or paddle in a brook,Than take his pencil and his slate,Or try to con a book.There, see! he's lounging down the street,His hat without a brim,He rather drags than lifts his feet—His face unwashed and grim.He's lolling now against a post;But if you've seen him once,You'll know the lad among a hostFor what he is—a dunce.Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;I do not choose to tell;But this you'll know—it is the sameAs his who does not blush for shameThat he don't read or spell.The Sluggard'Tis the voice of the sluggard;I heard him complain,"You have waked me too soon,I must slumber again."As the door on it's hinges,So he on his bedTurns his sides, and his shoulders,And his heavy head."A little more sleepAnd a little more slumber;"Thus he wastes half his daysAnd his hours without number,And when he gets upHe sits folding his hands,Or walking about sauntering,Or trifling he stands.I pass'd by his garden,And saw the wild brier,The thorn and the thistleGrow broader and higher;The clothes that hung on himAre turning to rags,And his money still wastesTill he starves or he begs.I made him a visit,Still hoping to findThat he took better careFor improving his mind;He told me his dreams,Talked of eating and drinking,But he scarce reads his Bible,And never loves thinking.Said I then to my heart,"Here's a lesson for me;This man's but a pictureOf what I might be;But thanks to my friendsFor their care in my breeding,Who taught me bedtimesTo love working and reading."WattsIdle Dicky And The GoatJohn Brown is a manWithout houses or lands,Himself he supportsBy the work of his hands.He brings home his wagesEach Saturday night,To his wife and his children,A very good sight.His eldest boy, Dicky,On errands when sent,To loiter and chatterWas very much bent;The neighbours all call'd himAn odd little trout,His shoes they were broke,And his toes they peep'd out.To see such old shoesAll their sorrows were rife;John Brown he much grieved,And so did his wife,He kiss'd his boy Dicky,And stroked his white head,"You shall have a new pair,My dear boy," he then said."I've here twenty shillings,And money has wings;Go first get this note changed,I want other things."Now here comes the mischief—This Dicky would stopAt an ill-looking, mean-lookingGreengrocer's shop.For here lived a chatteringDunce of a boy;To prate with this urchinGave Dicky great joy.And now, in his boasting,He shows him his note,And now to the green-stallUp marches a goat.The laughed, for it wasThis young nanny-goat's wayWith those who pass'd by herTo gambol and play.All three they went onIn their frolicsome bouts,Till Dick dropt the noteOn a bunch of green sprouts.Now what was Dick's wonderTo see the vile goat,In munching the green sprouts,Eat up his bank note!He crying ran backTo John Brown with the news,And by stopping to idleHe lost his new shoes.Adelaide TaylorIdleness and MischiefHow doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower.How skilfully she builds her cell;How neat she spreads the wax;And labours hard to store it well;With the sweet food she makes.In works of labour or of skillI would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.In books, or work, or healthful playLet my first years be passed;That I may give you every daySome good account at last.WattsCome and Go.Dick Dawdle had landWorth two hundred a year,Yet from debt and from dunningHe never was free,His intellect was notSurprisingly clear,But he never felt satisfiedHow it could be.The raps at his door,And the rings at his gate.And the threats of a gaolHe no longer could bear:So he made up his mindTo sell half his estate,Which would pay all his debts,And leave something to spare.He leased to a farmerThe rest of his landFor twenty-one years;And on each quarter-dayThe honest man wentWith his rent in his hand,His liberal landlordDelighted to pay.Before half the termOf the lease had expired,The farmer, one dayWith a bagful of gold,Said, "Pardon me, sir,But I long have desiredTo purchase my farm,If the land can be sold."Ten years I've been blestWith success and with health,With trials a few—I thank God, not severe—I am grateful. I hope,Though not proud of my wealth,But I've managed to layBy a hundred a year.""Why how," exclaimed Dick,"Can this possibly be?"(With a stare of surprise,And a mortified laugh,)"The whole of my farmProved too little for me,And you it appears,Have grown rich upon half.""I hope you'll excuse me,"The farmer replies,"But I'll tell you the cause,If your honor would know;In two little wordsAll the difference lies,I always say Come,And you used to say Go.""Well, and what does that mean,My good fellow?" he said."Why this, sir, that IAlways rise with the sun;You said 'Go' to your man,As you lay in your bed,I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'And I see the work done."R. S. Sharpe

Lazy Willie

Oh! Willie is a lazy boy,A "Sleepy Head" is he,"Wake up!" his little sister cries,"Wake up and talk to me."

The birds are singing in the trees,The sun is shining bright,But sleepy Willie slumbers onAs though it yet were night.

Oh! lazy boys will never growTo clever manhood, you must know,So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,Wake up, and scramble out of bed.

The Lazy Boy

The lazy boy! and what's his name?I should not like to tell;But don't you think it is a shame,That he can't read or spell.

He'd rather swing upon a gate,Or paddle in a brook,Than take his pencil and his slate,Or try to con a book.

There, see! he's lounging down the street,His hat without a brim,He rather drags than lifts his feet—His face unwashed and grim.

He's lolling now against a post;But if you've seen him once,You'll know the lad among a hostFor what he is—a dunce.

Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;I do not choose to tell;But this you'll know—it is the sameAs his who does not blush for shameThat he don't read or spell.

The Sluggard

'Tis the voice of the sluggard;I heard him complain,"You have waked me too soon,I must slumber again."As the door on it's hinges,So he on his bedTurns his sides, and his shoulders,And his heavy head.

"A little more sleepAnd a little more slumber;"Thus he wastes half his daysAnd his hours without number,And when he gets upHe sits folding his hands,Or walking about sauntering,Or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden,And saw the wild brier,The thorn and the thistleGrow broader and higher;The clothes that hung on himAre turning to rags,And his money still wastesTill he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit,Still hoping to findThat he took better careFor improving his mind;He told me his dreams,Talked of eating and drinking,But he scarce reads his Bible,And never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart,"Here's a lesson for me;This man's but a pictureOf what I might be;But thanks to my friendsFor their care in my breeding,Who taught me bedtimesTo love working and reading."

Watts

Idle Dicky And The Goat

John Brown is a manWithout houses or lands,Himself he supportsBy the work of his hands.He brings home his wagesEach Saturday night,To his wife and his children,A very good sight.

His eldest boy, Dicky,On errands when sent,To loiter and chatterWas very much bent;The neighbours all call'd himAn odd little trout,His shoes they were broke,And his toes they peep'd out.

To see such old shoesAll their sorrows were rife;John Brown he much grieved,And so did his wife,He kiss'd his boy Dicky,And stroked his white head,"You shall have a new pair,My dear boy," he then said.

"I've here twenty shillings,And money has wings;Go first get this note changed,I want other things."Now here comes the mischief—This Dicky would stopAt an ill-looking, mean-lookingGreengrocer's shop.

For here lived a chatteringDunce of a boy;To prate with this urchinGave Dicky great joy.And now, in his boasting,He shows him his note,And now to the green-stallUp marches a goat.

The laughed, for it wasThis young nanny-goat's wayWith those who pass'd by herTo gambol and play.All three they went onIn their frolicsome bouts,Till Dick dropt the noteOn a bunch of green sprouts.

Now what was Dick's wonderTo see the vile goat,In munching the green sprouts,Eat up his bank note!He crying ran backTo John Brown with the news,And by stopping to idleHe lost his new shoes.

Adelaide Taylor

Idleness and Mischief

How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell;How neat she spreads the wax;And labours hard to store it well;With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skillI would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful playLet my first years be passed;That I may give you every daySome good account at last.

Watts

Come and Go.

Dick Dawdle had landWorth two hundred a year,Yet from debt and from dunningHe never was free,His intellect was notSurprisingly clear,But he never felt satisfiedHow it could be.

The raps at his door,And the rings at his gate.And the threats of a gaolHe no longer could bear:So he made up his mindTo sell half his estate,Which would pay all his debts,And leave something to spare.

He leased to a farmerThe rest of his landFor twenty-one years;And on each quarter-dayThe honest man wentWith his rent in his hand,His liberal landlordDelighted to pay.

Before half the termOf the lease had expired,The farmer, one dayWith a bagful of gold,Said, "Pardon me, sir,But I long have desiredTo purchase my farm,If the land can be sold.

"Ten years I've been blestWith success and with health,With trials a few—I thank God, not severe—I am grateful. I hope,Though not proud of my wealth,But I've managed to layBy a hundred a year."

"Why how," exclaimed Dick,"Can this possibly be?"(With a stare of surprise,And a mortified laugh,)"The whole of my farmProved too little for me,And you it appears,Have grown rich upon half."

"I hope you'll excuse me,"The farmer replies,"But I'll tell you the cause,If your honor would know;In two little wordsAll the difference lies,I always say Come,And you used to say Go."

"Well, and what does that mean,My good fellow?" he said."Why this, sir, that IAlways rise with the sun;You said 'Go' to your man,As you lay in your bed,I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'And I see the work done."

R. S. Sharpe

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Tables Turned: Dogs setting Boys to fighting.

The Tables turned—Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.

The Cruel BoyTom sat at the kitchen windowWatching the folks go by,But what he was really doingWas pulling the legs from a fly.Yes, there he sat in the twilight,Tormenting the tiny things;First pulling their legs from their sockets,And afterwards pulling their wings.He knew not that his fatherWas standing behind his back;And very much wished to be givingHis cruel young fingers a crack.But he waited till after dinner,When Tommy was having a game;Then he thought he would give him a lesson,And treat him a little the same.So catching his son of a sudden,And giving his elbow a twist;He pulled his two ears till he shouted,Then hit him quite hard with his fist.And did he not roll on the carpet?And did he not cry out in pain?But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"His father would hit him again."Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,You don't seem to like it, my boy;And yet, when you try it on others,You always are singing with joy;"It seems very strange," said his father,And this time his nose had a pull;But Tommy could stand it no longer;He bellowed and roared like a bull."Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,And scrape off the flesh from your shin;What you often yourself do to others,Sure you do not think harm or a sin."Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,"You'll leave these poor things alone,If not, I go on with my lesson.""I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,The wounded bird flutters and dies;Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,To shoot the poor thing as it flies?Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, youMay follow your trades, I must own:So chimneys are swept when they want it—but whoWould sweep them for pleasure alone?If men would but think of the torture they giveTo creatures that cannot complain,They surely would let the poor animals live,And not make a sport of their pain.The WormTurn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless wormThe frame thy wayward looks decideRequired a God to form.The common Lord of all that move,From whom thy being flow'd,A portion of His boundless loveOn that poor worm bestow'd.The sun, the moon, the stars He madeTo all the creatures free;And spreads o'er earth the grassy bladeFor worms as well as thee.Let them enjoy their little day,Their lowly bliss receive;Oh, do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give.GisborneStory Of Cruel FrederickHere is cruel Frederick, see!A horrid wicked boy was he:He caught the flies, poor little things,And tore off their tiny wings;He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,And threw the kitten down the stairs;And Oh! far worse than all beside,He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.The trough was full, and faithful TrayCame out to drink one sultry day;He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.At this, good Tray grew very red,And growl'd and bit him till he bled;Then you should only have been by,To see how Fred did scream and cry!So Frederick had to go to bed,His leg was very sore and red!The doctor came and shook his headAnd made a very great to-do,And gave him nasty physic too.Don't Throw StonesBoys, don't throw stones!That kitten on the wall,Sporting with leaves that fall,Now jumping to and fro,Now crouching soft and low,Then grasps them with a spring,As if some living thing.As happy as can be,Why cause her misery?It is foolish stones to flingBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That squirrel in the tree,Frisking in fun and glee,Is busy in his way,Although it looks all play,Picking up nuts—a storeAgainst the winter hourFrisking from tree to tree,So blithe and merrily,It is cruel stones to fling,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That bird upon the wing,How sweet its song this Spring,Perchance it seeks the food,To feed its infant brood,Whose beaks are open wide,Until they are supplied;To and fro to and fro,The parent bird must go.It is sinful stones to throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!That stray dog in the street,Should with your pity meet,And not with shout and cry,And brick-bat whirling by:The dog's a friend to man,Outvie him if you can:So faithful, trusty, true,A pattern unto you;It is wicked stones to throw,Boys, do as you'd be done by.Boys, don't throw stones!It can no pleasure giveTo injure things that live;That beauteous butterfly,The bird that soars on high,The creatures every dayThat round our pathway play;If you thought of your cruelty;You wouldn't wish even one to die.Only cowards stones will throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.Tables Turned: Dogs beating the poor Boy.

The Cruel Boy

Tom sat at the kitchen windowWatching the folks go by,But what he was really doingWas pulling the legs from a fly.

Yes, there he sat in the twilight,Tormenting the tiny things;First pulling their legs from their sockets,And afterwards pulling their wings.

He knew not that his fatherWas standing behind his back;And very much wished to be givingHis cruel young fingers a crack.

But he waited till after dinner,When Tommy was having a game;Then he thought he would give him a lesson,And treat him a little the same.

So catching his son of a sudden,And giving his elbow a twist;He pulled his two ears till he shouted,Then hit him quite hard with his fist.

And did he not roll on the carpet?And did he not cry out in pain?But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"His father would hit him again.

"Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,You don't seem to like it, my boy;And yet, when you try it on others,You always are singing with joy;

"It seems very strange," said his father,And this time his nose had a pull;But Tommy could stand it no longer;He bellowed and roared like a bull.

"Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,And scrape off the flesh from your shin;What you often yourself do to others,Sure you do not think harm or a sin.

"Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,"You'll leave these poor things alone,If not, I go on with my lesson.""I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.

But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,The wounded bird flutters and dies;Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,To shoot the poor thing as it flies?

Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, youMay follow your trades, I must own:So chimneys are swept when they want it—but whoWould sweep them for pleasure alone?

If men would but think of the torture they giveTo creatures that cannot complain,They surely would let the poor animals live,And not make a sport of their pain.

The Worm

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless wormThe frame thy wayward looks decideRequired a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,From whom thy being flow'd,A portion of His boundless loveOn that poor worm bestow'd.

The sun, the moon, the stars He madeTo all the creatures free;And spreads o'er earth the grassy bladeFor worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,Their lowly bliss receive;Oh, do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give.

Gisborne

Story Of Cruel Frederick

Here is cruel Frederick, see!A horrid wicked boy was he:He caught the flies, poor little things,And tore off their tiny wings;

He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,And threw the kitten down the stairs;And Oh! far worse than all beside,He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.

The trough was full, and faithful TrayCame out to drink one sultry day;He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.

At this, good Tray grew very red,And growl'd and bit him till he bled;Then you should only have been by,To see how Fred did scream and cry!

So Frederick had to go to bed,His leg was very sore and red!The doctor came and shook his headAnd made a very great to-do,And gave him nasty physic too.

Don't Throw Stones

Boys, don't throw stones!That kitten on the wall,Sporting with leaves that fall,Now jumping to and fro,Now crouching soft and low,Then grasps them with a spring,As if some living thing.As happy as can be,Why cause her misery?It is foolish stones to flingBoys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!That squirrel in the tree,Frisking in fun and glee,Is busy in his way,Although it looks all play,Picking up nuts—a storeAgainst the winter hourFrisking from tree to tree,So blithe and merrily,It is cruel stones to fling,Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!That bird upon the wing,How sweet its song this Spring,Perchance it seeks the food,To feed its infant brood,Whose beaks are open wide,Until they are supplied;To and fro to and fro,The parent bird must go.It is sinful stones to throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!That stray dog in the street,Should with your pity meet,And not with shout and cry,And brick-bat whirling by:The dog's a friend to man,Outvie him if you can:So faithful, trusty, true,A pattern unto you;It is wicked stones to throw,Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!It can no pleasure giveTo injure things that live;That beauteous butterfly,The bird that soars on high,The creatures every dayThat round our pathway play;If you thought of your cruelty;You wouldn't wish even one to die.Only cowards stones will throwBoys, do as you'd be done by.

Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating the poor Boy.

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Boys caught Stealing Apples.

No One Will See Me"No one will see me,"Said little John Day,For his father and motherWere out of the way,And he was at homeAll alone;"No one will see me,"So he climbed on a chair,And peeped in the cupboardTo see what was there,Which of course he oughtNot to have done.There stood in the cupboard,So sweet and so nice,A plate of plum-cakeIn full many a slice,And apples so ripe,And so fine;"Now no one will see me,"Said John to himself,As he stretched out his armTo reach up to the shelf;"This apple, at least,Shall be mine."John paused and put backThe nice apple so red,For he thought of the wordsHis kind mother had said,When she left all theseThings in his care;"And no one will see me,"Thought he, "'tis not true;For I've read that God sees usIn all that we do,And is with usEverywhere."Well done, John;Your father and mother obey,Try ever to please them;And mind what they say,Even when theyAre absent from you;And never forget that,Though no one is nigh,You cannot be hid fromThe Glance of God's eye,Who notices allThat you do.Principle Put To The TestA youngster at school,More sedate than the rest,Had once his integrityPut to the test:—His comrades had plottedThe orchard to rob,And asked him to goAnd assist in the job.He was very much shocked,And answered, "Oh no!What! rob our poor neighbour!I pray you don't go;Besides, the man's poor,His orchard's his bread;Then think of his children,For they must be fed.""You speak very fine,And you look very grave,But apples we want,And apples we'll have;If you will go with us,We'll give you a share,If not, you shall haveNeither apple nor pear."They spoke, and Tom pondered—"I see they will go;Poor man! What a pityTo injure him so!Poor man! I would save himHis fruit if I could,But staying behindWill do him no good."If this matter dependedAlone upon me,His apples might hangTill they dropped from the tree;But since theywilltake them,I think I'll go too,He will lose none by me,Though I get a few."His scruples this silenced,Tom felt more at ease,And went with his comradesThe apples to seize;He blamed and protestedBut joined in the plan,He shared in the plunder,But pitied the man.CowperAdviceWho steals a pinCommits a sinWho tells a lieHas cause to sigh.When ask'd to goAnd sin, say, No!The guilty breastIs ne'er at rest.You must not sinA world to winWhy should you goThe way to woe.The Boy And His MotherIn Aesop, we are told, a boy,Who was his mother's pride and joy,At school a primer stole one day,And homeward then did wend his way.He told his mother of the theft,While she, of principle bereft,Patted him on the head and smil'd.And said, "You are my own dear child."She praised him for the cunning feat,And gave him a nice apple sweet.In course of years the boy grew fast,Till he became a man at last;But all the time he slyly stole—Sometimes a piece—sometimes the whole,Till, finally, he grew so bold,He kill'd a man and took his gold.The day on which he had to swingDid a large crowd together bring.Among the rest his mother came,And called him fondly by his name.The sheriff gave him leave to tellThe broken-hearted dame farewell!About his neck her arms she flung,And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"He answered, "Call me not your dear."And by one stroke bit off her ear;While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!Not satisfied to blast her name.You add this violence to oneWhose happiness you have undone!""Good people," he replied, "I'll vowI would not be a felon now.If my mother had only triedTo win me to the better side.But when in infancy I tookWhat was not mine, a small torn book,Instead of punishing the featShe gave to me an apple sweet;She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,And said, 'You are my own dear child!'I tell you here, both foe and friend,This is the cause of my sad end."Australian Blacks Stealing.

No One Will See Me

"No one will see me,"Said little John Day,For his father and motherWere out of the way,And he was at homeAll alone;

"No one will see me,"So he climbed on a chair,And peeped in the cupboardTo see what was there,Which of course he oughtNot to have done.

There stood in the cupboard,So sweet and so nice,A plate of plum-cakeIn full many a slice,And apples so ripe,And so fine;

"Now no one will see me,"Said John to himself,As he stretched out his armTo reach up to the shelf;"This apple, at least,Shall be mine."

John paused and put backThe nice apple so red,For he thought of the wordsHis kind mother had said,When she left all theseThings in his care;

"And no one will see me,"Thought he, "'tis not true;For I've read that God sees usIn all that we do,And is with usEverywhere."

Well done, John;Your father and mother obey,Try ever to please them;And mind what they say,Even when theyAre absent from you;

And never forget that,Though no one is nigh,You cannot be hid fromThe Glance of God's eye,Who notices allThat you do.

Principle Put To The Test

A youngster at school,More sedate than the rest,Had once his integrityPut to the test:—His comrades had plottedThe orchard to rob,And asked him to goAnd assist in the job.

He was very much shocked,And answered, "Oh no!What! rob our poor neighbour!I pray you don't go;Besides, the man's poor,His orchard's his bread;Then think of his children,For they must be fed."

"You speak very fine,And you look very grave,But apples we want,And apples we'll have;If you will go with us,We'll give you a share,If not, you shall haveNeither apple nor pear."

They spoke, and Tom pondered—"I see they will go;Poor man! What a pityTo injure him so!Poor man! I would save himHis fruit if I could,But staying behindWill do him no good.

"If this matter dependedAlone upon me,His apples might hangTill they dropped from the tree;But since theywilltake them,I think I'll go too,He will lose none by me,Though I get a few."

His scruples this silenced,Tom felt more at ease,And went with his comradesThe apples to seize;He blamed and protestedBut joined in the plan,He shared in the plunder,But pitied the man.

Cowper

Advice

Who steals a pinCommits a sinWho tells a lieHas cause to sigh.

When ask'd to goAnd sin, say, No!The guilty breastIs ne'er at rest.

You must not sinA world to winWhy should you goThe way to woe.

The Boy And His Mother

In Aesop, we are told, a boy,Who was his mother's pride and joy,At school a primer stole one day,And homeward then did wend his way.

He told his mother of the theft,While she, of principle bereft,Patted him on the head and smil'd.And said, "You are my own dear child."

She praised him for the cunning feat,And gave him a nice apple sweet.In course of years the boy grew fast,Till he became a man at last;

But all the time he slyly stole—Sometimes a piece—sometimes the whole,Till, finally, he grew so bold,He kill'd a man and took his gold.

The day on which he had to swingDid a large crowd together bring.Among the rest his mother came,And called him fondly by his name.

The sheriff gave him leave to tellThe broken-hearted dame farewell!About his neck her arms she flung,And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"

He answered, "Call me not your dear."And by one stroke bit off her ear;While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!Not satisfied to blast her name.

You add this violence to oneWhose happiness you have undone!""Good people," he replied, "I'll vowI would not be a felon now.

If my mother had only triedTo win me to the better side.But when in infancy I tookWhat was not mine, a small torn book,

Instead of punishing the featShe gave to me an apple sweet;She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,And said, 'You are my own dear child!'

I tell you here, both foe and friend,This is the cause of my sad end."

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Naughty Boys Stealing.

The Boys And The Apple TreeAs Billy and TommyWere walking one day,They came by a fine orchard side;They'd rather eat applesThan spell, read, or play,And Tommy to Billy then cried,"O brother, look! seeWhat fine clusters hang there,I'll jump and climb over the wall;I will have an apple,I will have a pear,Or else it shall cost me a fall."Said Billy to Tommy,"To steal is a sin,Mamma has oft told this to thee;O never yet stole,Nor now will begin,So red apples hang on the tree.""You are a good boy,As you ever have been,"Said Tommy; let's walk on, my lad;We'll call on our school-fellowLittle Bob Green,And to see us I know he'll be glad."They came to a house,And they rang at the gate,And asked, "Pray, is Bobby at home?"But Bobby's good mannersDid not let them wait;He out of the parlour did come.Bob smil'd, and he laughed,And he caper'd with joy,His little companions to view."We call'd in to see you,"Said each little boy.Said Bobby, "I'm glad to see you."Come walk in our garden,So large and so fine;You shall, for my father gives leave;And more, he insistsThat you'll stay here to dine:A rare jolly day we shall have!"But when in the garden,They found 'twas the sameThey saw as they walk'd in the road;And near the high wall,When these little boys came,They started, as if from a toad."That large ring of iron,Which lies on the ground,With terrible teeth like a saw,"Said Bobby, "the guardOf our garden is found;It keeps wicked robbers in awe."The warning without,If they should set an nought,This trap tears their legs—O! so sad!"Said Billy to Tommy,"So you'd have been caught,A narrow escape you have had."Cried Tommy, I'll mindWhat my good mamma says,And take the advice of a friend;I never will stealTo the end of my days,I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."AdelaideHonestyWith honest heart go on your way,Down to your burial sod,And never for a moment strayBeyond the path of God;And everything along your wayIn colours bright shall shine;The water from the jug of clayShall taste like costly wine!HolteThou Shalt Not StealOn the goods that are not thine,Little child, lay not a finger;Round thy neighbour's better thingsLet no wistful glances linger.Pilfer not the smallest thing;Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,Though the owner have enough,Though he know it not, nor need it.Taste not the forbidden fruit,Though resistance be a trial;Grasping hand and roving eye,Early teach them self-denial.Upright heart and honest nameTo the poorest are a treasure;Better than ill-gotten wealth,Better far than pomp and pleasure.Poor and needy though thou art,Gladly take what God has given;With clean hands and humble heart,Passing through this world to heaven.The ThiefWhy should I deprive my neighbourOf his goods against his will?Hands were meant for honest labour,Not to plunder, nor to steal.'Tis a foolish self-deceivingBy such tricks to hope for gain:All that's ever got by thievingTurns to sorrow, shame, and pain.Oft we see the young beginnerPractice little pilfering ways,Till grown up a hardened sinner,Then the gallows ends his days.Theft will not be always hidden,Though we fancy none can spy;When we take a thing forbidden,God holds it with His eye.Guard my heart, O God of heaven,Lest is covet what's not mine;Lest I take what is not given,Guard my heart and hands from sin.WattsHighway Robbery.

The Boys And The Apple Tree

As Billy and TommyWere walking one day,They came by a fine orchard side;They'd rather eat applesThan spell, read, or play,And Tommy to Billy then cried,

"O brother, look! seeWhat fine clusters hang there,I'll jump and climb over the wall;I will have an apple,I will have a pear,Or else it shall cost me a fall."

Said Billy to Tommy,"To steal is a sin,Mamma has oft told this to thee;O never yet stole,Nor now will begin,So red apples hang on the tree."

"You are a good boy,As you ever have been,"Said Tommy; let's walk on, my lad;We'll call on our school-fellowLittle Bob Green,And to see us I know he'll be glad."

They came to a house,And they rang at the gate,And asked, "Pray, is Bobby at home?"But Bobby's good mannersDid not let them wait;He out of the parlour did come.

Bob smil'd, and he laughed,And he caper'd with joy,His little companions to view."We call'd in to see you,"Said each little boy.Said Bobby, "I'm glad to see you.

"Come walk in our garden,So large and so fine;You shall, for my father gives leave;And more, he insistsThat you'll stay here to dine:A rare jolly day we shall have!"

But when in the garden,They found 'twas the sameThey saw as they walk'd in the road;And near the high wall,When these little boys came,They started, as if from a toad.

"That large ring of iron,Which lies on the ground,With terrible teeth like a saw,"Said Bobby, "the guardOf our garden is found;It keeps wicked robbers in awe.

"The warning without,If they should set an nought,This trap tears their legs—O! so sad!"Said Billy to Tommy,"So you'd have been caught,A narrow escape you have had."

Cried Tommy, I'll mindWhat my good mamma says,And take the advice of a friend;I never will stealTo the end of my days,I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."

Adelaide

Honesty

With honest heart go on your way,Down to your burial sod,And never for a moment strayBeyond the path of God;And everything along your wayIn colours bright shall shine;The water from the jug of clayShall taste like costly wine!

Holte

Thou Shalt Not Steal

On the goods that are not thine,Little child, lay not a finger;Round thy neighbour's better thingsLet no wistful glances linger.

Pilfer not the smallest thing;Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,Though the owner have enough,Though he know it not, nor need it.

Taste not the forbidden fruit,Though resistance be a trial;Grasping hand and roving eye,Early teach them self-denial.

Upright heart and honest nameTo the poorest are a treasure;Better than ill-gotten wealth,Better far than pomp and pleasure.

Poor and needy though thou art,Gladly take what God has given;With clean hands and humble heart,Passing through this world to heaven.

The Thief

Why should I deprive my neighbourOf his goods against his will?Hands were meant for honest labour,Not to plunder, nor to steal.

'Tis a foolish self-deceivingBy such tricks to hope for gain:All that's ever got by thievingTurns to sorrow, shame, and pain.

Oft we see the young beginnerPractice little pilfering ways,Till grown up a hardened sinner,Then the gallows ends his days.

Theft will not be always hidden,Though we fancy none can spy;When we take a thing forbidden,God holds it with His eye.

Guard my heart, O God of heaven,Lest is covet what's not mine;Lest I take what is not given,Guard my heart and hands from sin.

Watts

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