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
Bright and shady leaves among.

When your cheek the brightest glows,
Is it redder than the rose?
But its sweetest buds are seen
Almost hid with moss and green.

Little flowers that open gay,
Peeping forth at break of day,
In the garden, hedge, or plain,
Have more reason to be vain.

"Oh, dear Mamma, that little girl
  Forgets this is the day
When children should be clean and neat,
  And read and learn and pray!

Her face is dirty and her frock,
  Holes in her stockings, see;
Her hair is such a fright, oh, dear!
  How wicked she must be!

She's playing in the kennel dirt
  With ragged girls and boys;
But I would not on Sunday touch
  My clean and pretty toys.

I go to church, and sit so still,
  I in the garden walk,
Or take my stool beside the fire,
  And hear nice Sunday talk.

I read my bible, learn my hymns,
  My catechism say;
That wicked little girl does not—
  She only cares to play."

"Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,
  Repress self-glorying pride;
You can do nothing of yourself—
  Friends all your actions guide."

Hark the rustle of a dress
Stiff with lavish costliness!
Here comes on whose cheek would flush
But to have her garment brush
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary 'broidery in,
Bending backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And in midnight's chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work.
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the brede;
A hyena by her side
Skulks, down-looking—it is Pride.

                J. R. Lowell

Oh! Fanny was so vain a lass,
If she came near a looking-glass,
She'd stop right there for many a minute
To see how pretty she looked in it.

She'd stand and prink, and fix her hair
Around her forehead with great care;
And take some time to tie a bow
That must, to please her, lie just so.

Her mother's bonnet she'd put on,
And all her richest dresses don,
And up and down the room parade,
And much enjoy her promenade.

She always liked to wear the best
She had, and being so much dress'd
Could not enjoy the romps with those
Who wore much less expensive clothes.

Each day she grew so fond of dress
It gave her great unhappiness
If every day, and all the while,
She wasn't in the latest style.

If asked to turn the jumping-rope
Her pretty parasol she'd ope,
Lest she should freckle in the sun:
And that was her idea of fun!

She didn't dare to take the cat
Or poodle-dog from off the mat,
Lest they should catch their little toes
In laces, frills, or furbelows.

The very things that gave her joy,
Her peace and comfort would destroy,
For oft an ugly nail would tear
The costly dress she chose to wear.

The foolish girl turned up her nose
At those who dressed in plainer clothes,
And lived in quiet style, for she
With wealthy people chose to be

She never was the least inclined
With knowledge to enrich her mind;
And all the mental food she ate
Was served upon a fashion-plate.

As this was so, you'll see at once
That Fan grew up a silly dunce:
An there was nothing to admire
About her, but her fine attire.

  Come, come, Mr. Peacock,
    You must not be so proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
  For there's many a bird
    Far more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.

  Let me tell you, gay bird,
    That a suit of fine clothes
Is a sorry distinction at most,
  And seldom much valued
    Excepting by those
Who only such graces can boast.

  The nightingale certainly
    Wears a plain coat,
But she cheers and delights with her song;
  While you, though so vain,
    Cannot utter a note
To please by the use of your tongue.

  The hawk cannot boast
    Of a plumage so gay,
But more piercing and clear is her eye;
  And while you are strutting
    About all the day,
She gallantly soars in the sky.

  The dove may be clad
    In a plainer attire,
But she is not so selfish and cold;
  And her love and affection
    More pleasure inspire
Than all your fine purple and gold.

  So, you see, Mr. Peacock,
    You must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
  For many a bird
    Is more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.

How proud we are, how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new,
When the poor sheep and silkworm wore
That very clothing long before!

The tulip and butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.

                Dr. Watts

In a frock richly trimm'd
  With a beautiful lace,
And hair nicely dress'd
  Hanging over her face,
Thus deck'd, Harriet went
  To the house of a friend,
With a large little party
  The ev'ning to spend.

"Ah! how they will all
  Be delighted, I guess,
And stare with surprise
  At my elegant dress!"
Thus said the vain girl,
  And her little heart beat,
Impatient the happy
  Young party to meet.

But, alas! they were all
  To intent on their fun,
To observe the gay clothes
  This fine lady had on;
And thus all her trouble
  Quite lost its design,
For they saw she was proud,
  But forgot she was fine.

'Twas Lucy, tho' only
  In simple white clad,
(Nor trimmings, nor laces,
  Nor jewels she had,)
Whose cheerful good nature
  Delighted them more,
Than all the fine garments
  That Harriet wore.

'Tis better to have
  A sweet smile on one's face,
Than to wear a rich frock
  With an elegant lace,
For the good-natur'd girl
  Is lov'd best in the main,
If her dress is but decent,
  Tho' ever so plain.

                T I

A little cane,
  A high-crowned hat,
A fixed impression,
  Rather flat.

A pointed shoe,
  A scanty coat,
A stand-up collar
  Round his throat

A gorgeous necktie
  Spreading wide,
A small moustache—
  Nine on a side.

Arms at right angles,
  Curved with ease,
A stilted walk
  And shaky knees.

A languid drawl,
  The "English" swing,
An air of knowing
  Everything.

A vacant stare,
  Extremely rude,
And there you have
  The perfect dude.

Hark the rustle of a dress
Stiff with lavish costliness!
Here comes on whose cheek would flush
But to have her garment brush
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary 'broidery in,
Bending backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And in midnight's chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work.
Shaping from her bitter thought,
Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,
Satirizing her despair
With the emblems woven there,
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the blede;
A hyena by her side
Skulks, down-looking—it is Pride.

                J. R. Lowell

It surely is not good to see,
Lizzie so full of vanity,
  So fond of dress and show.
For when a fine new frock she wears,
She gives herself most silly airs,
  Wherever she may go.

She thinks herself a charming girl;
But when folks see her twist and twirl,
  They stop in every street,
They smile, or fairly laugh outright,
And say: "She's really quite a sight,
  Was ever such conceit?"

Mamma gave our Nelly an apple,
  So round, and big, and red;
It seemed, beside dainty wee Nelly,
  To be almost as large as her head.

Beside her young Neddie was standing—
  And Neddie loves apples, too,
"Ah! Nelly!" said Neddie, "give brother
  A bite of your apple—ah! do!"

Dear Nelly held out the big apple;
  Ned opened his mouth very wide—
So wide, that the startled red apple
  Could almost have gone inside!

And oh! what a bite he gave it!
  The apple looked small, I declare,
When Ned gave it back to his sister,
  Leaving that big bite there.

Poor Nelly looked frightened a moment,
  Then a thought made her face grow bright;
"Here, Ned, you can take the apple—
  I'd rather have the bite!"

                Eva L. Carson, In "St. Nicholas"

Once, when I was a little boy,
  I sat me down to cry,
Because my little brother had
  The biggest piece of pie.

They said I was a naughty boy,
  But I have since seen men
Behave themselves as foolishly
  As I behaved then.

For we are often thankless for
  Rich blessings when we sigh,
To think some lucky neighbour has
  A "bigger piece" of pie.

  "Oh! I am so hungry,
    I'm sure I can't wait,
For my apple-pudding to cool,
  So, Mary, be quick now
    And bring me a plate,
  For waiting for dinner
    I always did hate,
Tho' forced oft to do it at school.

  "But at home, when mamma
    Is not in the way,
I surely will do as I choose;
  And I do not care for
    What you please to say—
  The pudding won't burn me—
    No longer I'll stay.
What business have you to refuse?"

  And now a large slice
    Of the pudding she got,
And, fearful she should have no more,
  She cramm'd her mouth full
    Of the apple so hot,
  Which had but a minute
    Come out of the pot,
But quickly her triumph was o'er.

  Her mouth and her tongue
    Were so dreadfully sore,
And suffer'd such terrible pain,
  Her pride and her consequence
    Soon were all o'er,
  And she said, now unable
    To eat any more,
"Oh! I never will do so again!"

  And thus, by not minding
    What she had been told,
Young Ellinor lost all her treat;
  Too greedy to wait
    Till the pudding was cold,
  By being impatient,
    Conceited, and bold,
Not a mouthful at last could she eat.

                C. Horwood.

Little Tommy, and Peter, and Archie, and Bob
  Were walking, one day, when they found
An apple: 'twas mellow, and rosy, and red,
  And lying alone on the ground.

Said Tommy: "I'll have it." Said peter: "'Tis mine."
  Said Archie: "I've got it; so there!"
Said Bobby: "Now, let us divide it in four parts
  And each of us boys have a share."

"No, no!" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it myself."
  Said Peter: "I want it, I say."
Said Archie: "I've got it, and I'll have it all,
  I won't give a morsel away."

Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter he fought,
  ('Tis sad and distressing to tell!)
And Archie held on with his might and his main,
  Till out from his fingers it fell.

Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew
  And then, down a green little hill
That apple it roll'd, and it roll'd, and it roll'd
  As if it would never be still.

A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass,
  And switching her tail at the flies,
When all of a sudden the apple rolled down
  And stopped just in front of her eyes.

She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—
  That apple was seen nevermore!
"I wish," whimpered Archie, and Peter, and Tom,
  "We'd kept it and cut it in four."

                Sydney Dyer

"I think I want some pies this morning"
Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;
So down he threw his slate and books,
And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.

And there he cast his greedy eyes
Round on the jellies and the pies,
So to select, with anxious care,
The very nicest that was there.

At last the point was thus decided:
As his opinion was divided
'Twixt pie and jelly, he was loth
Either to leave, so took them both.

Now Richard never could be pleas'd
To stop when hunger was appeas'd,
But he'd go on to eat and stuff,
Long after he had had enough.

"I shan't take any more," said Dick,
"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:
I cannot eat this other bit;
I wish I had not tasted it."

Then slowly rising from his seat,
He threw the cheesecake in the street,
And left the tempting pastry-cook's
With very discontented looks.

                Jane Taylor

  "Oh! I've got a plum cake,
  And a rare feast I'll make,
I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;
  Morning, noontime, and night,
  It shall be my delight;—
What a happy young fellow I am."

  Thus said little George,
  And, beginning to gorge,
With zeal to his cake he applied;
  While fingers and thumbs,
  For the sweetmeats and plums,
Were hunting and digging besides.

  But, woeful to tell,
  A misfortune befell,
Which ruin'd this capital fun!
  After eating his fill,
  He was taken so ill,
That he trembled for what he had done.

  As he grew worse and worse,
  The doctor and nurse,
To cure his disorder were sent;
  And rightly, you'll think,
  He had physic to drink,
Which made him his folly repent.

  And while on his bed
  He roll'd his hot head,
Impatient with sickness and pain;
  He could not but take
  This reproof from his cake,
"Don't be such a glutton again!"

  "Oh! I've got a plum cake,
  And a feast let us make,
Come, school-fellows, come at my call;
  I assure you 'tis nice,
  And we'll each have a slice,
Here's more than enough for us all."

  Thus said little Jack,
  As he gave it a smack,
And sharpen'd his knife for the job!
  While round him a troop,
  Formed a clamorous group,
And hail'd him the king of the mob.

  With masterly strength
  He cut thro' it at length,
And gave to each playmate a share;
  Dick, William, and James,
  And many more names,
Partook of his benevolent care.

  And when it was done,
  And they'd finish'd their fun,
To marbles or hoop they went back,
  And each little boy
  Felt it always a joy
To do a good turn for good Jack.

  In his task and his book,
  His best pleasures he took,
And as he thus wisely began,
  Since he's been a man grown,
  He has constantly shown
That a good boy will make a good man.

                Ann Taylor

'Twas the voice of the glutton,
  I heard him complain:
My waistcoat unbutton,
  I'll eat once again.

The voice of the glutton
  I heard with disdain—
"I've not eaten this hour,
  I must eat again;
Oh! give me a pudding,
  A pie, or a tart,
A duck or a fowl,
  Which I love from my heart.

"How sweet is the picking
  Of capon or chicken!
A turkey and chine
  Are most charming and fine;
To eat and to drink
  All my pleasure is still,
I care not who wants
  So that I have my fill."

Oh! let me not be,
  Like a glutton, inclined
In feasting my body
  And starving my mind,
With moderate viands
  Be thankful, and pray
That the Lord may supply me
  With food the next day.

Not always a-craving
With hunger still raving;
But little and sweet
Be the food that I eat.
To learning and wisdom
  Oh let me apply.
And leave to the glutton
  His pudding and pie.

                J. Taylor

Selfish Edith, not to give
  Her sister one, when she has two!
I wouldn't and I couldn't love
  A selfish girl like her, could you?

Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,
  "Please, Edith, let me play with one!"
While naughty Edith shakes her head:
  I fear she'll have but little fun

With toys unshared so selfishly;
  But when she tires of lonely play,
Perhaps she'll secretly resolve
  To be more kind another day.

Oh! Henry eats like any pig;
  He drives his mother mad.
She scolds. He does not care a fig,
  It's really very sad.

She says: "Your sister, little dear,
  Is always clean and neat;
And though she's younger by a year,
  How nicely she can eat."

It's all in vain. He does not care;
  He's shocking to behold.
The table-cloth and napkin there
  Are smeared in every fold.

Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,
  As though for chickens laid,
Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!
  Is dirt of every shade.

He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,
  Just like some savage wild,
His hands as forks are used, it's plain.
  For shame! You dirty child!

Look at the selfish man! see how he locks
Tight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!
While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,
And gold and silver close around he clasps.
But not content with this, behind he drags
A cart well-laden with ponderous bags;
The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woe
From mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;
He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;
Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;
His heart is like the rock where sun nor dew
Can rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.
No thought of mercy there may have its birth,
For helpless misery or suffering worth;
The end of all his life is paltry pelf,
And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:
The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,
First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.

Nellie and Dottie
  Both here mamma say,
"Pray from the drawing-room
  Keep away.

Don't take your toys there,
  Lest someone should call:
Run out in the garden
  With rope, bat and ball."

The garden is lovely,
  This bright summer day;
But Nellie and Dottie
  Too soon came away.

Into the drawing-room
  Dottie comes skipping,
With her new rope
  All the furniture flipping:

Down goes the tall vase,
  So golden and gay,
Smashed all to pieces,
  "What will mamma say?"

Cries Nell with her hands raised,
  "Oh Dottie, let's run;
They'll think it was pussy,
  Who did it in fun."

Dot answers, through big tears,
  "But, Nell, don't you see,
Though nobody watched us,
  God knows it was me.

Mamma always says,
  That, whatever we do,
The harm's not so great,
  If we dare to be true.

So I'll go up and tell her
  It caught in my rope;
Perhaps she won't scold much,
  At least, so I'll hope."

"That's right!" cries her mother,
  Who stands by the door,
"I would rather have ten vases
  Were smashed on the floor

Than my children should once break
  The bright words of truth,
The dearest possession
  Of age or of youth.

The vase can be mended,
  And scarce show a crack,
But a falsehood once spoken
  Will never come back."

However much grieved for
  By young folks or old,
An untruth once uttered,
  Forever is told.

O! 'tis a lovely thing for youth
  To walk betimes in wisdom's way;
To fear a lie, to speak the truth,
  That we may trust to all they say.

But liars we can never trust,
  Tho' they should speak the thing that's true,
And he that does one fault at first,
  And lies to hide it, makes it two.

Why should you fear the truth to tell?
Does falsehood ever do you so well?
Can you be satisfied to know
There's something wrong to hide below
No! let your fault be what it may,
To own it is the happy way.

So long as you your crime conceal,
You cannot light or gladsome feel;
Your heart will ever feel oppressed,
As if a weight were on your breast:
And e'en your mother's eye to meet
Will tinge your face with shame and heat.

Little Mary one day most loudly did call,
  "Mamma! oh, mamma, pray come here!
A fall I have had—oh! a very sad fall."
  Mamma ran in haste and in fear;
Then Mary jump'd up, and she laugh'd in great glee,
  And cried, "Why, how fast you can run!
No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,
  My screaming was only in fun."

Her mother was busy at work the next day,
  She heard from without a loud cry,
"The big dog has got me! O help me! Oh! pray!
  He tears me—he bites me—I die!"
Mamma, all in terror, quick to the court
  And there little Mary she found;
Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you do!"
  And curtsey'd quite down to the ground.

That night little Mary, when long gone to bed,
  Shrill cries and loud shriekings were heard;
"I'm on fire, O mamma, come up or I'm dead!"
  Mamma she believ'd not a word.
"Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she call'd out from below,
  "How often have I been deceived?
You're telling a story, you very well know:
  Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."

Yet still the child scream'd—now the house fill'd with smoke.
  That fire is above Jane declares.
Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,
  When ev'ryone hastened upstairs.
All burnt and all seam'd is her once pretty face,
  And how terribly mark'd are her arms,
Her features all scarr'd, leave a lasting disgrace,
  For giving Mamma false alarms.

                Adelaide Taylor

And has my darling told a lie?
Did she forget that God was by?
That God who saw the thing she did,
From whom no action can be hid;
Did she forget that God could see,
And hear, wherever she might be?

He made you eyes and can discern
Whichever way you think to turn;
He made your ears, and He can hear
When you think nobody is near;
In ev'ry place, by night or day,
He watches all you do and say.

You thought, because you were alone,
Your falsehood never could be known,
But liars always are found out,
Whatever ways they wind about;
And always be afraid, my dear,
To tell a lie,—for God can hear!

I wish, my dear, you'd always try
To act as shall not need a lie;
And when you wish a thing to do,
That has been once forbidden to you,
Remember that, and never dare
To disobey—For God is there!

Why should you fear to tell me true?
Confess, and then I'll pardon you:
Tell me you're sorry, and you'll try
To act the better by and bye,
And then whate'er your crime has been,
It won't be half so great a sin.

But cheerful, innocent, and gay,
As passes by the smiling day,
You'll never have to turn aside,
From any one your faults to hide;
Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear,
That either God or I should hear.

                Ann Taylor

Oh, Mary, this will never do!
  This work is sadly done, my dear,
And such little of it too!
  You have not taken pains, I fear.

On 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 never be allowed to play;
But then I hope, my love, that you
  Will take more pains another day.

A lazy, lazy, lazy girl!
Her hair forever out of curl,
Her feet unshod, her hands unclean,
Her dress in tatters always seen.

Lounging here and dawdling there,
Lying out 'most anywhere
About the barn-yard. Not a thought
Of studying lessons as she ought;

But happiest when in sunny weather
She and "the other pig" together
Are playing tricks. No wonder, then,
The farmer, jolliest of men,

Is apt to say, when tired out
With seeing her sprawling round about,
"Beats all what ails that lazy gal!
Why, piggy's twice as smart as Sal!"

To Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,
  Of silk with flowers so gay,
That she a place might always have
  To put her work away.

And then 'twas furnished quite complete
  With cotton, silk and thread,
And needless in a case so neat,
  Of all the sizes made.

A little silver thimble, too,
  Was there among the rest;
And a large waxen doll, quite new,
  That waited to be dress'd.

But Jane was very fond of play,
  And loved to toss her ball;
An I am quite ashamed to say,
  She scarcely worked at all.

But if at any time she did,
  'Twas but a stitch or two;
And though she often has been bid,
  But little more would do.

The pretty little bag, indeed,
  Was hung upon her chair;
But cotton, needles, silk, and thread
  Were scattered here and there.

Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,
  And asked if the doll was dress'd;
Miss Jane has been engaged in play,
  And careless of the rest.

The silk, to make her little dress,
  Was on the table laid,
And, with an equal carelessness,
  The cap had also strayed.

With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,
  All in disorder lay,
When, bounding in with gesture rude,
  Came Jane, returned from play.

She little thought her aunt to find,
  And blushed to see her there;
It brought her carelessness to mind,
  And what her doll should wear.

"Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?
  I hope you've dress'd her now;
But there is such a litter here,
  You best know when and how."

So spoke her aunt, and, looking round
  The empty bag she spied;
Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,
  Now hid her face and cried.

"Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,
  But waste your time in play;
The work-bag, of no use to you,
  I now shall take away."

But now, with self-conviction, Jane
  Her idleness confessed,
And ere her aunt could come again,
  Her doll was neatly dressed.

  When Harry and Dick
    Had been striving to please,
Their father (to whom it was known)
  Made two little gardens,
    And stocked them with trees,
And gave one to each for his own.

  Harry thank'd his papa,
    And with rake, hoe, and spade,
Directly began his employ;
  And soon such a neat
    Little garden was made,
That he panted with labour and joy.

  There was always some bed
    Or some border to mend,
Or something to tie or stick:
  And Harry rose early
    His garden to tend,
While snoring lay indolent Dick.

  The tulip, the rose,
    And the lily so white,
United their beautiful bloom!
  And often the honey-bee
    Stoop'd from his flight,
To sip the delicious perfume.

  A neat row of peas
    In full blossom was seen,
French beans were beginning to shoot!
  And his gooseb'ries and currents,
    Tho' yet they were green,
Foretold of plenty of fruit.

  But Richard loved better
    In bed to repose,
And snug as he curl'd himself round,
  Forgot that not tulip,
    Nor lily, nor rose,
Nor plant in his garden was found.

  Rank weeds and tall nettles
    Disfigur'd his beds,
Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,
  The slug and the snail
    Show'd their mischievous heads,
And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.

  Thus Richard the idle,
    Who shrank from the cold,
Beheld his trees naked and bare;
  Whilst Harry the active
    Was charmed to behold
The fruit of his patience and care.

                Ann Taylor.

I asked a lad what he was doing;
  "Nothing, good sir," said he to me.
"By nothing well and long pursuing,
  Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."

I asked a lad what he was thinking;
  "Nothing," said he. "I do declare."
"Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,
  By idle minds were carried there."

There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,
  Which idle hands and minds supply;
Those who all thought and toil despise,
  Mere nothings live, and nothings die.

A thousand naughts are not a feather,
  When in a sum they all are brought;
A thousand idle lads together
  Are still but nothings joined to naught.

And yet of merit they will boast,
  And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,
But still 'tis very plain to most,
  That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.

There was a lazy boy named Sam,
  The laziest ever known,
Who spent his time in idleness,
  Like any other drone.
He loved to lie in bed till noon,
  With covers closely drawn,
And when he managed to get up
  He'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.

If asked to do a simple task
  He always would refuse,
And say that he was lame or sick,
  His action to excuse,
And over pretty picture-books—
  Twas really very odd—
This lazy boy would soon begin
  To nod, and nod, and nod.

If on an errand forced to go,
  He'd slowly, slowly creep,
Just like a snail; you might suppose
  That he was half asleep.
And those who would despatch in haste
  A note, or telegram,
Would chose a swifter messenger
  Than such a lazy Sam.

If he was caught out in a storm
  'Twould drench him to the skin,
Because he was too indolent
  To hurry to get in.
Deep in his trouser's pockets he
  His idle hands would cram,
And children crowded to the doors
  To look at lazy Sam.

This lazy boy would lounge about
  The docks, and often wish
That he could carry home to cook
  A string of nice, fresh fish;
But though he was provided with
  A reel extremely fine,
Said Sam "I do not think 'twill pay
  To wet my fishing line!"

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!"

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

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

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.

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."

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! 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.

'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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

"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.

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

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.

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."

  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."

  Cried Tommy, I'll mind
    What my good mamma says,
And take the advice of a friend;
  I never will steal
    To the end of my days,
I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."

                Adelaide

With honest heart go on your way,
  Down to your burial sod,
And never for a moment stray
  Beyond the path of God;
And everything along your way
  In colours bright shall shine;
The water from the jug of clay
  Shall taste like costly wine!

                Holte

On the goods that are not thine,
  Little child, lay not a finger;
Round thy neighbour's better things
  Let no wistful glances linger.

Pilfer not the smallest thing;
  Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,
Though the owner have enough,
  Though he know it not, nor need it.

Taste not the forbidden fruit,
  Though resistance be a trial;
Grasping hand and roving eye,
  Early teach them self-denial.

Upright heart and honest name
  To the poorest are a treasure;
Better than ill-gotten wealth,
  Better far than pomp and pleasure.

Poor and needy though thou art,
  Gladly take what God has given;
With clean hands and humble heart,
  Passing through this world to heaven.

Why should I deprive my neighbour
  Of his goods against his will?
Hands were meant for honest labour,
  Not to plunder, nor to steal.

'Tis a foolish self-deceiving
  By such tricks to hope for gain:
All that's ever got by thieving
  Turns to sorrow, shame, and pain.

Oft we see the young beginner
  Practice little pilfering ways,
Till grown up a hardened sinner,
  Then the gallows ends his days.

Theft will not be always hidden,
  Though we fancy none can spy;
When we take a thing forbidden,
  God holds it with His eye.

Guard my heart, O God of heaven,
  Lest is covet what's not mine;
Lest I take what is not given,
  Guard my heart and hands from sin.

                Watts