Part 4
There, now go and call her, and stroke her again, And never, my love, give poor animals pain, For you know, when you hurt them, they cannot complain.
The little Ants.
A little black ant found a large grain of wheat, Too heavy to lift or to roll; So he begg’d of a neighbour he happen’d to meet, To help it down into his hole.
I’ve got my own work to see after, said he; You must shift for yourself, if you please; So he crawl’d off, as selfish and cross as could be, And lay down to sleep at his ease.
Just then a black brother was passing the road, And seeing his neighbour in want, Came up and assisted him in with his load; For he was a good-natured ant.
Let all who this story may happen to hear, Endeavour to profit by it; For often it happens that children appear As cross as the ant, ev’ry bit.
And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother, May teach those who choose to be taught, That if little insects are kind to each other, Then children most certainly ought.
Second Thoughts are best.
I hate being scolded, and having a rout, I’ve a good mind to stand in the corner and pout; And if mamma calls me, I will not come out.
Yes, yes, here I’ll keep, I’m resolv’d on it quite, With my face to the wall and my back to the light, And I’ll not speak a word, if I stand here all night.
And yet mamma says, when I’m naughty and cry, She scolds me to make me grow good by and by, And that, all the time, she’s as sorry as I.
And she says, when I’m naughty, and will not obey, If she were to let me go on in that way, I should grow up exceedingly wicked one day.
Oh, then, what a very sad girl I should be, To be sulky and cross when she punishes me, And grieve such a very kind mother as she.
Well, then, I’ll go to her directly, and say, Forgive me this once, my dear mother, I pray; For that will be better than sulking all day.
The Meadows.
We’ll go to the meadows, where cowslips do grow, And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold; And daisies and violets, beginning to blow; For it is a most beautiful sight to behold.
The little bee humming about them is seen, The butterfly merrily dances along; The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green, And the linnet is singing his liveliest song.
The birds and the insects are happy and gay, The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice, And we will be thankful to God ev’ry day, And praise his great name in a loftier voice.
He made the green meadows, he planted the flow’rs, He sent his bright sun in the heavens to blaze; He created these wonderful bodies of ours, And as long as we live we will sing of his praise.
A Wasp and a Bee.
A wasp met a bee that was just buzzing by, And he said, little cousin, can you tell me why You are loved so much better by people than I?
My back shines as bright and as yellow as gold, And my shape is most elegant too, to behold; Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told.
Ah! cousin, the bee said, ’tis all very true. But if I were half as much mischief to do, Indeed they would love me no better than you.
You have a fine shape and a delicate wing, They own you are handsome, but then there’s one thing They cannot put up with, and that is your sting.
My coat is quite homely and plain, as you see, Yet nobody ever is angry with me, Because I’m a humble and innocent bee.
From this little story, let people beware, Because, like the wasp, if ill-natured they are, They will never be loved, if they’re ever so fair. J.T.
Passion and Penitence.
Here’s morning again, and a good fire-side, And a breakfast so nice, in a basin so full; How good, dear mamma, for my wants to provide, I ought to be good too—but sure you are dull.
You don’t smile to meet me, nor call me your dear; Nor place your arms round me so kind on your knee; Nor give the sweet kiss as I climb up your chair: Nay, sure that’s a frown: are you angry with me?
Oh! now I remember, quite naughty last night, I left you in passion, nor came for a kiss; I bounced from the room in vexation and spite: Indeed, ’twas ungrateful, I did act amiss.
My fretful ill-temper, so naughty and rude, To you was unkind, before God it was wrong! I’m ashamed to come near, when I know I’m not good: You ought not to kiss me for ever so long.
Yet, indeed, I do love you, and stoutly will try To subdue ev’ry passion that moves me amiss: I’ll pray God to pardon my sin, lest I die: When you see my repentance, I know you will kiss.
The Dunce of a Kitten.
Come, pussy, will you learn to read? I’ve got a pretty book: Nay, turn this way, you must, indeed: Fie, there’s a sulky look.
Here is a pretty picture, see, An apple and great A: How stupid you will ever be, If you do nought but play.
Come, A, B, C, an easy task, What any fool can do: I will do any thing you ask, For dearly I love you.
Now, how I’m vex’d, you are so dull, You have not learnt it half: You will grow up a downright fool, And make all people laugh.
Mamma told me so, I declare, And made me quite ashamed; So I resolved no pains to spare, Nor like a dunce be blamed.
Well, get along, you naughty kit, And after mice go look; I’m glad that I have got more wit, I love my pretty book.
A very sorrowful Story.
I’ll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee; A true and a pitiful one it shall be, About an old man, and a poor man was he.
He’d a fine merry boy, (such another as you,) And he did for him all that a father could do; For he was a kind father as ever I knew.
So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow A fine hearty man, he’d remember, you know, To thank his old father for loving him so.
But what do you think came of all this at last? Why, after a great many years had gone past, And the good-natured father grew old very fast;
Instead of rememb’ring how kind he had been, This boy did not care for his father a pin, But bade him begone, for he should not come in!
So he wander’d about in the frost and the snow! For he had not a place in the world where to go: And you’d almost have cried to have heard the wind blow.
And the tears, poor old man, oh! how fast they did pour! As he shiver’d with cold at his wicked child’s door. Did you ever, now, hear such a story before? A.T.
THE END Printed by Joseph Rickerby, Sherbourn Lane.
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TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.
The title of the poem "The Flower and the Lady" listed in the TOC, did not match the title of the poem on page 21. The title has been changed to reflect the TOC.
Book name and author have been added to the original book cover. The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.
[The end of _Rhymes for the Nursery_, by Ann Taylor and Jane Taylor.]