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LUCY AND d.i.c.kY.

Miss Lucy was a charming child.

She never said, I won't!

If little d.i.c.k her playthings spoiled, She said pray, d.i.c.ky, don't!

He took her waxen doll one day, And banged it round and round, Then tore its legs and arms away, And threw them on the ground.

His good mama was angry quite, And Lucy's tears ran down; But d.i.c.k went supperless that night, And since has better grown.

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THE FAIRY MAN.

Oh, dear Mama, where have you gone?

Come here, the baby stands alone; And only think, indeed 'tis truth, He has, just feel, a little tooth.

Look at his pretty shining hair, His cheek so red, his skin so fair, His curly ringlets, just like flax, His little bosom, just like wax.

Oh, how I long 'till he can walk; And then I'll long 'till he can talk; And then I'll long 'till he can play, When we have said our tasks each day.

I think he's growing very wise, Now, don't you think so? Julia cries.

Then to the cradle off she ran, To kiss the little fairy man.

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COME PLAY IN THE GARDEN.

Little sister, come away, And let us in the garden play, For it is a pleasant day.

On the gra.s.s-plat let us sit, Or, if you please, we'll play a bit, And run about all over it.

But the fruit we will not pick, That would be a naughty trick, And, very likely, make us sick.

Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers, That grow about the beds and bowers.

Because, you know, they are not ours.

We'll pluck the daisies, white and red, Because mama has often said, That we may gather them instead.

And much I hope we always may Our very dear mama obey, And mind whatever she may say.

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THE UMBRELLA.

Once as little Isabella Ventured, with a large Umbrella, Out upon a rainy day, She was nearly blown away.

Sadly frighten'd then was she, For 'twas very near the sea, And the wind was very high, But, alas! no friend was nigh.

Luckily, her good Mama Saw her trouble from afar; Running just in time, she caught her Pretty little flying daughter.

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NO BREAKFAST FOR GROWLER.

No, naughty Growler, get away, You shall not have a bit; Now when I speak, how dare you stay!

I can't spare any, sir, I say And so you need not sit.

Poor Growler! do not make him go But recollect, before, That he has never serv'd you so, For you have given him many a blow That patiently he bore.

Poor Growler! if he could speak, He'd tell, (as well he might,) How he would bear with many a freak, And wag his tail and look so meek, And neither bark nor bite.

Clever Little Thomas.

When Thomas Poole first went to school, He was but scarcely seven; Yet knew as well to read and spell, As most boys of eleven.

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He took his seat, and wrote quite neat, And never idly acted; And then, beside, he multiplied, Divided and subtracted.

His master said, (and strok'd his head), "If thus you persevere, "My little friend you may depend "Upon a Prize next year."

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