Part 15

Oh, Sam was always late at meals, And always late at school, And everybody said that he Would be a first-class fool. For boys not half so old as he Above him swiftly pass, While Sam, the great big dunce! remains The lowest in the class.

In every way, and every day This lazy boy would shirk, And never lift his hand to do A bit of useful work. His clothes were always on awry, His shoe-strings left untied, His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned, Alas, he had no pride!

And so he went from bad to worse-- The good-for-nothing scamp!-- Until he settled down to be A ragged, dirty tramp. Through cities, towns, and villages, He begged his daily bread, And slept at night wherever he Could chance to find a bed.

Men shuddered as they passed him by, And murmured sadly, "Oh! How can a human being sink So very, very low?" And e'en the jackass pricks his ears, And brays aloud "I am Not such a donkey, I declare As yonder lazy Sam!"

The Beggar Man

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, See you wretched beggar-man; Once a father's hopeful heir, Once a mother's tender care. When too young to understand, He but scorched his little hand, By the candle's flaming light Attracted--dancing, spiral, bright. Clasping fond her darling round, A thousand kisses healed the wound, Now abject, stooping, old and wan, No mother tends the beggar-man.

Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed, Cap of lace with rose to aid, Milk-white hat and feather blue, Shoes of red, and coral too, With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar-man.

See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain! for giddy pleasure calls, And shows the marbles, tops, and balls, What's learning to the charms of play? The indulgent tutor must give way. A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild, The parents' fondness spoil'd the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran; Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar-man.

Lamb

Good-for-nothing Lazy Man

A good for nothing lazy lout, Wicked within and ragged without. Who can bear to have him about? Turn him out! Turn him out!

The Old Beggar Man

I see an old man sitting there, His withered 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.

An 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.

Lazyland

Three travellers wandered along the strand, Each with a staff in his feeble hand; And they chanted low: "We are go-o-o- Ing slow-o-ow- Ly to Lazyland.

"They've left off eating and drinking there; They never do any thinking there; They never walk, And they never talk, And they fall asleep without winking there.

"Nobody's in a hurry there; They are not permitted to worry there; 'Tis a wide, still place And not a face Shows any symptom of flurry there.

"No bells are rung in the morning there, They care not at all for adorning there; All sounds are hushed, And a man who rushed Would be treated with absolute scorning there.

"They do not take any papers there; No politicians cut capers there; They have no 'views,' And they tell no news, And they burn no midnight tapers there.

"No lovers are ever permitted there; Reformers are not admitted there; They argue not In that peaceful spot, And their clothes all come ready-fitted there.

"Electricity has not been heard of there; And steam has been spoken no word of there; They stay where they are, And a coach or a car They have not so much as a third of there.

"Oh, this world is a truly crazy land; A worrying, hurrying, mazy land; We cannot stay, We must find the way-- If there is a way--to Lazyland."

[Illustration: Two Donkeys.]

[Page 69--Laziness Land]

[Illustration: Lazy Willie getting out of Bed.]

Lazy Willie

Oh! Willie is a lazy boy, A "Sleepy Head" is he, "Wake up!" his little sister cries, "Wake up and talk to me."

The birds are singing in the trees, The sun is shining bright, But sleepy Willie slumbers on As though it yet were night.

Oh! lazy boys will never grow To clever manhood, you must know, So lift your eyelids, sleepy head, Wake up, and scramble out of bed.

The Lazy Boy

The lazy boy! and what's his name? I should not like to tell; But don't you think it is a shame, That he can't read or spell.

He'd rather swing upon a gate, Or paddle in a brook, Than take his pencil and his slate, Or try to con a book.

There, see! he's lounging down the street, His hat without a brim, He rather drags than lifts his feet-- His face unwashed and grim.

He's lolling now against a post; But if you've seen him once, You'll know the lad among a host For what he is--a dunce.

Don't ask me what's the urchin's name; I do not choose to tell; But this you'll know--it is the same As his who does not blush for shame That he don't read or spell.

The Sluggard

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again." As the door on it's hinges, So he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, And his heavy head.

"A little more sleep And a little more slumber;" Thus he wastes half his days And his hours without number, And when he gets up He sits folding his hands, Or walking about sauntering, Or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, And saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle Grow broader and higher; The clothes that hung on him Are turning to rags, And his money still wastes Till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, Still hoping to find That he took better care For improving his mind; He told me his dreams, Talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, And never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; This man's but a picture Of what I might be; But thanks to my friends For their care in my breeding, Who taught me bedtimes To love working and reading."

Watts

Idle Dicky And The Goat

John Brown is a man Without houses or lands, Himself he supports By the work of his hands. He brings home his wages Each Saturday night, To his wife and his children, A very good sight.

His eldest boy, Dicky, On errands when sent, To loiter and chatter Was very much bent; The neighbours all call'd him An odd little trout, His shoes they were broke, And his toes they peep'd out.

To see such old shoes All their sorrows were rife; John Brown he much grieved, And so did his wife, He kiss'd his boy Dicky, And stroked his white head, "You shall have a new pair, My dear boy," he then said.

"I've here twenty shillings, And money has wings; Go first get this note changed, I want other things." Now here comes the mischief-- This Dicky would stop At an ill-looking, mean-looking Greengrocer's shop.

For here lived a chattering Dunce of a boy; To prate with this urchin Gave Dicky great joy. And now, in his boasting, He shows him his note, And now to the green-stall Up marches a goat.

The laughed, for it was This young nanny-goat's way With those who pass'd by her To gambol and play. All three they went on In their frolicsome bouts, Till Dick dropt the note On a bunch of green sprouts.

Now what was Dick's wonder To see the vile goat, In munching the green sprouts, Eat up his bank note! He crying ran back To John Brown with the news, And by stopping to idle He lost his new shoes.

Adelaide Taylor

Idleness and Mischief

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell; How neat she spreads the wax; And labours hard to store it well; With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play Let my first years be passed; That I may give you every day Some good account at last.

Watts

Come and Go.

Dick Dawdle had land Worth two hundred a year, Yet from debt and from dunning He never was free, His intellect was not Surprisingly clear, But he never felt satisfied How it could be.

The raps at his door, And the rings at his gate. And the threats of a gaol He no longer could bear: So he made up his mind To sell half his estate, Which would pay all his debts, And leave something to spare.

He leased to a farmer The rest of his land For twenty-one years; And on each quarter-day The honest man went With his rent in his hand, His liberal landlord Delighted to pay.

Before half the term Of the lease had expired, The farmer, one day With a bagful of gold, Said, "Pardon me, sir, But I long have desired To purchase my farm, If the land can be sold.

"Ten years I've been blest With success and with health, With trials a few-- I thank God, not severe-- I am grateful. I hope, Though not proud of my wealth, But I've managed to lay By a hundred a year."

"Why how," exclaimed Dick, "Can this possibly be?" (With a stare of surprise, And a mortified laugh,) "The whole of my farm Proved too little for me, And you it appears, Have grown rich upon half."

"I hope you'll excuse me," The farmer replies, "But I'll tell you the cause, If your honor would know; In two little words All the difference lies, I always say Come, And you used to say Go."

"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]

[Illustration: Tables Turned--Dogs setting Boys to fighting.]

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.

[Illustration: Tables Turned--Dogs beating the poor Boy.]

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

[Page 71--Stealing Land]

[Illustration: Boys caught Stealing Apples.]

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."

[Illustration: Australian Blacks Stealing.]

[Page 72--Stealing Land]

[Illustration: Naughty Boys Stealing.]

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."