Chapter 15

"Well, and what does that mean, My good fellow?" he said. "Why this, sir, that I Always 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

[Page 70--Cruelty Land]

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

The Cruel Boy

Tom sat at the kitchen window Watching the folks go by, But what he was really doing Was 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 father Was standing behind his back; And very much wished to be giving His 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, you May follow your trades, I must own: So chimneys are swept when they want it--but who Would sweep them for pleasure alone?

If men would but think of the torture they give To 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 worm The frame thy wayward looks decide Required a God to form.

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

The sun, the moon, the stars He made To all the creatures free; And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day, Their lowly bliss receive; Oh, do not lightly take away The 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 Tray Came 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 head And 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 fling Boys, 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 store Against the winter hour Frisking 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 throw Boys, 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 give To injure things that live; That beauteous butterfly, The bird that soars on high, The creatures every day That round our pathway play; If you thought of your cruelty; You wouldn't wish even one to die. Only cowards stones will throw Boys, do as you'd be done by.

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

[Page 71--Stealing Land]

No One Will See Me

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

"No one will see me," So he climbed on a chair, And peeped in the cupboard To see what was there, Which of course he ought Not to have done.

There stood in the cupboard, So sweet and so nice, A plate of plum-cake In 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 arm To reach up to the shelf; "This apple, at least, Shall be mine."

John paused and put back The nice apple so red, For he thought of the words His kind mother had said, When she left all these Things in his care;

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

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

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

Principle Put To The Test

A youngster at school, More sedate than the rest, Had once his integrity Put to the test:-- His comrades had plotted The orchard to rob, And asked him to go And 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 have Neither apple nor pear."

They spoke, and Tom pondered-- "I see they will go; Poor man! What a pity To injure him so! Poor man! I would save him His fruit if I could, But staying behind Will do him no good.

"If this matter depended Alone upon me, His apples might hang Till they dropped from the tree; But since they _will_ take 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 comrades The apples to seize; He blamed and protested But joined in the plan, He shared in the plunder, But pitied the man.

Cowper

Advice

Who steals a pin Commits a sin Who tells a lie Has cause to sigh.

When ask'd to go And sin, say, No! The guilty breast Is ne'er at rest.

You must not sin A world to win Why should you go The 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 swing Did a large crowd together bring. Among the rest his mother came, And called him fondly by his name.

The sheriff gave him leave to tell The 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 one Whose happiness you have undone!" "Good people," he replied, "I'll vow I would not be a felon now.

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

Instead of punishing the feat She 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."

[Page 72--Stealing Land]

The Boys And The Apple Tree

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

"O brother, look! see What 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-fellow Little 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 manners Did 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 insists That you'll stay here to dine: A rare jolly day we shall have!"

But when in the garden, They found 'twas the same They 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 guard Of 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 mind What my good mamma says, And take the advice of a friend; I never will steal To 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 stray Beyond the path of God; And everything along your way In colours bright shall shine; The water from the jug of clay Shall 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 things Let 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 name To 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 neighbour Of his goods against his will? Hands were meant for honest labour, Not to plunder, nor to steal.

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

Oft we see the young beginner Practice 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

[Page 73--Stealing Land]

The Thieves' Ladder

The girls were helping in the house, With bustle and with show, And told the boys to go away, And not disturb them so. And the boys went whistling down the streets, And looking in the shops At tempting heaps of oranges, And piles of sugar-drops.

"Here, Willie, to the grocer's run; Be sharp, now--there's a man, And bring me home a pound of plums As quickly as you can! "Don't touch a plum--be sure you don't; To-morrow you shall eat." "I won't." he said, and, like a top, Went spinning down the street.

The grocer weigh'd them in his scales, And there was one too much; He took it out, and all was right, The scale was to a touch. He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown, And tied them with a string, And put the money in the till, As 'twere a common thing.

Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes, As this affair went on. The plums--they look'd so very nice! He wouldn't take but _one_. So going quick behind a post, He tore the paper so That he could take out two or three, And nobody would know.

There was a little voice that said, Close by, in Willie's heart, "Don't tear the hole--don't take the plum-- Don't play a thievish part!" The little voice--it spoke in vain! He reach'd his mother's door; She did not see the hole he'd made, His trouble then was o'er.

And what a trifling thing it seem'd, To take one single plum! A little thing we hold between Our finger and out thumb. And yet upon that Christmas eve, That period so brief, Young Willie set his foot upon "The ladder of the thief!"

And as he lay awake that night, He heard his parents speak; He heard distinctly what they said, The blood rush'd to his cheek. He lay and listn'd earnestly; They might have found him out, And he might get a flogging too, 'Twas that he thought about.

A guilty person cannot rest, He always is in fear; Not knowing what may happen next To make his guilt appear. So, when he heard his mother speak, He rose up in his bed, And did not lose a syllable Of every word she said:--

"We have not any turnips, John, I could not spare the pence; But you can go and get us some Through Farmer Turner's fence. "There's nobody to see you now, The folks are off the road; The night looks dark and blustering, And no one is abroad.

"It is not far--you'll soon be back-- I'll stand outside to hear; The watchman now is off his track, And won't be coming near." The father he went softly out, And down the lane he crept, And stole some turnips from the field Whilst honest people slept!

'Tis not the words that parents say, It is their very deed; Their children know the difference, And follow where they lead. How often, if their lives are good, Their children's are the same; Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken, Their children come to shame!

Now, Willie laid him down in bed, His conscience found relief; "I'm not the only one," he said-- "My father is a thief! "How foolish 'twas to be afraid About a little plum!" He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head, And dream'd of feasts to come.

On Christmas-day they had the pies. The turnips, and the beef; And Willie's foot was firm upon The ladder of the thief. And ere the snow was on the plain, And Christmas-day came round, And boys were sliding, once again, Upon the frozen ground,

He, step by step, had further gone Upon that dreadful road That brings a man to misery, And takes him far from God. He cheated with his marbles first, And then at other play; He pilfered any little thing That came within his way.

His parents did not punish him; He went from bad to worse, Until he grew so confident, He stole a lady's purse. Then he was seized, and brought before The city magistrate; And the police and lady came The robbery to state.

And Willie he was proved a thief, And nothing had to say; So to the dreadful prison-house He soon was led away. In vain he cried, and pleaded hard They would not take him there; He would not do such things again If they would hear his prayer.

It was too late! The prison door, With bolt, and bar, and chain, Was opened to take Willie in, And then was shut again. He saw the handcuffs on the wall, The fetters on the floor; And heavy keys with iron rings To lock the dungeon door.

He saw the little, lonely cells Where prisoners were kept, And all the dreary passages, And bitterly he wept. And through the strong-barred iron grate, High up and far away, He saw a piece of clear blue sky Out in the blessed day.

And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers now Are out of school again, And playing marbles on the path, Or cricket on the plain. "And here am I, shut up so close Within this iron door; If ever I get out again I'll give this business o'er."

And Willie went to sleep that night In his dark cell alone; But often in his troubled dreams He turned with heavy moan. What sound is that at early morn That breaks upon his ear? A funeral bell is tolling slow, It tolls so very near.

And in the court he sees a crowd, So haggard and so pale, And they are whispering fearfully A sad and awful tale. And all seem looking at a man Who stands with fetters bound, And guards and executioner Are gathered close around.

And he beheld that wretched man, Who trembled like a leaf: His foot no more would stand upon The ladder of the thief. For he had climbed it step by step, Till murder closed the whole; The hangman came to take his life, But where would be his soul?

And still the bell went tolling on; It tolled so heavily As that young man went up the stairs, Out to the gallows-tree. It tolled--it tolled--Oh! heavy sound! It stopped--the deed is o'er; And that young man upon the earth Will now be seen no more:

Oh! parents watch your little ones, Lest you have such a grief; Help not their tender feet to climb The ladder of the thief. I have not heard young Willie's end, I hope he learned that day; But 'tis a thing most difficult To leave a wicked way.

Sewell

[Page 74--Santa Claus Land]

I have given no Fairy Tales in this Childland. For in this _matter-of-fact_ age belief in Fairy Tales and all kinds of wonderful fictions is fast vanishing. Santa Claus, the "bestest" "goodest" fairy of all alone remains: and even he is gradually being doubted by all but the most innocent children, but as he as a personality is still largely amongst us, I give his popular history culled from many sources.

Santa Claus Land

At the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole, Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul! And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the ground The sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.

All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes, No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows, But travels about with a heart full of joy, As happy as if he were only a boy.

His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as bright As stars that shine out overhead in the night, And they twinkle as merrily too all the while, And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.

He never is idle except when asleep, And even in dreams at his labours will keep, And all thro' the day and the night, it is true, He is working and planning, dear children, for you.

On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand, He goes every morning to look o'er the land, And though there are hills all around, I suppose, He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.

He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut; He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut; He gazes on cities, and villages small, And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.

He knows where the good children live beyond doubt, He knows where the bad boys and girls are about, And writes down their names on a page by themselves; In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.

For good little children, the gentle and kind, The prettiest presents of toys are designed, And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year, 'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.

His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place, With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace; With houses and furniture, dishes and pans, And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.

There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk, And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk. There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys, And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.

There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite, And books which the children will seize with delight, And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count, And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.

There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees, And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease, And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens, And dear little piggies to put in their pens.

There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can be Of animals, really a wonder to see; There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears, And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.

There are elephants stretching their noses quite long; And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong, And queer kangaroos all the others amid, With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.

Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask, For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task, That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings, While making and planning the beautiful things.