PART II.

MOTHER.

Come, Willie, and tell me, my dear, What made you so foolish, last night; I am waiting this morning to hear The cause of your terrible fright.

WILLIE.

Biddie said that a wolf would come out And catch me if I was not good; That is what I was thinking about When I screamed just as loud as I could.

MOTHER.

And where would a wolf come from, pray; Biddy could not find one, should she try. ’T was a wicked thing for her to say,-- She knew she was telling a lie.

Examine your chamber, my dear; Look carefully round before night, And if you can find a wolf here, I will certainly leave you a light.

WILLIE.

Mamma, you are laughing at me, There’s no wolf anywhere to be found; I know there is nothing to see If I take all the day to look round.

MOTHER.

Then I hope you will not be afraid; Now tell me, my son, if you’re able, Of what mamma’s candles are made, You see one stand there on the table.

WILLIE.

Of tallow and cotton, mamma; The candles are run in a mould. I went up one day with papa To the factory where they are sold.

MOTHER.

Can tallow and cotton, my son, Protect you from harm thro’ the night, When into a mould it is run, And made in a candle to light?

WILLIE.

The candle could not see or hear, And I’ll try to remember to-night, That God my kind Father is near, Then, mamma, I’ll not ask for a light.

“CREATE IN ME A CLEAN HEART, O GOD!”

Savior, keep me near thy side, Take my hand within thine own, I would be thy little child, Leave me not to walk alone.

“Suffer little ones to come,” Thou didst say, when here on earth; Let my feet no longer roam, I would know thy heavenly birth.

Take my wicked heart away, Make me holy like thy Son; Leave me not from thee to stray, Leave me not to walk alone.

What a sight They descry When Trenton Falls Meet their eye!

CHARLIE AND HIS YOUTHFUL TEACHER.

“Come, now, my dear boy, confess what you’ve done, To your loving, kind Father on high; You cannot conceal from the All-seeing One The fact that you’re telling a lie.”

So said the young teacher of Birmingham school, To Charlie, when no one was nigh; She grieved that her pupil had broken a rule, Still more that he’d told her a lie.

His face, once so joyous, was then very sad, His heart was too full to reply, As Miss Mary pressed home on the dear little lad The fact of his telling a lie.

“Oh come, now in penitence tell me, dear boy, The whole truth, and then we will try And ask the dear Savior his grace to employ, To guard you from telling a lie.”

But, though the child wore a sad look of distress, No penitent tear dimm’d his eye; All arguments failed;--Charlie would not confess That he had been telling a lie.

The teacher stood there, with her heart raised in prayer To One whom she felt ever nigh; Oh how could she bear that her pupil should dare To grieve him by telling a lie.

“Dear Father, I know not what course to pursue; Oh guide me,” she said, with a sigh; “I am young and too helpless to know what to do With a child who is telling a lie.

“Leave not this dear child to perish, I pray, Oh listen, and hear my sad cry! What more can I say? I must send him away, He will not repent of this lie.”

A change soon was wrought, when Miss Mary was taught By God, her kind Father on high, That his Word must be brought, and thence must be sought His threatenings to those who will lie.

Charlie reads of the joys of the ransomed above, And learns that this home in the sky Forever is closed by our Father in love, From those who on earth learn to lie.

To that Heavenly City, so good and so fair, The Lamb will a welcome deny, And no little child can e’er hope to go there, “Who loveth and maketh a lie.”[6]

The Bible has conquered! The teacher with joy Sees that tears are now filling his eye, She kneels and implores for her penitent boy Forgiveness for telling a lie.

THE SAILOR AND THE MONKEYS.

Once, in the hope of honest gain From 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, thereby To shield him from the sun, Then soundly slept, nor thought an eye Had 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 seize A 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 one Was far beyond his power.

Alas! he thought, I’ve safely brought My caps far over seas, But could not guess it was to dress Such 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 caught From every monkey’s crown, And, like himself, each little elf Threw his directly down.

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

REMEMBER THE POOR.

“The poor ye have always with you, and when ye will ye may do them good."--[WORDS OF JESUS.

God’s blessing on those Who remember the poor! If I had been born In the Five Points, I’m sure

I should have been grateful For work and for food; And this House of Industry Must do them great good.

Our hearts should be filled With pity for those Who suffer in winter For want of warm clothes.

Who suffer with hunger For want of nice bread, While we from God’s bounty Are constantly fed.

Then let us remember How much they endure,-- Those dear little children So wretched and poor,

And do what we can To provide them with food, For all our spare pennies Would do them great good.

HOLIDAY GIFT.

MOTHER.

My children, I am glad to see Your holidays have come; For much it does delight my heart To see you all at home.

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

The promise that I gave you all Most strictly I regard, And dearly do I love to give My 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 had One half as much before.

CHARLES.

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

Pray, tell me is it anything That I have said or done? I hope, mamma, I never shall Be an ungrateful son.

MOTHER.

Oh, no, my child; you ever have Been dutiful and kind, But still, there is a circumstance That has perplexed my mind.

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

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

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

“Dear madam, I am grieved to come And trouble you,” she said; “But new afflictions seem to fall In 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 wait A 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 cow Seems too much to endure.”

CHARLES.

Here, take this money, ma, and pay As far as it will go; I had rather never have a sword Than 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 comes To frighten them again.

MOTHER.

Come to my arms, my precious ones, I only meant to see Whether your little hearts were warmed With sweet humanity.

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

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

Oh, do not neglect Your practice, my dear; Papa will expect Some good music to hear; For he has been absent Almost a whole year.

THE INDIAN AND THE PLANTER.

By the door of his house a planter stood, In fair Virginia’s clime, When the setting sun had tinged the wood With 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 bread To 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 man Received 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 home My service let him pay, Nor say, again to the fainting man, You ‘Indian dog, away!’”

THE INDIAN AND THE BASKET.[7]

Among Rhode 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 conveyed To neighboring mill, were ground and press’d, And into cider made.

The wandering Indian oft partook The generous farmer’s cheer; He liked his food, but better still His 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 new Beside the Indian bold, And smiling said, “I’ll give to you As much as that will hold.”

Both laughed, for how could liquid thing Within 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 hung On every spray and thorn.

The brook that babbled by his door Was 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 became A 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 saw The 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 heard About the INDIAN’S BASKET.