Part 2

Suppose I should leave you now, just as you are, Do you think you’d deserve a sweet kiss from papa, Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A, With fingers that have not been wash’d all the day?

Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so: Did you ever behold such a black little row?

And for _once_ you may look at yourself in the glass: There’s a face, to belong to a good little lass! Come, come then, I see you’re beginning to clear, You won’t be so foolish again, will you, dear?

The Cut.

Well, what’s the matter? there’s a face! What! has it cut a vein? And is it quite a shocking place? Come, let us look again.

I see it bleeds, but never mind That tiny little drop; I don’t believe you’ll ever find That crying makes it stop.

’Tis sad indeed to cry at pain, For any but a baby; If that should chance to cut a vein, We should not wonder, may be.

But such a man as you should try To bear a little sorrow: So run about and wipe your eye, ’Twill all be well to-morrow.

The little Girl that could not read.

I don’t know my letters, and what shall I do? For I’ve got a nice book, but I can’t read it through! O dear, how I wish that my letters I knew!

I think I had better begin them to-day, For ’tis like a dunce to be always at play? Mamma, will you teach little baby great A?

And then, B and C, as they stand in the row, One after another, as far as they go, For then I can read my new story, you know.

So pray, mamma, teach me at once, and you’ll see What a very good child little baby will be, To try and remember her A, B, C, D.

Questions and Answers.

Who show’d the little ant the way Her narrow hole to bore, And spend the pleasant summer day, In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest, Of wool, and hay, and moss; Who told her how to weave it best, And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly Among the sweetest flow’rs, And lay his store of honey by, To eat in winter hours?

’Twas God who show’d them all the way, And gave their little skill, And teaches children, if they pray, To do his holy will.

Playing with Fire.

I’ve seen a little girl, mamma, That had got such a dreadful scar, All down her arms, and neck, and face, I could not bear to see the place.

Poor little girl, and don’t you know The shocking trick that made her so? ’Twas all because she went and did A thing her mother had forbid.

For once, when nobody was by her, This silly child would play with fire; And long before her mother came, Her pinafore was all on flame.

In vain she tried to put it out, Till all her clothes were burnt about, And then she suffer’d ten times more, All over with a dreadful sore.

For many months before ’twas cured Most shocking torments she endured; And even now, when passing by her, You see what ’tis to play with fire.

The Field Daisy.

I’m a pretty little thing, Always coming with the spring; In the meadows green I’m found, Peeping just above the ground. And my stalk is cover’d flat, With a white and yellow hat.

Little lady, when you pass Lightly o’er the tender grass, Skip about, but do not tread On my meek and healthy head. For I always seem to say, “Surly Winter’s gone away.”

The Michaelmas Daisy.

I am very pale and dim, With my faint and bluish rim, Standing on my narrow stalk, By the litter’d gravel walk, And the wither’d leaves aloft, Fall upon me very oft.

But I show my lonely head, When the other flow’rs are dead, And you’re even glad to spy, Such a homely thing as I; For I seem to smile and say, “Summer is not quite away.” A.T.

Dutiful Jem.

There was a poor widow, who lived in a cot, She scarcely a blanket to warm her had got, Her windows were broken, her walls were all bare, And the cold winter-wind often whistled in there.

Poor Susan was old, and too feeble to spin, Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin; And she must have starved, as so many have done, If she had not been bless’d with a good little son.

But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad; He thought her the very best friend that he had; And now to neglect or forsake her, he knew, Was the most wicked thing he could possibly do.

For he was quite healthy, and active, and stout, While his poor mother hardly could hobble about, And he thought it his duty and greatest delight, To work for her living from morning to night.

So he went ev’ry morning, as gay as a lark, And work’d all day long in the fields till ’twas dark, Then came home again to his dear mother’s cot, And joyfully gave her the wages he got.

And oh, how she loved him! how great was her joy! To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy: Her arm round his neck she would tenderly cast, And kiss his red cheek, while the tears trickled fast.

Oh, then, was not little Jem happier far, Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are? For, as long as he lived, ’twas his comfort and joy, To think he’d not been an undutiful boy.

The Ants’ Nest.

It is such a beautiful day, And the sun shines so bright and so warm, That the little ants, busy and gay, Are come from their holes in a swarm.

All the winter together they sleep, Or in underground passages run. Not one of them daring to peep, To see the bright face of the sun.

But the snow is now melted away, And the trees are all cover’d with green; And the little ants, busy and gay, Creeping out from their houses are seen.

They’ve left us no room to go by, So we’ll step aside on to the grass, For a hundred poor insects might die. Under your little feet as they pass.

Sleepy Harry.

I do not like to go to bed, Sleepy little Harry said, So, naughty Betty, go away, I will not come at all, I say.

Oh, what a silly little fellow! I should be quite ashamed to tell her; Then, Betty, you must come and carry This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught, They go to roosting when they ought; And all the ducks and fowls, you know, _They_ went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street, Who wanders with his naked feet, And has not where to lay his head, Oh, he’d be _glad_ to go to bed.

Going to Bed.

Down upon my pillow warm, I do lay my little head, And the rain, and wind, and storm, Cannot come a-nigh my bed.

Many little children poor, Have not any where to go, And sad hardships they endure, Such as I did never know.

Dear mamma, I’ll thank you oft, For this comfortable bed, And this pretty pillow soft, Where I rest my little head.

I shall sleep till morning light, On a bed so nice as this; So, my dear mamma, good night, Give your little girl a kiss.

Idle Mary.

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

Oh! no, your work has been forgotten, Indeed you’ve hardly thought of that; I saw you roll your ball of cotton About 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 tried At all to-day to please mamma.

The little girl who will not sew, Should neither be allow’d to play; But then I hope, my love, that you Will take more pains another day.

One little Boy.

I’m a little gentleman, Play, and ride, and dance I can: Very handsome clothes I wear, And I live on dainty fare: And whenever out I ride, I’ve a servant by my side.

And I never, all the day, Need do any thing but play, Nor even soil my little hand, Because I am so very grand: Oh! I’m very glad, I’m sure, I need not labour, like the poor.

For I think I could not bear Such old shabby clothes to wear; To lie upon so hard a bed, And only live on barley bread; And what is worse, too, ev’ry day To have to work as hard as they.

Another Little Boy.

I’m a little husbandman, Work and labour hard I can: I’m as happy all the day At my work, as if ’twere play: Tho’ I’ve nothing fine to wear. Yet for that I do not care.

When to work I go along, Singing loud my morning song, With my wallet at my back, Or my waggon-whip to smack; Oh, I am as happy then, As the idle gentlemen.

I’ve a hearty appetite, And I soundly sleep at night. Down I lie content, and say, “I’ve been useful all the day: I’d rather be a plough-boy, than A useless little gentleman.”

The little Child.

I’m a very little child, Only just have learn’d to speak; So I should be very mild, Very tractable and meek.

If my dear mamma were gone, I should perish soon, and die, When she left me all alone, Such a little thing as I!

Oh, what service can I do, To repay her for her care; For I cannot even sew, Nor make any thing I wear.

Oh then, I will always try To be very good and mild; Never now be cross and cry, Like a little fretful child.

For I often cry and fret, And my dear mamma I tease; Often vex her, while I sit Dandled pretty on her knees.

Oh, how can I serve her so, Such a good mamma as this! Round her neck my arms I’ll throw, And her gentle cheek I’ll kiss.

Then I’ll tell her, that I will Try not any more to fret her; And as I grow older still, I hope that I shall serve her better.

The undutiful Boy.

Little Harry, come along, And mamma will sing a song, All about a naughty lad, Though a mother kind he had.

He never minded what she said, But only laugh’d at her instead; And then did just the same, I’ve heard, As if she had not said a word.

He would not learn to read his book, But wisdom’s pleasant way forsook; With wicked boys he took delight, And learnt to quarrel and to fight.

And when he saw his mother cry, And heard her heave a bitter sigh, To think she’d such a wicked son, He never cared for what he’d done.

I hope my little Harry will Mind all I say, and love me still; For ’tis his mother’s greatest joy, To think he’s not a wicked boy.

The Old Beggar Man.

I see an old man sitting there, His wither’d 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 taught Some useful business, as I ought, To play about was all I sought.

And 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.

The little Coward.

Why, here’s a foolish little man, Laugh at him, Donkey, if you can; And cat, and dog, and cow, and calf, Come, ev’ry one of you and laugh:

For, only think, he runs away If honest Donkey does but bray! And when the bull begins to bellow, He’s like a crazy little fellow!

Poor Brindle cow can hardly pass Along the hedge, to nip the grass, Or wag her tail to lash the flies, But off the little booby hies!

And when old Tray comes running too, With, bow, wow, wow, for how d’ye do, And means it all for civil play, ’Tis sure to make him run away!

But all the while you’re thinking, may be, “Ah! well, but this must be a baby.” Oh! cat, and dog, and cow, and calf, I’m not surprised to see you laugh, He’s five years old, and almost half.

The Sheep.

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why In the pleasant fields you lie, Eating grass and daisies white. From the morning till the night? Every thing can something do, But what kind of use are you?

Nay, my little master, nay, Do not serve me so, I pray: Don’t you see the wool that grows On my back, to make you clothes? Cold, and very cold you’d get, If I did not give you it.

True, it seems a pleasant thing To nip the daisies in the spring; But many chilly nights I pass On the cold and dewy grass, Or pick a scanty dinner, where All the common’s brown and bare.

Then the farmer comes at last, When the merry spring is past, And cuts my woolly coat away, To warm you in the winter’s day: Little master, this is why In the pleasant fields I lie.

The sick little Boy.

Ah! why’s my poor fellow so pale? And why do the little tears fall? Come, tell me, love, what do you ail, And mother shall cure him of all. There, lay your white cheek on my lap, With your pinafore over your head, And, perhaps, when you’ve taken a nap, Again your white cheek may be red.

Oh! no, don’t be kind to me yet: I do not deserve to be kiss’d; Some gooseb’ries and currants I eat, For I thought that they would not be miss’d: And so, when you left me alone, I took them, although they were green! But is it not better to own What a sad naughty boy I have been?

Oh! yes, I am sorry to hear The thing that my Richard has done; But as you have own’d it, my dear, You have not made two faults of one: Be sure that you never again Forget that God watches your way, And patiently bear with your pain, That does but your folly repay.

To a little Girl that liked to look in the Glass

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

Is your merry eye so blue, As the violet, wet with dew! Yet it loves the best to hide By the hedge’s shady side.

Is your bosom half so fair As the modest lilies are? Yet their little bells are hung, Broad and shady leaves among.

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

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

The cruel Boy and the Kittens.

What! go to see the kittens drown’d, On purpose, in the yard! I did not think there could be found A little heart so hard.

Poor kittens! no more pretty play With pussy’s wagging tail: Oh! I’d go far enough away, Before I’d see the pail.

No mother kind, nor pleasant bed, Nor merry games again! But there to struggle till you’re dead, And mew with bitter pain.

Poor things! the little child that can Be pleased to look and see, Most likely, when he grows a man, A cruel man will be.

And many a wicked thing he’ll do, Because his heart is hard; A great deal worse than killing you, Poor kittens, in the yard.

The Work-bag.

Come here, I’ve got a piece of rag, To make you quite a pretty bag; Not make believe—no, no, you’ll see The clever bag that it shall be.

And when ’tis done, I’ll show you what A handsome present I have got: A needle-book, and scissors too, Right earnest ones, and all for you.

And then, you know, you’ll keep them in it, So that you need not lose a minute, In hunting up and down to say, “Where can my scissors be to-day?”

“Pray, somebody, do try and look, To find my thread and needle-book;” No, no, but—“I know where they are. They’re in my little work-bag there.”

The best way to be happy.

I think I should like to be happy to-day, If I could but tell which was the easiest way: But then, I don’t know any pretty new play:

And as to the old ones—why, which is the best? There’s fine hot boil’d beans, whoop and hide, and the rest; Or make-believe tea-time, with all my dolls drest.

But no—let me see, now I’ve thought of a way, That really I think will be better than play, I’ll try to be good, if I can, the _whole day_.

No passion, no pouting, no crying: no, no, They make me unhappy wherever I go, And it _would_ be a pity to spoil a day so.

I don’t choose to be such a baby, not I, To quarrel, and sulk, and be naughty, and cry, So now I’ll begin, for at least I can try.

The frolicsome Kitten.

Dear kitten, do lie still, I say, For much I want you to be quiet, Instead of scampering away, And always making such a riot.

There, only see, you’ve torn my frock, And poor mamma must put a patch in; I’ll give you a right earnest knock, To cure you of this trick of scratching.

Nay, do not scold your little cat, She does not know what ’tis you’re saying; And ev’ry time you give a pat, She thinks you mean it all for playing.

But if your pussy understood The lesson that you want to teach her, And did not _choose_ to be so good, She’d be, indeed, a naughty creature.

A fine Thing.

Who am I with noble face, Shining in a clear blue place? If to look at me you try, I shall blind your little eye.

When my noble face I shew, Over yonder mountain blue, All the clouds away do ride, And the dusky night beside.

Then the clear wet dews I dry, With the look of my bright eye; And the little birds awake, Many a merry tune to make.

Cowslips then, and hare-bells blue, And lily-cups their leaves undo, For they shut themselves up tight, All the dark and foggy night.

Then the busy people go, Every one his work unto; Little girl, when yours is done, Guess, if I am not the sun.

A pretty Thing.

Who am I that shine so bright, With my pretty yellow light; Peeping through your curtains grey? Tell me, little girl, I pray.

When the sun is gone, I rise In the very silent skies; And a cloud or two doth skim Round about my silver rim.

All the little stars do seem Hidden by my brighter beam; And among them I do ride, Like a queen in all her pride.

Then the reaper goes along, Singing forth a merry song, While I light the shaking leaves, And the yellow harvest sheaves.

Little girl, consider well, Who this simple tale doth tell; And I think you’ll guess it soon, For I only am the moon. A.T.

Little Birds and cruel Boys.

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree, And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, and three, And then very glad and delighted was she.

So, after a while, but how long I can’t tell, The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell; And their mother was pleased, and she loved them well.

She spread her soft wings on them all the day long, To warm and to guard them, her love was so strong; And her mate sat beside her and sung her a song.

One day the young birds were all crying for food, So off flew their mother away from her brood; And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

So they pull’d the warm nest down away from the tree; And the little ones cried, but they could not get free; So at last they all died away, one, two, and three.