When she thought the family Out of sight and hearing too, Forth a polished table she Quickly to the closet drew.

First, she stepped upon a chair; Then the table--then a shelf; Thinking she securely there Might, unnoticed, help herself.

Then she seized a heavy slice, Leaving in the loaf a cleft Wider than a dozen mice, Feasted there all night, had left.

Stepping backward, f.a.n.n.y slid On the table's polished face:-- Down she came, with dish and lid, Silver--gla.s.s--and china vase!

In, from every room they rushed, Father--mother--servants--all, Thinking all the closet crushed, By the racket and the fall.

'Mid the uproar of the house, f.a.n.n.y, in her shame and fright, Wished herself indeed a mouse, But to run and hide from sight.

Yet was she to learn how vain, Poor and worthless, is a wish.

Wishing could not lull her pain, Hide her shame, nor mend a dish.

There she lay, but could not speak; For a tooth had made a pa.s.s Through her lip; and to her cheek Clung a piece of shivered gla.s.s.

From her altered features gushed Rolling tears, and streaming gore; While, untasted still, and crushed, Lay her cake upon the floor.

Then the doctor hurried in: f.a.n.n.y at his needle swooned, As he held her crimson chin, And together st.i.tched the wound.

Now her face a scar must wear, Ever till her dying day!

Questioned how it happened there, What can blushing f.a.n.n.y say?

=Sudden Elevation; or The Empaled b.u.t.terfly=

"Ho!" said the b.u.t.terfly, "here am I, Up in the air, who used to lie Flat on the ground, for the pa.s.sers by To treat with utter neglect!

But none will suspect that I am the same; With a bright, new coat, and a different name; The piece of nothingness whence I came In me they'll never detect.

"That horrible night in the chrysalis, Which brought me at length to a day like this, In a form of beauty--a state of bliss, Was little enough to give For freedom to range from bower to bower, To flirt with the buds, and flatter the flower, And bask in the sunbeams hour by hour, The envy of all that live.

"Why, this is a world of curious things, Where those who crawl, and those that have wings, Are ranked in the cla.s.ses of beggars, and kings, No matter how much the worth May be on the side of those who creep, Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep, Others from notice, and proudly keep Uppermost on the earth!

"Many a one that has loathed the sight Of the piteous worm, will take delight In welcoming me, as I look so bright In my new and beautiful dress.

But some I shall pa.s.s with a scornful glance, Some, with an elegant _nonchalance_; And others will woo me, till I advance To give them a slight caress."

"Ha, ha!" said the Pin, "you are just the one Through which I'm commissioned, at once, to run From back to breast, till, your fluttering done, Your form may be fairly shown.

And when my point shall have reached your heart, 'T will be as a balm to the wounded part, To think how you're to be copied by art, And your beauty will all be known!"

=The Stricken Bird=

Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!

Take it, my suffering brood.

Oh! they have stricken me under the wing; See, it is dripping with blood!

Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise, Enjoying its beauties with me.

The air was all fragrance--all splendor the skies, While bright shone the earth and the sea.

Little I thought, when so freely I went, Employing my earliest breath, To wake them with song, it could be their intent To pay me with arrows and death!

Fear that my nestlings would feel them forgot, Helped me a moment to fly; Else I had given up life on the spot, Under my murderer's eye.

Yet, I can never brood o'er you again, Closing you under my breast!

Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain And spoil the warm down of your nest.

Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie, All motionless, under the tree; Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh, While you will be moaning for me!

=The Young Sportsman=

Harry had a dog and gun; And he loved to set the one, Barking, out upon the run, While he held the other, Often charged so heavily, 'Twas a dangerous thing to be With so young a wight as he Mindless of his mother.

Earnestly she warned her child To forego a sport so wild; While he, turning, frowned or smiled, And away would sidle.

For, to give him short and long, Harry had a head so strong, In the right or in the wrong, It was hard to bridle.

On his gunning madly bent, Often in his clothes a rent Told the reckless way he went, Over hedge and brambles.

Homeward then would Harry slouch, With his gun and empty pouch, Looking like a scaramouch Coming from his rambles.

Sometimes when he scaled a wall, Headlong there to pitch and fall, Ratling stones, and gun and all.

Down together tumbled.

Tray would bark to tell the news Of his master with a bruise, Hatless, and with grated shoes, Lying flat and humbled!

Where he saw the bushes stirred, Harry, sure of hare or bird, Drew,--and at a flash was heard Noise like little thunder.

When he ran his game to find, Disappointment 'mazed his mind;-- Finding he'd but shot the wind, Dumb he stood with wonder!

Over muddy pool or bog, Not so nimble as his dog, When he walked the plank or log, There his balance losing, Splash! he went--a rueful plight!

If his face before was white, 'Twas like morning turned to night, Much against his choosing.

Now, like many a hasty one, Whether quadruped or gun, Or a mother's wayward son Given to disaster, Harry's gun was rather quick; And it had a naughty trick,-- It would snap itself, and kick Fiercely at its master.

So, this snappish habit grew With a power for him to rue; Just as all bad habits do Grow, as age increases.

When, one day, with noise and smoke, Over-charged, the barrel broke, Harry's hand the mischief spoke-- It was blown to pieces!

Tray came crouching round, and growled,-- Saw the gore, and whined, and howled, While his owner groaned and scowled, And the blood was running.

With the horrors of his state, And with anguish desperate, Then poor Harry owned too late, He was _sick of gunning_!

While his mother bent to mourn As her froward son was borne, With his hand all burnt and torn, Faint and pale, before her, Harry's pain must be endured,-- And the wound--it might be cured; But, for fingers uninsured, There was no restorer!