Part 2

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.

But when back again the poor mother did fly, Oh, then she set up a most pitiful cry! So she mourn’d a long while, and then lay down to die!

The Snow-drop.

Now the spring is coming on, Now the snow and ice are gone, Come, my little snow-drop root, Will you not begin to shoot?

Ah! I see your little head Peeping on my flower-bed, Looking all so green and gay On this fine and pleasant day.

For the mild south wind doth blow, And hath melted all the snow, And the sun shines out so warm, You need not fear another storm.

So your pretty flower shew, And your leaves of white undo, Then you’ll hang your modest head, Down upon my flower-bed.

Romping.

Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way, You can’t be contented with innocent play, But this sort of romping, so noisy and high, Is never left off till it ends in a cry.

What! are there no games you can take a delight in, But kicking, and knocking, and boxing, and fighting? It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude That boys can’t be merry, without being rude.

Now what is the reason you never can play, Without snatching each other’s playthings away? Would it be any hardship to let them alone, When ev’ry one of you has toys of his own?

I often have told you before, my dear boys, That I do not object to your making a noise; Or running and jumping about any how, But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.

So, if any more of these quarrels are heard, I tell you this once, and I’ll keep to my word, I’ll take ev’ry marble, and spintop, and ball, And not let you play with each other at all.

Working.

Well, now I will sit down, and work very fast, And try if I can’t be a good girl at last: ’Tis better than being so sulky and haughty, I’m really quite tired of being so naughty.

For, as mamma says, when my bus’ness is done, There’s plenty of time left to play and to run: But when ’tis my work-time, I ought to sit still, I know that I _ought_, and I certainly will.

But for fear, after all, I should get at my play, I’ll put my wax-doll in the closet away; And I’ll not look to see what the kitten is doing, Nor yet think of any thing now but my sewing.

I’m sorry I’ve idled so often before, But I hope I shall never do so any more: Mamma _will_ be pleased when she sees how I mend, And have done this long seam from beginning to end!

The Selfish Snails.

It happen’d that a little snail Came crawling, with his slimy tail, Upon a cabbage-stalk; But two more little snails were there, Both feasting on this dainty fare, Engaged in friendly talk.

“No, no, you shall not dine with us; How dare you interrupt us thus,” The greedy snails declare; So their poor brother they discard, Who really thinks it very hard He may not have his share.

But selfish folks are sure to know They get no good by being so, In earnest or in play; Which these two snails confess’d, no doubt, When soon the gardener spied them out, And threw them both away.

Good Dobbin.

Oh! thank you, good Dobbin, you’ve been a long track, And have carried papa all the way on your back; You shall have some nice oats, faithful Dobbin, indeed, For you’ve brought papa home to his darling with speed.

The howling wind blew, and the pelting rain beat, And the thick mud has cover’d his legs and his feet, But yet on he gallop’d in spite of the rain, And has brought papa home to his darling again.

The sun it was setting a long while ago, And papa could not see the road where he should go, But Dobbin kept on through the desolate wild, And has brought papa home again safe to his child.

Now go to the stable, the night is so raw, Go, Dobbin, and rest your old bones on the straw; Don’t stand any longer out here in the rain, For you’ve brought papa home to his darling again.

Sulking.

Why is Mary standing there, Leaning down upon a chair, With pouting lip and frowning brow? I wonder what’s the matter now.

Come here, my dear, and tell me true, Is it because I scolded you For doing work so bad and slow, That you are standing sulking so?

Why then, indeed, I’m griev’d to see, That you can so ill-temper’d be: You make your fault a great deal worse, By being angry and perverse.

Oh, how much better it appears, To see you melting into tears, And then to hear you humbly say, “I’ll not do so another day.”

But when you stand and sulk about, And look so cross, and cry, and pout, Why that, my little girl you know, Is _worse_ than working bad and slow.

Time to go to Bed.

The sun at ev’ning sets, and then The lion leaves his gloomy den; He roars along the forest wide, And all who hear are terrified: There he prowls at evening hour, Seeking something to devour.

When the sun is in the west, The white owl leaves his darksome nest; Wide he opes his staring eyes, And screams, as round and round he flies; For he hates the cheerful light, He sleeps by day, and wakes at night.

When the lion cometh out, When the white owl flies about, I must lay my sleepy head Down upon my pleasant bed; There all night I’ll lay me still, While the owl is screaming shrill.

Time to rise.

The cock, who soundly sleeps at night, Rises with the morning light, Very loud and shrill he crows; Then the sleeping ploughman knows He must leave his bed also, To his morning work to go.

And the little lark does fly To the middle of the sky: You may hear his merry tune, In the morning very soon; For he does not like to rest Idle in his downy nest.

While the cock is crowing shrill, Leave my little bed I will, And I’ll rise to hear the lark, For it is no longer dark: ’Twould be a pity there to stay, When ’tis bright and pleasant day.

The poor Fly.

So, so, you are running away, Mr. Fly, But I’ll come at you now, if you don’t go too high; There, there, I have caught you, you can’t get away: Never mind, my old fellow, I’m only in play.

Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill’d the poor fly, You have pinch’d him so hard, he is going to die: His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand; There, now he is fallen down dead in your hand!

I hope you are sorry for what you have done, You may _kill_ many flies, but you cannot _make_ one. No, you can’t set it up, as I told you before, It is dead, and it never will stand any more.

Poor thing! as it buzz’d up and down on the glass, How little it thought what was coming to pass! For it could not have guess’d, as it frisk’d in the sun, That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun.

The spider, who weaves his fine cobweb so neat, _Might_ have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat; But the poor flies must learn to keep out of _your_ way, As you kill them for nothing at all but your play. J.T.

Tumble up.

Tumble down, tumble up, never mind it, my sweet, No, no, never beat the poor floor: ’Twas your fault, that could not stand straight on your feet, Beat yourself, if you beat any more.