Your meals you eat quickly, then swiftly you fly-
You always are busy-in future will I.
There's gratitude next which my fancy can see,
This also affords a good lesson for me;
Though humble and scanty the victuals I bring,
You perch somewhere near me, and instantly sing.
So now, gentle robin, come down from that shed,
Partake of my bounty, and pick up my bread;
For since such examples I trace out in thee,
You ever shall find a protector in me.
Once there was a little boy
With curly hair and pleasant eye ;
A boy who always told the truth,
And never, never told a lie.
And when he trotted off to school,
The children all about would cry-
There goes the curly-headed boy,
The boy who never tells a lie.
And every body loved him so,
Because he always told the truth;
That every day, as he grew up,
'Twas said, There goes the honest youth.
And when the people that stood near
Would turn to ask the reason why,
The answer would be always this—
Because he never tells a lie.
Once a lovely little child,
In smiling beauty bright,
Sitting at tea with pa' and ma,'
His finger chanced to bite.
Of this he soon expression gave,
By language and grimace;
And promptly to his ma' applied,
To kiss the painful place.
Anon she took his tender hand,
His wish to gratify;
But, sad mistake! she kissed the wrong,
Which did not satisfy.
His wounded finger he upheld,
While many a tear-drop fell;
She kissed it, and the trusting child
Simply believ'd it well.
His countenance again resum'd
Its native gentle form;
And smiles beam'd brightly thro' his tears,
Like sunshine after storm.
May I from this a lesson learn,
And learn it with delight;
Thus in my heavenly Father trust,
Whose power is infinite.
EARLY RISING.
Get up, little sister! the morning is bright,
And the birds are all singing to welcome the light;
The buds are all opening-the dew's on the flower;
If you shake but a branch, see there falls quite a shower!
By the side of their mother, look, under the trees,
How the young lambs are skipping about as they please;
And, by all those rings on the water, I know
The fishes are merrily swimming below.
The bee, I dare say, has been long on the wing,
To get honey from every flower of the spring;
For the bee never idles, but labours all day,
And thinks, wise little insect, work bettter than play.
The lark's singing gaily; it loves the bright sun,
And rejoices that now the gay spring is begun;
For the spring is so joyful, I think 'twould be wrong
If we do not feel happy to hear the lark's song.
Get up; for when all things are merry and glad,
Good children should never be lazy and sad ;
For God gives us daylight, dear sister, that we
May rejoice like the lark, and may work like the bee.
Lady Flora Hastings.
I MUST NOT TEASE MY MOTHER.
I must not tease my mother;
For she is very kind,
And everything she says to me,
I must directly mind;
I MUST NOT TEASE MY MOTHER.
For when I was a baby,
And could not speak or walk,
She let me in her bosom sleep,
And taught me how to talk.
I must not tease my mother;
And when she likes to read,
Or has the head-ache, I will step
Most silently indeed.
I will not choose a noisy play,
Nor trifling troubles tell,
But sit down quiet by her side,
And try to make her well.
I must not tease my mother ;
I've heard dear father say,
When I was in my cradle sick,
She nurs'd me night and day.
She lays me in my little bed,
She gives me clothes and food;
And I have nothing else to pay,
But trying to be good.
I must not tease my mother ;
She loves me all the day,
And she has patience with my faults,
And teaches me to pray.
How much I'll strive to please her,
She every hour shall see ;
For should she go away, or die,
What would become of me?
Mrs. Sigourney.
Spring is coming, spring is coming!
Hark, the little bee is humming!
See, the lark is soaring high
In the blue and sunny sky.
Little children, look around ye!
Green and flow'ry fields surround ye;
Every running stream is bright,
And the orchard trees are white.
Turn your eyes to earth and heaven,
God for us the spring has given ;
Little children, gladly sing
Praise to Him who made the spring!
Oh, say what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
Oh, tell your poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
|