A little corner with it's crib.
A little mug, a spoon, a bib,
A little tooth so pearly white,
A little rubber-ring to bite.

A little plate all lettered round,
A little rattle to resound,
A little creeping—see! she stands!
A little step 'twixt outstretched hands.

A little doll with flaxen hair.
A little willow rocking chair,
A little dress of richest hue,
A little pair of gaiters blue.

A little school day after day,
A little "schoolma'am" to obey,
A little study—soon 'tis past—
A little graduate at last.

A little muff for wintry weather,
A little jockey-hat and feather,
A little sac with funny pockets,
A little chain, a ring, and lockets.

A little while to dance and bow,
A little escort homeward now,
A little party somewhat late,
A little lingering at the gate.

A little walk in leafy June,
A little talk while shines the moon,
A little reference to papa,
A little planning with mamma.

A little ceremony grave,
A little struggle to be brave,
A little cottage on the lawn,
A little kiss—my girl was gone!

  There was a little girl,
  And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
  When she was good
  She was very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrible.

Two little rough-worn, stubbed shoes
  A plump, well-trodden pair;
With striped stockings thrust within,
  Lie just beside my chair.

Of very homely fabric they,
  A hole is in each toe,
They might have cost, when they were new,
  Some fifty cents or so.

And yet this little, worn-out pair
  Is richer far too me
Than all the jewelled sandals are
  Of Eastern luxury.

This mottled leather, cracked with use,
  Is satin in my sight;
These little tarnished buttons shine
  With all a diamond's light.

Search through the wardrobe of the world!
  You shall not find me there
So rarely made, so richly wrought,
  So glorious a pair.

And why? Because they tell of her,
  Now sound asleep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
  Whose heart is beating love.

They tell me of her merry laugh;
  Her rich, whole-hearted glee;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
  And infant purity.

They tell me that her wavering steps
  Will long demand my aid;
For the old road of human life
  Is very roughly laid.

High hills and swift descents abound;
  And, on so rude a way,
Feet that can wear these coverings
  Would surely go astray.

Sweet little girl! be mine the task
  Thy feeble steps to tend!
To be thy guide, thy counsellor,
  Thy playmate and thy friend!

And when my steps shall faltering grow,
  And thine be firm and strong,
Thy strength shell lead my tottering age
  In cheerful peace along.

And this was your cradle?
  Why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions
  Go somewhat to show
You were a delightfully
  Small picaninny
Some nineteen or twenty
  Short summers ago.

Your baby-day flowed
  In a much troubled channel;
I see you as then
  In your impotent strife,
A tight little bundle
  Of wailing and flannel,
Perplexed with that
  Newly-found fardel called Life,

To hint at an infantine
  Frailty is scandal;
Let bygones be bygones—
  And somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby
  To dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet,
  So rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your cradle,
  And Hope, a bright spirit,
With love now is watching
  Beside it, I know.
They guard the small nest
  You yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty
  Short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future—
  Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world,
  Therefore stay not to ask,
"My future bids fair,
  Is my future beguiling?"
If masked, still it pleases—
  Then raise not the mask.

Is life a poor coil
  Some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste
  Who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep
  From cradle to coffin—
From a spoonful of pap
  To a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future
  Is smiling, my Jenny!
Tho' blossoms of promise
  Are lost in the rose,
I still see the face
  Of my small picaninny
Unchang'd, for these cheeks
  Are as blooming as those.

Ay, here is your cradle!
  Much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty
  Long winters have sped;
But, hark! as I'm talking
  There's six o'clock striking,
It is time Jennie's baby
  Should be in its bed.

                  Frederick Locker

The chill November day was done,
  The working world home a-faring,
The wind came roaring through the streets,
  And set the gas lamps flaring.

And hopelessly and aimlessly
  The seared old leaves were flying,
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
  I heard a small voice crying,

And shivering on the corner stood
  A child of four or over;
No hat nor cloak her small soft arms
  Or wind-blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
  Her round blue eyes ran over;
She crushed within her wee, cold hands
  A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasures,
  While she slipped in mine the other,
Half-scared, half-confidential, said
  "Oh! please, I want my mother."

"Tell me your street name and number, pet;
  Don't cry, I'll take you to it,"
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget—
  The organ made me do it."

"He came and played at Miller's steps;
  The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
  That monkey was so funny.

I've walked about a hundred hours,
  From one street to another;
The monkey's gone; I've spoiled my flowers:
  Oh! please, I want my mother."

"But what's your mother's name?
  And what's the street? now think a minute."
"My mother's name is mamma dear,
  The street—I can't begin it."

"But what is strange about the house,
  Or new—not like the others?"
I guess you mean my trundle bed—
  Mine and my little brother's.

Oh! dear, I ought to be at home,
  to help him say his prayers;
He's such a baby, he forgets,
  And we are both such players.

"And there's a bar between, to keep
  From pitching on each other;
For Harry rolls when he's asleep—
  Oh! dear, I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy, people passed,
  All muffled, homeward faring;
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
  I said at last, despairing.

I spied a ribbon about her neck.
  "What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked,
  And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name!
  My eyes astonished, met it.
"For," said the little one, "you see
  I might some tome forget it.

And so I wear a little thing
  That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
  I might get lost without it.

                  Eliza S. Turner

  There's the pretty girl,
  And the witty girl,
And the girl that bangs her hair;
  The girl that's a flirt,
  And the girl that is pert,
And the girl with the baby stare.

  There's the dowdy girl,
  And the rowdy girl,
And the girl that's always late;
  There's the girl of style,
  And the girl of wile,
And the girl with the mincing gaits

  There's the tender girl,
  And the well-read girl,
And the girl with the sense of duty
  There's the dainty girl
  And the fainty girl
And the girl that has no beauty.

  There's the lazy girl,
  And the daisy girl,
And the girl that has two faces;
  There's the girl that's shy,
  And the girl that's fly
And the girl that bets on races

  There are many others,
  Oh! men and brothers,
Than are named in this narration.
  There are girls and girls,
  Yet they're all of them pearls,
Quite the best sorts in creation.

There is a strange deformity
  Combined with countless graces,
As often in the ladies' names,
  As in the ladies faces;
Some names fit for every age,
  Some only fit for youth;
Some passing sweet and musical,
  Some horribly uncouth;
Some fit for dames of loftiest grades,
Some only fit for scullery maids
Ann is too plain and common,
  And Nancy sounds but ill;
Yet Anna is endurable,
  And Annie better still,
There is a grace in Charlotte,
  In Eleanor a state,
An elegance in Isabel,
  A haughtiness in Kate;
And Sarah is sedate and neat,
And Ellen innocent and sweet
Matilda has a sickly sound,
  Fit for a nurse's trade;
Sophie is effeminate,
  And Esther sage and staid;
Elizabeth's a matchless name,
  Fit for a queen to wear
In castle, cottage, hut, or hall—
  A name beyond compare;
And Bess, and Bessie follow well,
But Betsy is detestable.
Maria is too forward,
  And Gertrude is too gruff,
Yet, coupled with a pretty face,
  Is pretty name enough'
And Adelaide is fanciful,
  And Laura is too fine,
But Emily is beautiful,
  And Mary is divine
Maud only suits a high-born dame,
  And Fanny is a baby name
Eliza is not very choice,
  Jane is too blunt and Bold,
And Martha somewhat sorrowful,
  And Lucy proud and cold;
Amelia is too light and gay,
  Fit for only a flirt;
And Caroline is vain and shy,
  And Flora smart and pert;
Louisa is too soft and sleek
But Alice—gentle, chaste and meek
And Harriet is confiding,
  And Clara grave and mild.
And Emma is affectionate,
  And Janet arch and wild!
And Patience is expressive,
  And Grace is cold and rare,
And Hannah warm and dutiful,
  And Margaret frank and fair
And Faith, and Hope and Charity
Are heavenly names for sisters three.

Oh, Sarah mine, hark to my song
  Your slumbers soft invading.
For here beneath your window-sill
  I come a-Sarah-nading.

You know my fond heart beats for you
  In tenderest adoration,
And then, you know, I long to have
  You be my own Sal-vation.

The day's not far when you'll be mine—
  The thought makes my soul merry;
You'll be the pride of all my life,
  But not my adver-Sarey.

The tender fates shall crown your lot,
  And sweet contentment parcel;
And while you're just the world to me,
 Love will be univer-Sal.

With bridal altar draped with flowers
  And everything so tony,
In crowded church we will be wed
  With lots of Sarah-money.

There's nothing I'll not do for you
  Till life comes to an end, dear.
I'd brave the battles of the world
  And fight a Sara-cen, dear.

I must to sleep, Sal, soda you,
  For here I must not dally,
For that bull-dog I hear, like me,
  Is bound to have a Sally.

A good girl to have—Sal Vation.
A disagreeable girl—Anna Mosity.
A fighting girl—Hittie Magginn.
Not a Christian girl—Hettie Rodoxy.
A sweet girl—Carrie Mel.
A pleasant girl—Jennie Rosity.
A sick girl—Sallie Vate.
A smooth girl—Amelia Ration.
A seedy girl—Cora Ander.
One of the best girls—Ella Gant.
A clear case of girl—E. Lucy Date.
A geometrical girl—Rhoda Dendron.
A musical girl—Sarah Nade.
A profound girl—Mettie Physics.
A star girl—Meta Oric.
A clinging girl—Jessie Mine.
A nervous girl—Hester Ical.
A muscular girl—Callie Sthenici.
A lively girl—Anna Mation.
An uncertain girl—Eva Nescent.
A sad girl—Ella G.
A serene girl—Molly Fy.
A great big girl—Ella Phant.
A warlike girl—Millie Tary.
The best girl of all—Your Own.

Jennie has a jumping-rope
  As slender as a whip.
And all about the street and house
  She'd skip, and skip, and skip.

She knocked the vases from the shelf,
  Upset the stools and chairs,
And one unlucky day, alas!
  Went headlong down the stairs.

Against the wall, against the door
  Her head she often bumped,
And stumbled here, and stumbled there,
  Yet still she jumped, and jumped.

She jumped so high, she jumped so hard,
  That—so the story goes—
She wore her shoes and stockings out,
  Likewise her heels and toes.

Matilda was a pretty girl,
  And she had flaxen hair;
And yet she used those naughty words
  "I'm sure I do not care."

She once her lessons would not learn,
  But talk'd about the fair,
And lost her tickets, but she said,
  "I'm sure I do not care."

As she advanced to riper years,
  I'm sorry to declare,
She still preserved those naughty words,
  "I'm sure I do not care."

She grew a woman, and for life
  'Twas time she should prepare,
But still she said "there's time enough,
  If not, I do not care."

Duties neglected, warnings spurn'd,
  Her mother in despair;
And though she saw the evil done,
  She said, "I do not care."

Still on she went from bad to worse,
  She spurned her father's prayer;
Who feared she'd find an awful end,
  Because she would not care.

Afflictions came, and death in view,
  Which filled her with despair;
Her God neglected, and she feared
  For her He would not care.

Could you have then Matilda seen,
  Or heard her broken prayer,
She urged her friends never to use
  Those awful words—Don't Care.

Little Miss Meddlesome
  Scattering crumbs,
Into the library
  Noisily comes—
Twirls off her apron,
  Tilts open some books,
And into a work-basket
  Rummaging, looks.

Out goes the spools spinning
  Over the floor,
Beeswax and needle-case
  Stepped out before;
She tosses the tape-rule
  And plays with the floss,
And says to herself,
  "Now won't mamma be cross!"

Little Miss Meddlesome
  Climbs to the shelf,
Since no-one is looking,
  And mischievous elf,
Pulls down the fine vases,
  The cuckoo-clock stops,
And sprinkles the carpet
  With damaging drops.

She turns over the ottoman,
  Frightens the bird,
And sees that the chairs
  In a medley are stirred;
Then creeps on the sofa,
  And, all in a heap,
Drops out of her
  Frolicsome mischief asleep.

But here comes the nurse,
  Who is shaking her head,
And frowns at the mischief
  Asleep on her bed.
But let's hope when Miss Meddlesome's
  Slumber is o'er,
She may wake from good dreams
  And do mischief no more.

"Again, Matilda,
  Is your work astray,
Your thimble is gone!
  Your scissors, where are they?

Your needles, pins, your thread,
  And tapes all lost—
Your housewife here,
  And there your work-bag tost.

Fie, fie, my child!
  Indeed this will not do,
Your hair uncomb'd,
  Your frock in tatters too;

I'm now resolv'd
  No more delays to grant,
This day I'll send you
  To your stern old aunt."

In vain Matilda wept,
  Repented, pray'd,
In vain a promise
  Of amendment made.

Arriv'd at Austere Hall,
  Matilda sigh'd.
By Lady Rigid,
  When severely eyed.

"You read, and write,
  And work well, as I'm told,
Are gentle, kind, good-natur'd,
  Far from bold.

But very careless,
  Negligent, and wild—
When you leave me,
  You'll be a different child."

The little girl
  Next morn a favour asks:
"I wish to take a walk,"
  "Go learn your tasks,"

The lady harsh replies,
  "Nor cry nor whine.
Your room you leave not
  Till you're call'd to dine."

As thus Matilda sat,
  O'erwhelm'd with shame,
A dame appear'd,
  Disorder was her name.

Her hair and dress neglected,
  Soil'd her face,
She squinted leer'd,
  And hobbled in her pace.

"Here, child," she said,
  "My mistress sends you this,
A bag of silks—
  A flow'r not work'd amiss—

A polyanthus bright,
  And wondrous gay;
You'll copy it by noon,
  She bade me say."
Disorder grinn'd,
  Then shuffling walk'd away.

Entangled were
  The silks of every hue,
Confus'd and mix'd
  Were shades of pink, green, blue;

She took a thread,
  Compar'd it with the flow'r;
"To finish this is
  Not within my pow'r.

Well-order'd silks
  Had Lady Rigid sent,
I might have work'd,
  If such was her intent."

She sigh'd, and melted
  Into sobs and tears,
She hears a noise
  And at the door appears

A pretty maiden, clean,
  Well-dress'd, and neat
Her voice was soft,
  Her looks sedate, yet sweet.

"My name is Order,
  Do not cry my love;
Attend to me,
  And thus you may improve."

She took the silks,
  And drew out shade for shade,
In sep'rate skeins,
  Each hue with care she laid;
Then smiling kindly,
  Left the little maid.

Matilda now resumed
  Her sweet employ,
And sees the flow'r complete—
  How great her joy.

She leaves the room,
  "I've done my task," she cries.
But soon her harshness
  The lady look'd
With disbelieving eyes,
  Chang'd to glad surprise.

"Why this is well!
  A very pretty flow'r,
Work'd clean, exact,
 And done within the hour!

And now amuse yourself,
  Ride, walk or play."
Thus passed Matilda
  This much-dreaded day.

At all her tasks
  Disorder would attend
At all her tasks
  Still Order stood her friend.

With tears and sighs
  Her studies oft began,
These into smiles
  Were changed by Order's plan;

No longer Lady Rigid
  Seem'd severe,
Her looks the negligent
  Alone need fear.

And when the day
  The wish'd-for day is come
When young Matilda's
  Suffer'd to go home:

"You quit me, child,
  But oft to mind recall
The time you spent
  With me at Austere Hall.

And now, my dear,
  I'll give you one of these,
Your servant she will be;
  Take which you please."

"From me," Disorder asked,
  "Old friend, why start?"
Matilda clasped
  Sweet Order to her heart.
"My dearest girl," she cried,
  "We'll never part."

Forty little school girls, running, but not flirty;
Ten ran into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but thirty.

Thirty little school girls swimming the river Plenty;
Ten swam into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but twenty.

Twenty little school girls jumping in velveteen;
One jumped into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were nineteen.

Nineteen little school girls going out a-skating;
One skated into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but eighteen.

Eighteen little school girls dancing with the queen;
One danced into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were seventeen.

Seventeen little school girls driving a bullock team;
One drove into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were sixteen.

Sixteen little school girls creeping out unseen;
One crept into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were fifteen.

Fifteen little school girls hopping on the green;
One hopped into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were fourteen.

Fourteen little schoolgirls floating down a stream;
One floated into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were thirteen.

Thirteen little school girls leaping out to delve;
One leaped into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but twelve.

Twelve little school girls racing out for leaven;
One raced into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were eleven.

Eleven little school girls dodging a lion when—
One dodged into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but ten.

Ten little school girls, all skipping in a line;
One skipped into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but nine.

Nine little school girls swinging on a gate;
One swung into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but eight.

Eight little school girls, trying to fly to heaven;
One flew into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but seven.

Seven little school girls tripping out for sticks;
One tripped into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but six.

Six little school girls, going for a dive;
One dived into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but five.

Five little school girls, sailing to explore;
One sailed into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but four.

Four little school girls steaming on the sea;
One steamed into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but three.

Three little school girls, riding on a moo;
One rode into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there were but two.

Two little school girls, sliding about for fun;
One slid into Cole's Book Arcade,
And then there was but one.

One little school girl, the nicest, last and best,
She walked into Cole's Book Arcade,
And read books with all the rest.

There was a girl, named tanglepate,
  She lived—I won't say where—
Who was not willing any one
  Should comb or curl her hair.

She cried and made a dreadful fuss,
  At morning, noon, or night,
And did not seem at all ashamed
  Of looking like a fright.

Her hair stood out around her head
  Just like a lion's mane,
And she was scolded, coaxed, and teased
  About it—but in vain.

It caught on buttons, hooks, and boughs
  As here and there she rushed,
And yet she would not consent
  To have it combed or brushed.

And so she fell asleep one day
  Within the woods, and there
Two birdies came and built a nest
  Amid her tangled hair.

I know a very careless girl,
Her hair is always out of curl,
In rags and tatters are her clothes,
And she's a fright, you may suppose.

Her skirts she catches on a nail,
And leaves behind and ugly trail;
Her sashes always are untied,
Her dresses always gaping wide.

'Tis her delight to tear and rend,
She does not like to patch or mend,
And 'tis no wonder that she goes
So out at elbows and at toes.

The naughty girl
  Never minds mamma,
Always says, "I won't!"
  To dear papa!
Makes a great deal of noise
  About the house.
When her mother wants her
  As still as a mouse.

She pinches the cat,
  She pulls her tail;
And takes the bird-cage
  Down from the nail;
Teases her brothers,
  And spoils her hair,
And reproved says,
  "I don't care!"

She worries poor grandma,
  Makes baby cry;
She cannot please him,
  And I know why:—
She lets him lie
  In the crib and moan,
While she is amusing
  Herself alone.

At school she forgets
  What the teacher said,
Sits idly leaning her hands
  On her head;
She never learns
  The task that's given,
And cannot tell even
  Seven times seven.

At table she's careless,
  And spills her drink,
Can never be taught
  To "stop and think;"
Gets down from the table
  And goes to play,
To do the same over
  Another day.

Mopy Maria
Would sit by the fire,
It seemed to be
Her greatest desire;
Bent and bowed
As if wrapped in a shroud,
And her face as black
As a thunder-cloud.

She filled the room
So full of gloom,
The place was as
Dismal as a tomb;
And few would admire
Her, or desire
To spend much time
With Mopy Maria,

She moped and pined
Yet no-one could find
That any trouble
Disturbed her mind;
Nor reasons good
Why she should brood
An such a
Ridiculous attitude.

It wasn't her style
To laugh and smile
She didn't think
It was worth her while;
So dull and flat
She daily sat
Like a Chinese idol,
Or worse than that,

If the children came
To propose a game
Of any sort,
It was all the same;
She wouldn't play,
She wouldn't be gay,
But sat and pouted
The livelong day.

Her face grew thin;
And at length her chin
Grew long and sharp;
Oh! as sharp as a pin!
And one windy day
She blew away
Like a great big kite
That had gone astray.

The winds were high,
And she had to fly
Away at their bidding;
It made her cry;
But she couldn't get higher
Than the tall church spire,
So there she stuck—
Poor Mopy Maria!

Naughty May will not obey,
But will always have her way
Every moment of the day.

If you say do this, or that,
She will be amazed thereat,
Show her claws like any cat.

O she is a naughty child!
Very fond of running wild,
Never gentle, meek, or mild.

Some fine day, I don't know when—
She'll be popp'd in piggy's pen,
And be most unhappy then.

Pigs are stubborn things indeed,
Will not go as you would lead,
Never words of counsel heed.

And pig-headed folks are they
Who will always have their way,
Spite of anything you say.

  Oh! Mary, my mary,
  Why, where is your dolly?
Look here, I protest, on the floor:
  To leave her about
  In the dirt so is folly,
You ought to be trusted no more.

  I thought you were pleas'd.
  And receiv'd her quite gladly,
When on your birthday she came home;
  Did I ever suppose
  You would use her so sadly,
And strew her things over the room?

  Her bonnet of straw
  You once thought a great matter,
And tied it so pretty and neat;
  Now see how 'tis crumpled,
  No trencher is flatter,
It grieves your mamma thus to see't.

  Suppose (you're my Dolly,
  You know, little daughter,
Whom I love to dress neat, and see good),
  Suppose in my care of you,
  I were to falter,
And let you get dirty and rude!

  But Dolly's mere wood,
  You are flesh and bone living,
And deserves better treatment and care;
  That is true, my sweet girl,
  'Tis the reason I'm giving
This lesson so sharp and severe.

  'Tis not for the Dolly
  I'm anxious and fearful,
Tho' she cost too much to be spoil'd;
  I'm afraid lest yourself
  Should get sluttish, not careful,
And that were a sad thing, my child.

When I was living down in Wales,
I knew a girl who bit her nails;
Her finger-ends became so sore,
The blood flowed from them to the floor.

The more she bit the more they bled,
Until upon herself she fed;
And as she nibbled day by day,
The fingers slowly wore away.

See, here she is: she sadly stands
With only stumps instead of hands;
The silly girl can never play,
Yet she was cautioned every day.

Her father said, "You naughty thing,
Some wooden fingers I must bring,
And try to get them fastened to
Your hands with little bits of glue."

When little Lizzie came across
  A birdie, or a chick,
A duckling, or a gosling,
  she would poke it with a stick.

She chased the dog, she chased the cat,
  But when she saw a mouse
She gave a scream so very loud
  It echoed through the house.

She poked the turtles and the frogs
  And thought it was fine fun,
But when the geese poked out their necks
  At her, she had to run.

One day she chanced to find a hive
  With not a bee about,
And said, "Is any one at home?
  "I'll very soon find out!"

And so she did. As soon as she
  Had poked her stick inside,
The bees flew out and stung her so
  She very nearly died.

"Dear me! what signifies a pin,
  Wedg'd in a rotten board?
I'm certain that I won't begin,
  At ten years old, to hoard!
I never will be called a miser;
That I'm determined," said Eliza.

So onward tripped the little maid,
  And left the pin behind,
Which very snug and quiet lay,
  To its hard fate resign'd;
Nor did she think (a careless chit)
'Twas worth her while to stoop for it.

Next day a party was to ride
  To see an air balloon;
And all the company beside
  Were dressed and ready soon:
But she a woful case was in,
For want of just a single pin.

In vain her eager eyes she brings
  To ev'ry darksome crack,
There was not one! and yet her things
  Were dropping off her back.
She cut her pincushion in two,
But no, not one had slidden through.

At last, as hunting on the floor,
  Over a crack she lay,
The carriage rattled to the door,
  Then rattled fast away:
But poor Eliza was not in,
For want of just a single pin.

There's hardly anything so small,
  So trifling or so mean,
That we may never want at all,
  For service unforseen;
And wilful waste, depend upon't
Brings, almost always, woful want!

                Ann Taylor

Oh! she was such a stupid Jane,
  They tried in vain
  To make things plain,
But she would ask and ask again,
As if there wasn't any brain
Inside the head of stupid Jane.

If she was set to do a task,
So many questions she would ask,
'Twas easier far her teachers said
To do the work themselves instead,
Than try to make her understand
The lesson she had in hand.

If on an errand told to go,
And cautioned to do thus and so,
Turn here and there along the way,
Oh! Jane was sure to go astray;
For she hade such a crooked pate,
She could not do an errand straight.

She did not care for books or toys,
She could not play with girls or boys;
Because so oft she blocked their games,
They used to call her dreadful names,
And in loud, angry tones complain,
"Oh, what a horrid, Stupid Jane!"

Brought to the parlour nicely drest
To be presented to a guest,
With finger in her mouth she'd stand
And stare about on every hand,
Nor answer by a single word,
Nor even act as if she heard.

Oh! she was such a stupid Jane,
  They tried in vain
  To make things plain,
But she would ask and ask again,
As if there wasn't any brain
Inside the head of stupid Jane.

The awfullest times that ever could be
They had with a bad little girl of Dundee,
  Who never would finish her crust
    In vain they besought her,
    And patiently taught her
     And told her she must.
    Her grandma would coax,
    And so would the folks,
    And tell her the sinning
    Of such a beginning.
    But no, she wouldn't.
    She couldn't, she shouldn't,
    She'd have them to know—
    So they might as well go.
And what do you think came to pass?
This little girl of Dundee, alas!
Who wouldn't take crusts the regular way,
Sat down to a feast one summer's day;
And what did the people that little girl give?
Why, a dish of bread pudding—as sure as I live!

Polly was a little girl,
  Pretty as a posy;
Rather straight, and rather tall;
  Very round and rosy.

Other little girls and boys
  Always were delighted,
So if to pretty Polly's house
  They had been invited.

There they'd romp, and have great fun,
  Frolicking and shouting;
But alas! they soon would find
  Pretty Polly pouting!

What had any one done?
  How had they displeased her?
Was she sad or mad because
  Johnny Dean had teased her?

Why are you so cross and glum
  When the rest are jolly?
With your under-lip thrust out,
  Tell us, pouting Polly!

Polly loves to have her way;
  Ah! no one can doubt it;
And whenever she's displeased
  She will pout about it.

Such a funny under-lip!
  You would like to grab it,
So that little Polly might
  Break this naughty habit.

In the house or out-of-doors,
  Little Polly Horner
You will find a dozen times
  Pouting in a corner.

Once, when in the garden she
  Stood thus melancholy,
On her under-lip a bee
  Stung Miss Pouting Polly.

Then she danced, and then she screamed;
  People heard her yelling
Half-a-mile or more away,
  While her lip was swelling.

Oh, it swelled, and swelled, and swelled,
  Like a great big blister,
And the pain was very great
  Where the bee had kissed her.

Many days she kept her bed;
  And there is no doubting
That the sorry little maid
  Had her fill of pouting.

For the buzzing busy-bee
  Cured her of her folly;
And the remedy will cure
  Any pouting Polly.

Oh, here's a sad picture!
  Pray carefully look!
As sad as was ever
  Yet seen in a book.

'Tis Emily's portrait:
  Not at all flattered.
Slovenly, dirty, untidy,
  And tattered.

Her mother implores her,
  Again and again,
To make herself tidy;
  But all is in vain.

Her trimmings are torn;
  There's a hole in her dress;
Another, still larger;
  Her shoes in a mess;

Stockings down, buttons missing;
  Shabby old hat,
Not for worlds would I
  Wear it, battered and flat.

Her mother does nothing
  But patch, darn and mend,
Till, saddened and weary,
  She says, "This must end.

"All, all is in vain.
  And now, happen what may,
I can do nothing more;
  So go your own way."

A terrible thing
  Very soon now befell,
Oh, horror! I shudder
  The story to tell.

This girl ran quite wild;
  Till at last she became
All tatters and rags,
  With no feeling of shame.

A man, who was passing,
  Then took her one day,
And in his field placed her,
  To scare birds away.

She is still standing there;
  Stands there day and night.
The sparrows fly round her,
  And cry in affright:

"Look at this dreadful thing!
  Take care now, take care!
Beware of the scarecrow!
  Beware, now, beware!"

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies,
Like a dusk in evening skies!

Thou, whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet!
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields of Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafen'd by the cataract's roar?

O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands—Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June

Childhood is the bough where slumber'd
Birds and blossoms many-number'd—
Age, that bough with snows encumber'd

Gather, then each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

Oh! that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal:

And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

                Longfellow

The girls that are wanted are good girls—
  Good from the heart to the lips;
Pure as the lily is white and pure,
  From it's heart to its sweet leaf tips.
The girls that are wanted are home girls—
  Girls that are a mother's right hand,
That fathers and brothers can trust to,
  And the little ones understand.

The girls that are fair on the hearthstone,
  And pleasant when nobody sees;
Kind and sweet to their own folks,
  Ready and anxious to please.
The girls that are wanted are wise girls,
  That know what to do and to say;
That drive with a smile and soft word
  The wrath of the household away.

The girls that are wanted are girls of sense,
  Whom fashion can never deceive;
Who can follow whatever is pretty,
  And dare what is silly to leave.
The girls that are wanted are careful girls,
  Who count what a thing will cost.
Who use with a prudent generous hand,
  But see that nothing is lost.

The girls that are wanted are girls with hearts,
  They are wanted for mothers and wives,
Wanted to cradle in loving arms
  The strongest and frailest lives.
The clever, the witty, the brilliant girl,
  There are few who can understand,
But, oh! for the wise, loving home girls
  There's a constant steady demand.

Francis, is "unrestrained and free;"
  Bertha, "pellucid, purely bright;"
Clara, "clear" as the crystal sea;
  Lucy, a star of radiant "light;"
Catherine, is "pure" as mountain air;
  Barbara, cometh "from afar;"
Mabel, is "like a lily fair;"
  Henrietta, a soft, sweet "star;"
Felicia, is a "happy girl;"
  Matilda, is a "lady true;"
Margaret, is a shining "pearl;"
  Rebecca, "with the faithful few;"
Susan, is a "lily white;"
  Jane has the "willow's" curve and grace;
Cecilia, dear, is "dim of sight;"
  Sophia, shows "wisdom" on her face;
Constance, is firm and "resolute;"
  Grace, a delicious "favour meet;"
Charlotte, "noble, of good repute;"
  Harriet, a fine "odour sweet;"
Isabella, is "a lady rare;"
  Lucinda, "constant" as the day;
Maria, means a "lady fair;"
  Abigail, "joyful as the May;"
Elizabeth, "an oath of trust;"
  Adeline, "nice princess, proud;"
Agatha, "is truly good and just;"
  Leila, "a joy of love avowed;"
Jemima, "a soft sound in air;"
  Caroline, "a sweet spirit, hale;"
Cornelia, "harmonious and fair;"
  Selina, "a sweet nightingale;"
Lydia, "a refreshing well;"
  Judith, "a song of sacred praise;"
Julia, "a jewel none excel;"
  Priscilla, "ancient of days."

There's something in the name of Kate
  Which many will condemn;
But listen now while I relate
  The traits of some of them.

There's deli-Kate, a modest dame,
  She's worthy of your love!
She's nice and beautiful a flame,
  And gentle as a dove,

Communi-Kate's intelligent,
  As we may well suppose;
Her fruitful mind is ever bent
  On telling all she knows.

There's intri-Kate, she's so obscure
  'Tis hard to find her out;
For she is often very sure
  To put your wits to rout.

Prevari-Kate's a surly maid,
  She's sure to have her way;
The cavilling, contrary jade,
  Objects to all you say.

There's alter-Kate, a perfect pest;
  Much given to dispute;
Her prattling tongue can never rest,
  You cannot her refute.

Then dislo-Kate, is quite a fret,
  Who fails to gain her point;
Her case is quite unfortunate
  And sorely out of joint.

Equivo-Kate no one will woo—
  The thing would be absurd.
She is so faithless and untrue,
  You cannot take her word.

There's vindi-Kate, she's good and true,
  And strives with all her might
Her duty faithfully to do
  And battles for the right.

There's rusti-Kate, a country lass,
  Quite fond of rural scenes;
She likes to ramble through the grass
  And through the evergreens.

Of all the maidens you can find,
  There's none like edu-Kate;
Because she elevates the mind
  And aims at something great.