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"WHO'LL Come here and play with me under the tree? My sisters have left me alone :

Ah! sweet little sparrow, come hither to me,
And play with me while they are gone."

"Oh no, little lady, I can't come, indeed,
I've no time to idle away,

I've got all my dear little children to feed,
They've not had a morsel to-day."

"Pretty bee, do not buzz in that marigold flower,
But come here and play with me, do;
The sparrow won't come and stay with me an hour,
But say, pretty bee, will not you?"

"Oh no, little lady, for do not you see,

Those must work who would prosper and thrive? If I play, they will call me a sad idle bee,

And perhaps turn me out of the hive.'

"Stop, stop, little ant, do not run off so fast,
Wait with me a little, and play;

I hope I shall find a companion at last,
You are not so busy as they."

“Oh no, little lady, I can't stay with you,
We are not made to play, but to labour;
I always have something or other to do,
If not for myself, for a neighbour."

"What, then! they all have some employment but me, Whilst I loiter here like a dunce :

Oh, then, like the sparrow, the ant, and the bee,

I'll go to my lesson at once.'

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LITTLE Willie stood under an apple tree old;
The fruit was all shining with crimson and gold,
Hanging temptingly low;-how he longed for a bite!
Though he knew if he took one it wouldn't be right.

Said he, "I don't see why my father should say,
'Don't touch the old apple tree, Willie, to-day;'
I shouldn't have thought, now they're hanging so low,
When I asked just for one, he should answer me 'No.'

"He would never find out if I took but just one— And they do look so good shining out in the sun; There are hundreds and hundreds, and he wouldn't miss

So paltry a little red apple as this."

He stretched forth his hand, but a low, mournful strain

Came wandering dreamily over his brain;

In his bosom a beautiful harp had long laid,
That the angel of conscience quite frequently played.
And he
sung, Little Willie, beware! oh, beware!
Your father has gone, but your Maker is there!
How sad you would feel if you heard the Lord say,
'This dear little boy stole an apple to-day!'"

Then Willie turned round, and, as still as a mouse,
Crept slowly and carefully into the house;

In his own little chamber he knelt down to pray
That the Lord would forgive him, and please not to


"Little Willie almost stole an apple to-day."



WELCOME, little robin

With the scarlet breast;
In this winter weather
Cold must be your nest.
Hopping o'er the carpet,
Picking up the crumbs,
Robin knows the children
Love him when he comes.
Is the story true, robin,
You were once so good
To the little orphans
Sleeping in the wood?
Did you see them lying
Pale, and cold, and still,
And strew leaves above them
With your little bill?

Whether true or not, robin,
We are glad to see
How you trust us children,
Walking in so free;
Hopping o'er the carpet,
Picking up the crumbs,

Robin knows the children

Love him when he comes.

And though little robin
Has no gift of speech,
Yet he can a lesson

To the children teach;
Still to trust that blessings
Will be rightly given,
When they ask their Father

For their bread from heaven.


THE sunshine is a glorious thing,
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot,
The noble's painted hall.

The moonlight is a gentle thing;
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow, where
The happy infant dreams.

It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lovely sea;

Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak tree.

The dewdrops on the summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;

The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.

There are no gems in monarchs' crowns
More beautiful than they;
And yet we scarcely notice them,
But tread them off in play.

Poor Robin on the pear tree sings

Beside the cottage door;

The heath flower fills the air with sweets

Upon the pathless moor.

There are as many lovely things,

As many pleasant tones,

For those who sit by cottage hearths,

As those who sit on thrones !


LITTLE brother, darling boy,
You are very dear to me!
I am happy-full of joy,

When your smiling face I see.

How I wish that you could speak,
And could know the words I say!
Pretty stories I would seek,

To amuse you every day ;

All about the honey-bees,
Flying past us in the sun;
Birds that sing among the trees,

Lambs that in the meadows run.

Shake your rattle-here it is-
Listen to its merry noise ;
And when you are tired of this,
I will bring you other toys.


CLOSE by the threshold of a door nailed fast,
Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,

At the three kittens cast a careless eye.

Not much concerned to know what they did there, Nor deeming kittens worth a poet's care.

But presently a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"

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