THE MORNING WALK.

Once, in the hope of honest gainFrom Afric’s golden store,A brisk young sailor cross’d the main,And landed on her shore.And leaving soon the sultry strand,Where his fair vessel lay,He travell’d o’er the neighboring land,To trade in peaceful way.Full many a toy had he to sell,And caps of scarlet dye,All such things as he knew full well,Would please the native’s eye.But as he travell’d through the woods,He longed to take a nap,And opening there his pack of goods,Took out a scarlet cap,And drew it on his head, therebyTo shield him from the sun,Then soundly slept, nor thought an eyeHad seen what he had done.But many a monkey dwelling there,Though hidden from his view,Had closely watched the whole affair,And longed to do so too.And while he slept did each one seizeA cap to deck his brows,Then climbing up the highest trees,Sat chattering on the boughs.The sailor wak’d, his caps were gone,And loud and long he grieves,Till, looking up with heart forlorn,He spied at once the thieves.With cap of red upon each head,Full fifty faces grim,The sailor sees amid the trees,With eyes all fixed on him.He brandish’d quick a mighty stick,But could not reach their bower,Nor yet could stone, for every oneWas far beyond his power.Alas! he thought, I’ve safely broughtMy caps far over seas,But could not guess it was to dressSuch little rogues as these.Then quickly down he threw his own,And loud in anger cried,“Take this one too, you thievish crew,Since you have all beside.”But, quick as thought the caps were caughtFrom every monkey’s crown,And, like himself, each little elfThrew his directly down.He then with ease did gather these,And in his pack did bind,Then through the woods convey’d his goodsAnd sold them to his mind.THE MORNING WALK.Thesun is up, the air is clear,The flowers are blooming all around,The dew-drops glitter on the grass,And pretty daisies deck the ground.How sweet it is to go abroad,And breathe this lovely morning air,So fragrant with perfume of flowers,While everything seems fresh and fair.The busy insects flitting round,The warbling birds on every tree,Each blade of grass, each opening flower,All seem to speak, great God, of thee.Dear Father, thou hast kindly keptThy child from danger all the night,And now, my heart is filled with joy,As I behold the morning light.And I would speak of all thy love;Oh, fill my heart with grateful praise,And may I for these bounteous gifts,Both love and serve thee all my days.STRAWBERRY GIRL.EMILY.Mamma, do hear Eliza cry!She wants a piece of cake, I know,She will not stir to school without;Do give her some, and let her go.MOTHER.Oh no, my dear, that will not do,She has behaved extremely ill;She does not think of minding me,And tries to gain her stubborn will.This morning, when she had her milk,She gave her spoon a sudden twirlAnd threw it all upon the floor;Oh, she’s a naughty, wicked girl!And now, forsooth, she cries for cake,But that, my dear, I must refuse,For children never should objectTo eating what their parents choose.That pretty little girl who cameTo sell the strawberries here to-day,Would have been very glad to eatWhat my Eliza threw away;Because her parents are so poorThat they have neither milk nor meat,But gruel and some Indian cakeIs all the children have to eat.They have beside three little girls,—Mary’s the oldest of them all,—And hard enough she has to workTo help the rest, though she’s so small.As soon as strawberries are ripe,She picks all day and will not stopTo play, nor eat a single oneTill she has filled her basket up.Then down she comes to sell them all,And lays the money up to buyHer stockings and her shoes to wearWhen cold and wintry storms are nigh.Then Mary has to trudge away,And gather wood thro’ piles of snow,To keep the little children warm,When the frost bites and cold winds blow.Oh, then, as she comes home at night,Hungry and tired, with cold benumb’d,How would she jump to find a bowlOf bread and milk all nicely crumb’d.But she, dear child, has no such thing;Of gruel and some Indian cake,Whether she chooses it or not,Poor Mary must her supper make.And now, my child, will you behaveSo ill again another day,Be cross, and pout, and cry for cake,And throw your breakfast all away?ELIZA.Oh never, never, dear mamma,I’m sorry that I gave you pain;Forgive me, and I never willBe such a naughty girl again.ENVY.MELINDA.Iwish I had a coach, mamma;O, how I should delight to ride,Like Jennie Wright, where’er I pleased,And have a servant at my side.The other day, as Ann and IWere walking down the meadow lane,With John and Mary Anna Smith,Who should go by but little Jane!The man drove slow, that Miss might viewThe charming prospect all around;How proud she felt that she could ride,While we were walking on the ground!We all ran off and left the coach,But while we gathered flowers for you,Mamma, the servant followed us,For Miss must have some daisies too.She seemed resolved to let us knowThat she could have just what she pleased,Then the new coach whirled off, and soI really hope her mind was eased.What was it, ma, that vexed me soAnd spoiled the pleasure of the day?I should have had a charming walkIf that old coach had kept away.MOTHER.’Twas envy, child, an odious sin,That springs from ignorance and pride;You grieved to see another tasteEnjoyments to yourself denied.That little Miss you envied soLived six long months in constant pain,Then the disorder seized her feet,And she will never walk again.I chanced to be at Mr. Wright’sThat very day, when Jane came home;Her brother took her in his arms,And brought her sobbing to the room.Her mother tenderly enquiredWhat made her weep. “Alas!” she cried,“Why, mother, will you urge your childTo seek for pleasure in a ride?“At first, I looked with some delightOn the sweet fields so green and gay,When happy children passed along,As merry as the birds in May.“They laughed, they jumped, they climbed the hedge,For flowers their pretty wreaths to twine,And then they wandered through the fields,To gather blackberries from the vine.“I wept, that with such joyous sportsI never more could take a part;Kind Peter saw how sad I felt,And tried to cheer my heavy heart.“He brought me berries from the vine,He gathered daisies nice and sweet;But on the flowers I could not look,The blackberries I could not eat.“Oh, turn, I said, and drive me home,Each object gives my heart a pain,And let me in my chamber hide,And never see a coach again.”Now, dear Melinda, do you wishThat you was Jennie Wright, to rideIn a new coach whene’er you please,And have a servant at your side?MELINDA.Oh, no, indeed; for now, mamma,I see how wicked I have been;You spoke most truly when you saidThat envy was an odious sin.Poor Jennie Wright! how very strangeThat I should think her proud or vain;How wicked and unkind it wasFor me to envy little Jane.I shall feel thankful I can walkWhene’er I chance a coach to meet;Nor envy those again who ride,So long as I can use my feet.REMEMBER THE POOR.“The poor ye have always with you, and when ye will ye may do them good."—[Words of Jesus.God’sblessing on thoseWho remember the poor!If I had been bornIn the Five Points, I’m sureI should have been gratefulFor work and for food;And this House of IndustryMust do them great good.Our hearts should be filledWith pity for thoseWho suffer in winterFor want of warm clothes.Who suffer with hungerFor want of nice bread,While we from God’s bountyAre constantly fed.Then let us rememberHow much they endure,—Those dear little childrenSo wretched and poor,And do what we canTo provide them with food,For all our spare penniesWould do them great good.HOLIDAY GIFT.MOTHER.Mychildren, I am glad to seeYour holidays have come;For much it does delight my heartTo see you all at home.And that you have behaved so well,Gives me still greater joy;For greatly does your happinessYour mother’s thoughts employ.The promise that I gave you allMost strictly I regard,And dearly do I love to giveMy children their reward.So here is a guinea, Charles, for you,To buy that pretty sword,Which, when you asked me for last spring,I could not then afford.And, Emma, one for you and Ann,Between you to divide;As Charles is older than yourselves,I hope you’re satisfied.EMMA.Oh yes, mamma, ’tis quite enough,We could not wish for more;We never in our lives have hadOne half as much before.CHARLES.Mamma, you seem to be perplexedWith some unpleasant care;You smile, but then ’tis not the smileThat I have seen you wear.Pray, tell me is it anythingThat I have said or done?I hope, mamma, I never shallBe an ungrateful son.MOTHER.Oh, no, my child; you ever haveBeen dutiful and kind,But still, there is a circumstanceThat has perplexed my mind.You know that worthy familyThat lived up on the hill,—Poor Mr. Smith, the clever man,That used to tend the mill.Last spring, his wife and little onesWere very sick, you know;When they recovered, he was seized,And died a week ago.This very morning, Mrs. SmithCame here to ask relief;Poor woman! she looked pale and thin,And overwhelmed with grief.“Dear madam, I am grieved to comeAnd trouble you,” she said;“But new afflictions seem to fallIn torrents on my head.“Some time before my husband died,We owed a quarter’s rent,He laid it up, and would, no doubt,Have paid it—every cent.“But when our earnings all were stopp’d,And we so long were ill,I was obliged to take it all,To pay the doctor’s bill.“This very morn our landlord came,And sternly bade me pay;I told him all, and begged he’d waitA little longer day.“‘Wait longer? No, indeed I wont;Too long I have waited now;So pay, or you’ll march out of doors,And I shall take your cow.’”The widow wept, and then she said,“I am willing to be poor,—But yet to lose my only cowSeems too much to endure.”CHARLES.Here, take this money, ma, and payAs far as it will go;I had rather never have a swordThan she should suffer so.EMMA AND ANN.And ours, mamma; do take it all,To pay that cruel man;And pray make haste before he comesTo frighten them again.MOTHER.Come to my arms, my precious ones,I only meant to seeWhether your little hearts were warmedWith sweet humanity.I’ll take your money for this debt,—And never did I payA sum away with such delight,As I shall do this day.Come, then, my children, let us go;It is a bless’d employTo cheer the widow’s heart and fillThe fatherless with joy.Oh, do not neglectYour practice, my dear;Papa will expectSome good music to hear;For he has been absentAlmost a whole year.NURSERY CHILDREN NEEDING HOMES.“Twoorphan children, under five,With pleasant, sunny faces,Brother and sister, much attached,Are candidates for ‘places.’”Thus writes a lady from the Home;And Fred has asked papa,To take them both, and let them liveWith him and dear mamma.Papa replies: “My dear, I thinkWe’ve boys enough already;But we will take the little girl—A play-mate for our Freddy.”O, must these little orphans part?What will the poor boy do?He hesitates a moment, thenHe says, “we’ll take the two!“For ’twould be very hard, to partThe sister from her brother;Poor little friendless ones, who nowSo dearly love each other.“Mamma will not consent, I’m sure,These orphans thus to part,There’s room enough to hold them both,In her warm, loving heart.”Fred runs at once to ask mamma,If she will be a motherTo this dear little girl and boy—The sister and the brother.She prays her Savior, then, to guide,And teach her what to do;Fred soon returns to tell papa,—“Yes; we must take the two!”For while she knelt in earnest prayer,The Savior seemed to say,In sweetest accents to her heart,“Work, while ’tis called to-day.“Take these dear little orphans home—Go, feed these lambs for me,And I will care for you and yours,I will your Savior be.”Oh, will not other parents hear,The Savior sweetly plead,For my sake, take these orphans home,And be my friends indeed.ALMIRA AND MINNIE.MOTHER.Almira, go and get your work,And sit with me, my dear;And, Minnie, you may read to us,—We will with pleasure hear.Two little misses thus employedIs a delightful sight;Then after tea the time’s your own,And you may play till night.Minnie, why do you look displeased?Don’t you approve my plan?Well, alter it yourself, my dear;Improve it if you can.MINNIE.I’m tired of sitting here alone,Mamma, with only you;I’m tired of work, indeed I am,I’m tired of reading, too.And only just Almira here,And Fido now to play;If I’d my will I’d go abroadMost gladly every day.MOTHER.Minnie, do you know Peggy Hill,That little, modest child,Who sometimes comes on errands here?She lives with Mrs. Wild.She came the other day when youWas sitting here with me;Almira sewed, you had a book,And read quite prettily.She tried to do her errand twice;But when she came to speak,I saw her turn aside and wipeA tear from off her cheek.I thought it strange, and led her out;“What ails you, child,” said I;“Pray have you hurt yourself, or whatCan thus have made you cry?”“Oh, no,” she said, “I am not hurt;I am to blame, I fear;But such a tender sight as thisWill always force a tear.“For I had tender parents once,—Affectionate and kind;But they are dead; they both have gone,And left their child behind.“I had a little sister, too,And many a pleasant dayWe with our mother worked and readThe cheerful hours away.“But when we lost our parents, ma’am,Our living all was fled;And we were placed in strangers’ hands,To earn our daily bread.“My sister could not long supportThe hardship of her fate;She left this miserable worldAnd sought a happier state.“Since then I have mourn’d my heavy lot;Alone, without relief,—I have no friend to pity meOr listen to my grief.“My mistress lives in wealth and ease,From want and sorrow free;She never knew what labor was,Nor can she feel for me.“I work from morn till night, and tryTo please her all the while,And think sometimes I’d give the worldJust for one pleasant smile.“But every day I give offence,In spite of all my care;And cruel words from day to day,It is my lot to bear.”MINNIE.Oh, how I pity Peggy Hill!Her case is sad indeed;I’m thankful for my happy home,—Dear mother, let me read.And let Almira get her work;—Fido, you run awayTill after tea, then on the greenWe’ll run, and jump, and play.THE INDIAN AND THE PLANTER.Bythe door of his house a planter stood,In fair Virginia’s clime,When the setting sun had tinged the woodWith its golden hue sublime.The lands of this planter were broadly spread,He lacked not gold or gear,And his house had plenty of meat and breadTo make them goodly cheer.An Indian came from the forest deep,A hunter in weary plight,Who in humble accents asked to sleep’Neath the planter’s roof that night.To the Indian’s need he took no heed,But forbade his longer stay;“Then give me,” he said, “but a crust of bread,And I’ll travel on my way.”In wrath the planter this denied,Forgetting the golden rule;“Then give me, for mercy’s sake,” he cried,“A cup of water cool.“All day I have travell’d o’er fen and bog,In chase of the bounding deer;”“Away,” cried the planter, “you Indian dog,For you shall have nothing here.”The Indian turned to his distant home,Though hungry and travel sore,And the planter enter’d his goodly dome,Nor thought of the Indian more.When the leaves were sere, to chase the deer,This self same planter went,And bewildered stood, in a dismal wood,When the day was fully spent.He had lost his way in the chase that day,And in vain to find it tried,When a glimmering light fell on his sight,From a wigwam close beside.He thither ran, and a savage manReceived him as a guest;He brought him cheer, the flesh of deer,And gave him of the best.Then kindly spread for the white man’s bed,His softest skins beside,And at break of day, through the forest way,Went forth to be his guide.At the forest’s verge, did the planter urge,His service to have paid,But the savage bold refused his gold,And thus to the white man said:“I came of late to the white man’s gate,And weary and faint was I,Yet neither meat, nor water sweet,Did the Indian’s wants supply.“Again should he come to the white man’s homeMy service let him pay,Nor say, again to the fainting man,You ‘Indian dog, away!’”THE INDIAN AND THE BASKET.[7]AmongRhode Island’s early sons,Was one whose orchards fair,By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,Rewarded all his care.For household use they stored the best,And all the rest conveyedTo neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,And into cider made.The wandering Indian oft partookThe generous farmer’s cheer;He liked his food, but better stillHis cider fine and clear.And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,The kitchen fire before,He longed for some to carry home,And asked for more and more.The farmer saw a basket newBeside the Indian bold,And smiling said, “I’ll give to youAs much as that will hold.”Both laughed, for how could liquid thingWithin a basket stay;But yet the jest unanswering,The Indian went his way,When next from rest the farmer sprung,So very cold the morn,The icicles like diamonds hungOn every spray and thorn.The brook that babbled by his doorWas deep, and clear, and strong,And yet unfettered by the frost,Leaped merrily along.The self-same Indian by this brook.The astonished farmer sees;He laid his basket in the stream,Then hung it up to freeze.And by this process oft renewed,The basket soon becameA well-glazed vessel, tight and good,Of most capacious frame.The door he entered speedily,And claim’d the promis’d boon,The farmer, laughing heartily,Fulfilled his promise soon.Up to the basket’s brim he sawThe sparkling cider rise,And to rejoice his absent squaw,He bore away the prize.Long lived the good man at the farm,—The house is standing still,And still leaps merrily along,The much diminished rill.And his descendants still remain,And tell to those who ask it,The story they have often heardAbout theIndian’s basket.GRANDMAMMA’S STORY.Oh, tell some tales of ancient times,Dear grandmamma, again;When you was young as we are now,Said little Mary Jane.She raised her mild blue eyes, and said,I have a tale to tell,Which once I read, when I was young,And now remember well.My mother bought the book for me,And brought it home one day,When I had been a naughty girl,And passionate at play.Although the tale was very sad,I tell it now, that youMay see what very wicked things,An angry child may do.GRANDMAMMA’S STORY OF THE BLIND CHILD.Someladies once agreed with me,To give our little ones a sail;The day was fine, the summer windJust blew a soft and pleasant gale.We stepped on board a pleasure boat,With gayest colors painted o’er,And in the bosom of the stream,We sweetly sailed along the shore.Our children could not keep their seats,But every sportive girl and boy,With hearts as cheerful as the day,Did skip about the deck for joy;Except one pretty little girl,Who sat alone with downcast eye,And now and then I saw a tear,And thought I heard a broken sigh.I wondered much that one so young,Should seem so pensively inclined,And asked her mother what it meant;“Alas!” said she, “the child is blind.“One day, I never shall forget,She and her brother were at play;Something she said offended him,And so they had a childish fray.“She turned her head and gave a look,’T was half a smile and half grimace;His temper rose,—he caught a forkAnd threw it in his sister’s face.“It struck her eye, the blood gushed out,He screamed, and turn’d as pale as death;Oh, never shall my memory loseThat dreadful scene while I have breath.“For three long, melancholy months,We kept her in a darkened room,With a close bandage round her eyes,Where not a ray of light could come.“The doctors tried their utmost skillTo keep her sight, but all in vain;At length the wounded eyes were healed,But she will never see again.“Her brother’s heart is almost broke;‘Oh, Harriet,’ he often cries,‘If I was owner of the world,I’d give it to restore your eyes.“‘But you will laugh and play no more,Nor your dear parents’ faces see,Nor trees, nor fields, nor blooming flowers,And never will you look on me.“‘Oh, wrretched, miserable boy!What has my wicked temper done;I’ve shut my dear, dear sister’s eyesForever from the cheerful sun!’”This story, children, made me feelHow very wicked I had been;To lose my temper when at play,I felt to be a grievous sin.And now, my dears, said grandmamma,May this sad tale I’ve told to-dayLead you to guard your hearts with care,And ne’er be angry when at play.BLACKBERRY GIRL.PART II.Part I. in “Songs for Little Ones at Home.”

Once, in the hope of honest gainFrom Afric’s golden store,A brisk young sailor cross’d the main,And landed on her shore.

And leaving soon the sultry strand,Where his fair vessel lay,He travell’d o’er the neighboring land,To trade in peaceful way.

Full many a toy had he to sell,And caps of scarlet dye,All such things as he knew full well,Would please the native’s eye.

But as he travell’d through the woods,He longed to take a nap,And opening there his pack of goods,Took out a scarlet cap,

And drew it on his head, therebyTo shield him from the sun,Then soundly slept, nor thought an eyeHad seen what he had done.

But many a monkey dwelling there,Though hidden from his view,Had closely watched the whole affair,And longed to do so too.

And while he slept did each one seizeA cap to deck his brows,Then climbing up the highest trees,Sat chattering on the boughs.

The sailor wak’d, his caps were gone,And loud and long he grieves,Till, looking up with heart forlorn,He spied at once the thieves.

With cap of red upon each head,Full fifty faces grim,The sailor sees amid the trees,With eyes all fixed on him.

He brandish’d quick a mighty stick,But could not reach their bower,Nor yet could stone, for every oneWas far beyond his power.

Alas! he thought, I’ve safely broughtMy caps far over seas,But could not guess it was to dressSuch little rogues as these.

Then quickly down he threw his own,And loud in anger cried,“Take this one too, you thievish crew,Since you have all beside.”

But, quick as thought the caps were caughtFrom every monkey’s crown,And, like himself, each little elfThrew his directly down.

He then with ease did gather these,And in his pack did bind,Then through the woods convey’d his goodsAnd sold them to his mind.

Thesun is up, the air is clear,The flowers are blooming all around,The dew-drops glitter on the grass,And pretty daisies deck the ground.How sweet it is to go abroad,And breathe this lovely morning air,So fragrant with perfume of flowers,While everything seems fresh and fair.The busy insects flitting round,The warbling birds on every tree,Each blade of grass, each opening flower,All seem to speak, great God, of thee.Dear Father, thou hast kindly keptThy child from danger all the night,And now, my heart is filled with joy,As I behold the morning light.And I would speak of all thy love;Oh, fill my heart with grateful praise,And may I for these bounteous gifts,Both love and serve thee all my days.

Thesun is up, the air is clear,The flowers are blooming all around,The dew-drops glitter on the grass,And pretty daisies deck the ground.

How sweet it is to go abroad,And breathe this lovely morning air,So fragrant with perfume of flowers,While everything seems fresh and fair.

The busy insects flitting round,The warbling birds on every tree,Each blade of grass, each opening flower,All seem to speak, great God, of thee.

Dear Father, thou hast kindly keptThy child from danger all the night,And now, my heart is filled with joy,As I behold the morning light.

And I would speak of all thy love;Oh, fill my heart with grateful praise,And may I for these bounteous gifts,Both love and serve thee all my days.

EMILY.

Mamma, do hear Eliza cry!She wants a piece of cake, I know,She will not stir to school without;Do give her some, and let her go.

MOTHER.

Oh no, my dear, that will not do,She has behaved extremely ill;She does not think of minding me,And tries to gain her stubborn will.This morning, when she had her milk,She gave her spoon a sudden twirlAnd threw it all upon the floor;Oh, she’s a naughty, wicked girl!And now, forsooth, she cries for cake,But that, my dear, I must refuse,For children never should objectTo eating what their parents choose.That pretty little girl who cameTo sell the strawberries here to-day,Would have been very glad to eatWhat my Eliza threw away;Because her parents are so poorThat they have neither milk nor meat,But gruel and some Indian cakeIs all the children have to eat.They have beside three little girls,—Mary’s the oldest of them all,—And hard enough she has to workTo help the rest, though she’s so small.As soon as strawberries are ripe,She picks all day and will not stopTo play, nor eat a single oneTill she has filled her basket up.Then down she comes to sell them all,And lays the money up to buyHer stockings and her shoes to wearWhen cold and wintry storms are nigh.Then Mary has to trudge away,And gather wood thro’ piles of snow,To keep the little children warm,When the frost bites and cold winds blow.Oh, then, as she comes home at night,Hungry and tired, with cold benumb’d,How would she jump to find a bowlOf bread and milk all nicely crumb’d.But she, dear child, has no such thing;Of gruel and some Indian cake,Whether she chooses it or not,Poor Mary must her supper make.And now, my child, will you behaveSo ill again another day,Be cross, and pout, and cry for cake,And throw your breakfast all away?

Oh no, my dear, that will not do,She has behaved extremely ill;She does not think of minding me,And tries to gain her stubborn will.

This morning, when she had her milk,She gave her spoon a sudden twirlAnd threw it all upon the floor;Oh, she’s a naughty, wicked girl!

And now, forsooth, she cries for cake,But that, my dear, I must refuse,For children never should objectTo eating what their parents choose.

That pretty little girl who cameTo sell the strawberries here to-day,Would have been very glad to eatWhat my Eliza threw away;

Because her parents are so poorThat they have neither milk nor meat,But gruel and some Indian cakeIs all the children have to eat.

They have beside three little girls,—Mary’s the oldest of them all,—And hard enough she has to workTo help the rest, though she’s so small.

As soon as strawberries are ripe,She picks all day and will not stopTo play, nor eat a single oneTill she has filled her basket up.

Then down she comes to sell them all,And lays the money up to buyHer stockings and her shoes to wearWhen cold and wintry storms are nigh.

Then Mary has to trudge away,And gather wood thro’ piles of snow,To keep the little children warm,When the frost bites and cold winds blow.

Oh, then, as she comes home at night,Hungry and tired, with cold benumb’d,How would she jump to find a bowlOf bread and milk all nicely crumb’d.

But she, dear child, has no such thing;Of gruel and some Indian cake,Whether she chooses it or not,Poor Mary must her supper make.

And now, my child, will you behaveSo ill again another day,Be cross, and pout, and cry for cake,And throw your breakfast all away?

ELIZA.

Oh never, never, dear mamma,I’m sorry that I gave you pain;Forgive me, and I never willBe such a naughty girl again.

MELINDA.

Iwish I had a coach, mamma;O, how I should delight to ride,Like Jennie Wright, where’er I pleased,And have a servant at my side.The other day, as Ann and IWere walking down the meadow lane,With John and Mary Anna Smith,Who should go by but little Jane!The man drove slow, that Miss might viewThe charming prospect all around;How proud she felt that she could ride,While we were walking on the ground!We all ran off and left the coach,But while we gathered flowers for you,Mamma, the servant followed us,For Miss must have some daisies too.She seemed resolved to let us knowThat she could have just what she pleased,Then the new coach whirled off, and soI really hope her mind was eased.What was it, ma, that vexed me soAnd spoiled the pleasure of the day?I should have had a charming walkIf that old coach had kept away.

Iwish I had a coach, mamma;O, how I should delight to ride,Like Jennie Wright, where’er I pleased,And have a servant at my side.

The other day, as Ann and IWere walking down the meadow lane,With John and Mary Anna Smith,Who should go by but little Jane!

The man drove slow, that Miss might viewThe charming prospect all around;How proud she felt that she could ride,While we were walking on the ground!

We all ran off and left the coach,But while we gathered flowers for you,Mamma, the servant followed us,For Miss must have some daisies too.

She seemed resolved to let us knowThat she could have just what she pleased,Then the new coach whirled off, and soI really hope her mind was eased.

What was it, ma, that vexed me soAnd spoiled the pleasure of the day?I should have had a charming walkIf that old coach had kept away.

MOTHER.

’Twas envy, child, an odious sin,That springs from ignorance and pride;You grieved to see another tasteEnjoyments to yourself denied.That little Miss you envied soLived six long months in constant pain,Then the disorder seized her feet,And she will never walk again.I chanced to be at Mr. Wright’sThat very day, when Jane came home;Her brother took her in his arms,And brought her sobbing to the room.Her mother tenderly enquiredWhat made her weep. “Alas!” she cried,“Why, mother, will you urge your childTo seek for pleasure in a ride?“At first, I looked with some delightOn the sweet fields so green and gay,When happy children passed along,As merry as the birds in May.“They laughed, they jumped, they climbed the hedge,For flowers their pretty wreaths to twine,And then they wandered through the fields,To gather blackberries from the vine.“I wept, that with such joyous sportsI never more could take a part;Kind Peter saw how sad I felt,And tried to cheer my heavy heart.“He brought me berries from the vine,He gathered daisies nice and sweet;But on the flowers I could not look,The blackberries I could not eat.“Oh, turn, I said, and drive me home,Each object gives my heart a pain,And let me in my chamber hide,And never see a coach again.”Now, dear Melinda, do you wishThat you was Jennie Wright, to rideIn a new coach whene’er you please,And have a servant at your side?

’Twas envy, child, an odious sin,That springs from ignorance and pride;You grieved to see another tasteEnjoyments to yourself denied.

That little Miss you envied soLived six long months in constant pain,Then the disorder seized her feet,And she will never walk again.

I chanced to be at Mr. Wright’sThat very day, when Jane came home;Her brother took her in his arms,And brought her sobbing to the room.

Her mother tenderly enquiredWhat made her weep. “Alas!” she cried,“Why, mother, will you urge your childTo seek for pleasure in a ride?

“At first, I looked with some delightOn the sweet fields so green and gay,When happy children passed along,As merry as the birds in May.

“They laughed, they jumped, they climbed the hedge,For flowers their pretty wreaths to twine,And then they wandered through the fields,To gather blackberries from the vine.

“I wept, that with such joyous sportsI never more could take a part;Kind Peter saw how sad I felt,And tried to cheer my heavy heart.

“He brought me berries from the vine,He gathered daisies nice and sweet;But on the flowers I could not look,The blackberries I could not eat.

“Oh, turn, I said, and drive me home,Each object gives my heart a pain,And let me in my chamber hide,And never see a coach again.”

Now, dear Melinda, do you wishThat you was Jennie Wright, to rideIn a new coach whene’er you please,And have a servant at your side?

MELINDA.

Oh, no, indeed; for now, mamma,I see how wicked I have been;You spoke most truly when you saidThat envy was an odious sin.Poor Jennie Wright! how very strangeThat I should think her proud or vain;How wicked and unkind it wasFor me to envy little Jane.I shall feel thankful I can walkWhene’er I chance a coach to meet;Nor envy those again who ride,So long as I can use my feet.

Oh, no, indeed; for now, mamma,I see how wicked I have been;You spoke most truly when you saidThat envy was an odious sin.

Poor Jennie Wright! how very strangeThat I should think her proud or vain;How wicked and unkind it wasFor me to envy little Jane.

I shall feel thankful I can walkWhene’er I chance a coach to meet;Nor envy those again who ride,So long as I can use my feet.

“The poor ye have always with you, and when ye will ye may do them good."—[Words of Jesus.

God’sblessing on thoseWho remember the poor!If I had been bornIn the Five Points, I’m sureI should have been gratefulFor work and for food;And this House of IndustryMust do them great good.Our hearts should be filledWith pity for thoseWho suffer in winterFor want of warm clothes.Who suffer with hungerFor want of nice bread,While we from God’s bountyAre constantly fed.Then let us rememberHow much they endure,—Those dear little childrenSo wretched and poor,And do what we canTo provide them with food,For all our spare penniesWould do them great good.

God’sblessing on thoseWho remember the poor!If I had been bornIn the Five Points, I’m sure

I should have been gratefulFor work and for food;And this House of IndustryMust do them great good.

Our hearts should be filledWith pity for thoseWho suffer in winterFor want of warm clothes.

Who suffer with hungerFor want of nice bread,While we from God’s bountyAre constantly fed.

Then let us rememberHow much they endure,—Those dear little childrenSo wretched and poor,

And do what we canTo provide them with food,For all our spare penniesWould do them great good.

MOTHER.

Mychildren, I am glad to seeYour holidays have come;For much it does delight my heartTo see you all at home.And that you have behaved so well,Gives me still greater joy;For greatly does your happinessYour mother’s thoughts employ.The promise that I gave you allMost strictly I regard,And dearly do I love to giveMy children their reward.So here is a guinea, Charles, for you,To buy that pretty sword,Which, when you asked me for last spring,I could not then afford.And, Emma, one for you and Ann,Between you to divide;As Charles is older than yourselves,I hope you’re satisfied.

Mychildren, I am glad to seeYour holidays have come;For much it does delight my heartTo see you all at home.

And that you have behaved so well,Gives me still greater joy;For greatly does your happinessYour mother’s thoughts employ.

The promise that I gave you allMost strictly I regard,And dearly do I love to giveMy children their reward.

So here is a guinea, Charles, for you,To buy that pretty sword,Which, when you asked me for last spring,I could not then afford.

And, Emma, one for you and Ann,Between you to divide;As Charles is older than yourselves,I hope you’re satisfied.

EMMA.

Oh yes, mamma, ’tis quite enough,We could not wish for more;We never in our lives have hadOne half as much before.

CHARLES.

Mamma, you seem to be perplexedWith some unpleasant care;You smile, but then ’tis not the smileThat I have seen you wear.Pray, tell me is it anythingThat I have said or done?I hope, mamma, I never shallBe an ungrateful son.

Mamma, you seem to be perplexedWith some unpleasant care;You smile, but then ’tis not the smileThat I have seen you wear.

Pray, tell me is it anythingThat I have said or done?I hope, mamma, I never shallBe an ungrateful son.

MOTHER.

Oh, no, my child; you ever haveBeen dutiful and kind,But still, there is a circumstanceThat has perplexed my mind.You know that worthy familyThat lived up on the hill,—Poor Mr. Smith, the clever man,That used to tend the mill.Last spring, his wife and little onesWere very sick, you know;When they recovered, he was seized,And died a week ago.This very morning, Mrs. SmithCame here to ask relief;Poor woman! she looked pale and thin,And overwhelmed with grief.“Dear madam, I am grieved to comeAnd trouble you,” she said;“But new afflictions seem to fallIn torrents on my head.“Some time before my husband died,We owed a quarter’s rent,He laid it up, and would, no doubt,Have paid it—every cent.“But when our earnings all were stopp’d,And we so long were ill,I was obliged to take it all,To pay the doctor’s bill.“This very morn our landlord came,And sternly bade me pay;I told him all, and begged he’d waitA little longer day.“‘Wait longer? No, indeed I wont;Too long I have waited now;So pay, or you’ll march out of doors,And I shall take your cow.’”The widow wept, and then she said,“I am willing to be poor,—But yet to lose my only cowSeems too much to endure.”

Oh, no, my child; you ever haveBeen dutiful and kind,But still, there is a circumstanceThat has perplexed my mind.

You know that worthy familyThat lived up on the hill,—Poor Mr. Smith, the clever man,That used to tend the mill.

Last spring, his wife and little onesWere very sick, you know;When they recovered, he was seized,And died a week ago.

This very morning, Mrs. SmithCame here to ask relief;Poor woman! she looked pale and thin,And overwhelmed with grief.

“Dear madam, I am grieved to comeAnd trouble you,” she said;“But new afflictions seem to fallIn torrents on my head.

“Some time before my husband died,We owed a quarter’s rent,He laid it up, and would, no doubt,Have paid it—every cent.

“But when our earnings all were stopp’d,And we so long were ill,I was obliged to take it all,To pay the doctor’s bill.

“This very morn our landlord came,And sternly bade me pay;I told him all, and begged he’d waitA little longer day.

“‘Wait longer? No, indeed I wont;Too long I have waited now;So pay, or you’ll march out of doors,And I shall take your cow.’”

The widow wept, and then she said,“I am willing to be poor,—But yet to lose my only cowSeems too much to endure.”

CHARLES.

Here, take this money, ma, and payAs far as it will go;I had rather never have a swordThan she should suffer so.

EMMA AND ANN.

And ours, mamma; do take it all,To pay that cruel man;And pray make haste before he comesTo frighten them again.

MOTHER.

Come to my arms, my precious ones,I only meant to seeWhether your little hearts were warmedWith sweet humanity.I’ll take your money for this debt,—And never did I payA sum away with such delight,As I shall do this day.Come, then, my children, let us go;It is a bless’d employTo cheer the widow’s heart and fillThe fatherless with joy.

Come to my arms, my precious ones,I only meant to seeWhether your little hearts were warmedWith sweet humanity.

I’ll take your money for this debt,—And never did I payA sum away with such delight,As I shall do this day.

Come, then, my children, let us go;It is a bless’d employTo cheer the widow’s heart and fillThe fatherless with joy.

Oh, do not neglectYour practice, my dear;Papa will expectSome good music to hear;For he has been absentAlmost a whole year.

“Twoorphan children, under five,With pleasant, sunny faces,Brother and sister, much attached,Are candidates for ‘places.’”Thus writes a lady from the Home;And Fred has asked papa,To take them both, and let them liveWith him and dear mamma.Papa replies: “My dear, I thinkWe’ve boys enough already;But we will take the little girl—A play-mate for our Freddy.”O, must these little orphans part?What will the poor boy do?He hesitates a moment, thenHe says, “we’ll take the two!“For ’twould be very hard, to partThe sister from her brother;Poor little friendless ones, who nowSo dearly love each other.“Mamma will not consent, I’m sure,These orphans thus to part,There’s room enough to hold them both,In her warm, loving heart.”Fred runs at once to ask mamma,If she will be a motherTo this dear little girl and boy—The sister and the brother.She prays her Savior, then, to guide,And teach her what to do;Fred soon returns to tell papa,—“Yes; we must take the two!”For while she knelt in earnest prayer,The Savior seemed to say,In sweetest accents to her heart,“Work, while ’tis called to-day.“Take these dear little orphans home—Go, feed these lambs for me,And I will care for you and yours,I will your Savior be.”Oh, will not other parents hear,The Savior sweetly plead,For my sake, take these orphans home,And be my friends indeed.

“Twoorphan children, under five,With pleasant, sunny faces,Brother and sister, much attached,Are candidates for ‘places.’”

Thus writes a lady from the Home;And Fred has asked papa,To take them both, and let them liveWith him and dear mamma.

Papa replies: “My dear, I thinkWe’ve boys enough already;But we will take the little girl—A play-mate for our Freddy.”

O, must these little orphans part?What will the poor boy do?He hesitates a moment, thenHe says, “we’ll take the two!

“For ’twould be very hard, to partThe sister from her brother;Poor little friendless ones, who nowSo dearly love each other.

“Mamma will not consent, I’m sure,These orphans thus to part,There’s room enough to hold them both,In her warm, loving heart.”

Fred runs at once to ask mamma,If she will be a motherTo this dear little girl and boy—The sister and the brother.

She prays her Savior, then, to guide,And teach her what to do;Fred soon returns to tell papa,—“Yes; we must take the two!”

For while she knelt in earnest prayer,The Savior seemed to say,In sweetest accents to her heart,“Work, while ’tis called to-day.

“Take these dear little orphans home—Go, feed these lambs for me,And I will care for you and yours,I will your Savior be.”

Oh, will not other parents hear,The Savior sweetly plead,For my sake, take these orphans home,And be my friends indeed.

MOTHER.

Almira, go and get your work,And sit with me, my dear;And, Minnie, you may read to us,—We will with pleasure hear.Two little misses thus employedIs a delightful sight;Then after tea the time’s your own,And you may play till night.Minnie, why do you look displeased?Don’t you approve my plan?Well, alter it yourself, my dear;Improve it if you can.

Almira, go and get your work,And sit with me, my dear;And, Minnie, you may read to us,—We will with pleasure hear.

Two little misses thus employedIs a delightful sight;Then after tea the time’s your own,And you may play till night.

Minnie, why do you look displeased?Don’t you approve my plan?Well, alter it yourself, my dear;Improve it if you can.

MINNIE.

I’m tired of sitting here alone,Mamma, with only you;I’m tired of work, indeed I am,I’m tired of reading, too.And only just Almira here,And Fido now to play;If I’d my will I’d go abroadMost gladly every day.

I’m tired of sitting here alone,Mamma, with only you;I’m tired of work, indeed I am,I’m tired of reading, too.

And only just Almira here,And Fido now to play;If I’d my will I’d go abroadMost gladly every day.

MOTHER.

Minnie, do you know Peggy Hill,That little, modest child,Who sometimes comes on errands here?She lives with Mrs. Wild.She came the other day when youWas sitting here with me;Almira sewed, you had a book,And read quite prettily.She tried to do her errand twice;But when she came to speak,I saw her turn aside and wipeA tear from off her cheek.I thought it strange, and led her out;“What ails you, child,” said I;“Pray have you hurt yourself, or whatCan thus have made you cry?”“Oh, no,” she said, “I am not hurt;I am to blame, I fear;But such a tender sight as thisWill always force a tear.“For I had tender parents once,—Affectionate and kind;But they are dead; they both have gone,And left their child behind.“I had a little sister, too,And many a pleasant dayWe with our mother worked and readThe cheerful hours away.“But when we lost our parents, ma’am,Our living all was fled;And we were placed in strangers’ hands,To earn our daily bread.“My sister could not long supportThe hardship of her fate;She left this miserable worldAnd sought a happier state.“Since then I have mourn’d my heavy lot;Alone, without relief,—I have no friend to pity meOr listen to my grief.“My mistress lives in wealth and ease,From want and sorrow free;She never knew what labor was,Nor can she feel for me.“I work from morn till night, and tryTo please her all the while,And think sometimes I’d give the worldJust for one pleasant smile.“But every day I give offence,In spite of all my care;And cruel words from day to day,It is my lot to bear.”

Minnie, do you know Peggy Hill,That little, modest child,Who sometimes comes on errands here?She lives with Mrs. Wild.

She came the other day when youWas sitting here with me;Almira sewed, you had a book,And read quite prettily.

She tried to do her errand twice;But when she came to speak,I saw her turn aside and wipeA tear from off her cheek.

I thought it strange, and led her out;“What ails you, child,” said I;“Pray have you hurt yourself, or whatCan thus have made you cry?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I am not hurt;I am to blame, I fear;But such a tender sight as thisWill always force a tear.

“For I had tender parents once,—Affectionate and kind;But they are dead; they both have gone,And left their child behind.

“I had a little sister, too,And many a pleasant dayWe with our mother worked and readThe cheerful hours away.

“But when we lost our parents, ma’am,Our living all was fled;And we were placed in strangers’ hands,To earn our daily bread.

“My sister could not long supportThe hardship of her fate;She left this miserable worldAnd sought a happier state.

“Since then I have mourn’d my heavy lot;Alone, without relief,—I have no friend to pity meOr listen to my grief.

“My mistress lives in wealth and ease,From want and sorrow free;She never knew what labor was,Nor can she feel for me.

“I work from morn till night, and tryTo please her all the while,And think sometimes I’d give the worldJust for one pleasant smile.

“But every day I give offence,In spite of all my care;And cruel words from day to day,It is my lot to bear.”

MINNIE.

Oh, how I pity Peggy Hill!Her case is sad indeed;I’m thankful for my happy home,—Dear mother, let me read.And let Almira get her work;—Fido, you run awayTill after tea, then on the greenWe’ll run, and jump, and play.

Oh, how I pity Peggy Hill!Her case is sad indeed;I’m thankful for my happy home,—Dear mother, let me read.

And let Almira get her work;—Fido, you run awayTill after tea, then on the greenWe’ll run, and jump, and play.

Bythe door of his house a planter stood,In fair Virginia’s clime,When the setting sun had tinged the woodWith its golden hue sublime.The lands of this planter were broadly spread,He lacked not gold or gear,And his house had plenty of meat and breadTo make them goodly cheer.An Indian came from the forest deep,A hunter in weary plight,Who in humble accents asked to sleep’Neath the planter’s roof that night.To the Indian’s need he took no heed,But forbade his longer stay;“Then give me,” he said, “but a crust of bread,And I’ll travel on my way.”In wrath the planter this denied,Forgetting the golden rule;“Then give me, for mercy’s sake,” he cried,“A cup of water cool.“All day I have travell’d o’er fen and bog,In chase of the bounding deer;”“Away,” cried the planter, “you Indian dog,For you shall have nothing here.”The Indian turned to his distant home,Though hungry and travel sore,And the planter enter’d his goodly dome,Nor thought of the Indian more.When the leaves were sere, to chase the deer,This self same planter went,And bewildered stood, in a dismal wood,When the day was fully spent.He had lost his way in the chase that day,And in vain to find it tried,When a glimmering light fell on his sight,From a wigwam close beside.He thither ran, and a savage manReceived him as a guest;He brought him cheer, the flesh of deer,And gave him of the best.Then kindly spread for the white man’s bed,His softest skins beside,And at break of day, through the forest way,Went forth to be his guide.At the forest’s verge, did the planter urge,His service to have paid,But the savage bold refused his gold,And thus to the white man said:“I came of late to the white man’s gate,And weary and faint was I,Yet neither meat, nor water sweet,Did the Indian’s wants supply.“Again should he come to the white man’s homeMy service let him pay,Nor say, again to the fainting man,You ‘Indian dog, away!’”

Bythe door of his house a planter stood,In fair Virginia’s clime,When the setting sun had tinged the woodWith its golden hue sublime.

The lands of this planter were broadly spread,He lacked not gold or gear,And his house had plenty of meat and breadTo make them goodly cheer.

An Indian came from the forest deep,A hunter in weary plight,Who in humble accents asked to sleep’Neath the planter’s roof that night.

To the Indian’s need he took no heed,But forbade his longer stay;“Then give me,” he said, “but a crust of bread,And I’ll travel on my way.”

In wrath the planter this denied,Forgetting the golden rule;“Then give me, for mercy’s sake,” he cried,“A cup of water cool.

“All day I have travell’d o’er fen and bog,In chase of the bounding deer;”“Away,” cried the planter, “you Indian dog,For you shall have nothing here.”

The Indian turned to his distant home,Though hungry and travel sore,And the planter enter’d his goodly dome,Nor thought of the Indian more.

When the leaves were sere, to chase the deer,This self same planter went,And bewildered stood, in a dismal wood,When the day was fully spent.

He had lost his way in the chase that day,And in vain to find it tried,When a glimmering light fell on his sight,From a wigwam close beside.

He thither ran, and a savage manReceived him as a guest;He brought him cheer, the flesh of deer,And gave him of the best.

Then kindly spread for the white man’s bed,His softest skins beside,And at break of day, through the forest way,Went forth to be his guide.

At the forest’s verge, did the planter urge,His service to have paid,But the savage bold refused his gold,And thus to the white man said:

“I came of late to the white man’s gate,And weary and faint was I,Yet neither meat, nor water sweet,Did the Indian’s wants supply.

“Again should he come to the white man’s homeMy service let him pay,Nor say, again to the fainting man,You ‘Indian dog, away!’”

AmongRhode Island’s early sons,Was one whose orchards fair,By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,Rewarded all his care.For household use they stored the best,And all the rest conveyedTo neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,And into cider made.The wandering Indian oft partookThe generous farmer’s cheer;He liked his food, but better stillHis cider fine and clear.And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,The kitchen fire before,He longed for some to carry home,And asked for more and more.The farmer saw a basket newBeside the Indian bold,And smiling said, “I’ll give to youAs much as that will hold.”Both laughed, for how could liquid thingWithin a basket stay;But yet the jest unanswering,The Indian went his way,When next from rest the farmer sprung,So very cold the morn,The icicles like diamonds hungOn every spray and thorn.The brook that babbled by his doorWas deep, and clear, and strong,And yet unfettered by the frost,Leaped merrily along.The self-same Indian by this brook.The astonished farmer sees;He laid his basket in the stream,Then hung it up to freeze.And by this process oft renewed,The basket soon becameA well-glazed vessel, tight and good,Of most capacious frame.The door he entered speedily,And claim’d the promis’d boon,The farmer, laughing heartily,Fulfilled his promise soon.Up to the basket’s brim he sawThe sparkling cider rise,And to rejoice his absent squaw,He bore away the prize.Long lived the good man at the farm,—The house is standing still,And still leaps merrily along,The much diminished rill.And his descendants still remain,And tell to those who ask it,The story they have often heardAbout theIndian’s basket.

AmongRhode Island’s early sons,Was one whose orchards fair,By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,Rewarded all his care.

For household use they stored the best,And all the rest conveyedTo neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,And into cider made.

The wandering Indian oft partookThe generous farmer’s cheer;He liked his food, but better stillHis cider fine and clear.

And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,The kitchen fire before,He longed for some to carry home,And asked for more and more.

The farmer saw a basket newBeside the Indian bold,And smiling said, “I’ll give to youAs much as that will hold.”

Both laughed, for how could liquid thingWithin a basket stay;But yet the jest unanswering,The Indian went his way,

When next from rest the farmer sprung,So very cold the morn,The icicles like diamonds hungOn every spray and thorn.

The brook that babbled by his doorWas deep, and clear, and strong,And yet unfettered by the frost,Leaped merrily along.

The self-same Indian by this brook.The astonished farmer sees;He laid his basket in the stream,Then hung it up to freeze.

And by this process oft renewed,The basket soon becameA well-glazed vessel, tight and good,Of most capacious frame.

The door he entered speedily,And claim’d the promis’d boon,The farmer, laughing heartily,Fulfilled his promise soon.

Up to the basket’s brim he sawThe sparkling cider rise,And to rejoice his absent squaw,He bore away the prize.

Long lived the good man at the farm,—The house is standing still,And still leaps merrily along,The much diminished rill.

And his descendants still remain,And tell to those who ask it,The story they have often heardAbout theIndian’s basket.

Oh, tell some tales of ancient times,Dear grandmamma, again;When you was young as we are now,Said little Mary Jane.She raised her mild blue eyes, and said,I have a tale to tell,Which once I read, when I was young,And now remember well.My mother bought the book for me,And brought it home one day,When I had been a naughty girl,And passionate at play.Although the tale was very sad,I tell it now, that youMay see what very wicked things,An angry child may do.

Oh, tell some tales of ancient times,Dear grandmamma, again;When you was young as we are now,Said little Mary Jane.

She raised her mild blue eyes, and said,I have a tale to tell,Which once I read, when I was young,And now remember well.

My mother bought the book for me,And brought it home one day,When I had been a naughty girl,And passionate at play.

Although the tale was very sad,I tell it now, that youMay see what very wicked things,An angry child may do.

Someladies once agreed with me,To give our little ones a sail;The day was fine, the summer windJust blew a soft and pleasant gale.We stepped on board a pleasure boat,With gayest colors painted o’er,And in the bosom of the stream,We sweetly sailed along the shore.Our children could not keep their seats,But every sportive girl and boy,With hearts as cheerful as the day,Did skip about the deck for joy;Except one pretty little girl,Who sat alone with downcast eye,And now and then I saw a tear,And thought I heard a broken sigh.I wondered much that one so young,Should seem so pensively inclined,And asked her mother what it meant;“Alas!” said she, “the child is blind.“One day, I never shall forget,She and her brother were at play;Something she said offended him,And so they had a childish fray.“She turned her head and gave a look,’T was half a smile and half grimace;His temper rose,—he caught a forkAnd threw it in his sister’s face.“It struck her eye, the blood gushed out,He screamed, and turn’d as pale as death;Oh, never shall my memory loseThat dreadful scene while I have breath.“For three long, melancholy months,We kept her in a darkened room,With a close bandage round her eyes,Where not a ray of light could come.“The doctors tried their utmost skillTo keep her sight, but all in vain;At length the wounded eyes were healed,But she will never see again.“Her brother’s heart is almost broke;‘Oh, Harriet,’ he often cries,‘If I was owner of the world,I’d give it to restore your eyes.“‘But you will laugh and play no more,Nor your dear parents’ faces see,Nor trees, nor fields, nor blooming flowers,And never will you look on me.“‘Oh, wrretched, miserable boy!What has my wicked temper done;I’ve shut my dear, dear sister’s eyesForever from the cheerful sun!’”This story, children, made me feelHow very wicked I had been;To lose my temper when at play,I felt to be a grievous sin.And now, my dears, said grandmamma,May this sad tale I’ve told to-dayLead you to guard your hearts with care,And ne’er be angry when at play.

Someladies once agreed with me,To give our little ones a sail;The day was fine, the summer windJust blew a soft and pleasant gale.

We stepped on board a pleasure boat,With gayest colors painted o’er,And in the bosom of the stream,We sweetly sailed along the shore.

Our children could not keep their seats,But every sportive girl and boy,With hearts as cheerful as the day,Did skip about the deck for joy;

Except one pretty little girl,Who sat alone with downcast eye,And now and then I saw a tear,And thought I heard a broken sigh.

I wondered much that one so young,Should seem so pensively inclined,And asked her mother what it meant;“Alas!” said she, “the child is blind.

“One day, I never shall forget,She and her brother were at play;Something she said offended him,And so they had a childish fray.

“She turned her head and gave a look,’T was half a smile and half grimace;His temper rose,—he caught a forkAnd threw it in his sister’s face.

“It struck her eye, the blood gushed out,He screamed, and turn’d as pale as death;Oh, never shall my memory loseThat dreadful scene while I have breath.

“For three long, melancholy months,We kept her in a darkened room,With a close bandage round her eyes,Where not a ray of light could come.

“The doctors tried their utmost skillTo keep her sight, but all in vain;At length the wounded eyes were healed,But she will never see again.

“Her brother’s heart is almost broke;‘Oh, Harriet,’ he often cries,‘If I was owner of the world,I’d give it to restore your eyes.

“‘But you will laugh and play no more,Nor your dear parents’ faces see,Nor trees, nor fields, nor blooming flowers,And never will you look on me.

“‘Oh, wrretched, miserable boy!What has my wicked temper done;I’ve shut my dear, dear sister’s eyesForever from the cheerful sun!’”

This story, children, made me feelHow very wicked I had been;To lose my temper when at play,I felt to be a grievous sin.

And now, my dears, said grandmamma,May this sad tale I’ve told to-dayLead you to guard your hearts with care,And ne’er be angry when at play.

PART II.

Part I. in “Songs for Little Ones at Home.”

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