Or Family Amuser And Instructor;
  To Delight The Children And Make Home Happier;
  The Best Child's Picture Book In All The World.

  It Contains Also Choice Riddles, Games
  and pieces of reading for Adults.
  Look through it yourself.

  Long ago the Rainbow was a Sign it is said,
  Now 'tis the Sign of Cole's Book Arcade.
  So, when in the sky a bow is displayed,
  Be sure that you think of the Book Arcade.
  Cole's Book Arcade strange as it looks,
  Contains more than a million books.
  New and second-hand, common and rare,
  Can get most any book you want there.

  Born Woodchurch, Kent, England
      4th January, 1832

  Died Essendon, Victoria, Australia
      16th December, 1918

Oh the babble of the Babel!
  Oh, the flutter and the fuss;
To begin with Cain and Abel,
  And to finish up with us!

Some have never laughed nor spoken,
  Never used their rosy feet;
Some have even flown to heaven,
  Ere they knew that earth was sweet.

And indeed, I wonder whether,
  If we reckon every birth,
And bring such a flock together,
  There is room for them on earth.

Think of all the men and women
  Who are now and who have been;
Every nation since creation
  That this world of ours has seen.

And of all of them not any
  But was once a baby small;
While of children, oh, how many
  Never have grown up at all.

Where are arms enough to hold them?
  Hands to pat each smiling head?
Who will praise them? who will scold them?
  Who will pack them off to bed?

Little happy Christian children,
  Little savage children too,
In all stages of all ages,
  That our planet ever knew;

Little princes and princesses,
  Little beggars, wan and faint—
Some in very handsome dresses,
  Naked some, bedaubed with paint.

Only think of the confusion
  Such a motley crowd would make;
And the clatter of their chatter,
  And the things that they won't break

Oh the babble of the Babel!
  Oh, the flutter and the fuss;
To begin with Cain and Abel,
  And to finish up with us!

Here sits the Lord Mayor! (forehead)
Here sits his two men! (eyes)
Here sits the cock! (right cheek)
Here sits the hen! (left cheek)
Here sit the little chickens! (tip of nose)
Here they run in; (mouth)
Chinchopper, chinchopper,
Chinchopper, chin! (chuck the chin)

Ring the bell! (giving its hair a pull)
Knock at the door! (tapping its forehead)
Draw the latch! (pulling up it's nose)
And walk in! (putting finger in mouth)

(Eye) Bo Peeper! (Nose) Nose dreeper!
  (Chin) Chinchopper!
  (Teeth) White Lopper!
(Mouth) little gap! (Tongue) and red rag!

1. Let us go to the wood, says this pig;
2. What to do there? says that pig;
3. Too look for my mother, says this pig;
4. What to do with her? says that pig;
5. Kiss her to death, says this pig.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig;
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog;
Home again, home again, joggety-jog.

Ride baby, ride, pretty baby shall ride,
And have a little puppy-dog tied to her side.
And a little pussy-cat tied to the other,
And away she shall ride to see her grand-mother,
To see her grandmother.

Ride a cock-horse to banbury-cross,
  To see what Tommy can buy;
A penny white loaf, a penny white cake,
  And a two-penny apple pie.
Ride a cock-horse to banbury-cross,
  To see a young lady on a white horse,
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes,
  And so she makes music wherever she goes.

This is the way the ladies ride;
  Tre, tre, tree,
This is the way the ladies ride;
  Tre, tre, tree.
This is the way the gentlemen ride;
  Gallop-a-gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the gentlemen ride;
  Gallop-a-gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the farmers ride;
  Hobbledy-hobbledy-hoy!
This is the way the farmers ride;
  Hobbledy-hobbledy-hoy!

Clap hands, clap hands,
  Till father comes home;
For father's got money,
  But mother's got none.

You shall have an apple,
  You shall have a plum,
You shall have a rattle,
  When your dad comes home.

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man!
So I will, master, as fast as I can,
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Put it in the oven for Tommy and me.

Churn, butter, churn! come, butter, come!
    Peter stands at the gate,
    Waiting for a butter cake;
Come, butter, come!

When Jacky's a very good boy,
  He shall have cakes and a custard;
But when he does nothing but cry,
  He shall have nothing but mustard.

Hickup, hickup, go away!
Come again another day:
Hickup, hickup, when I bake,
I'll give to you a butter-cake.

Dance, little baby, dance up high,
Never mind, baby, mother is nigh;
Crow and caper, caper and crow—
There, little baby, there you go!
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Backwards and forwards, round and round.
Dance, little baby, and mother will sing!
Merrily, merrily, ding, dong, ding!

Dance to your daddy,
My little babby,
Dance to your daddy,
My little lamb.
You shall have a fishy
In a little dishy;
You shall have a fishy
When the boat comes in.

Danty baby diddy,
What can a mammy do wid'e,
  But sit in a lap,
  And give 'un a pap?
Sing danty baby diddy.

Hush-a-bye, a baa lamb,
  Hush-a-by a milk cow,
You shall have a little stick
  To beat the naughty bow-wow.

Bye, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap a baby bunting in.

Hush-a-bye baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall;
Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.
Hush-a-bye baby, Daddy is near:
Mammy's a lady, and that's very clear.

Rock-a-bye baby, thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;
And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring,
And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king.

My dear cockadoodle, my jewel, my joy,
My darling, my honey, my pretty, sweet boy;
Before I do rock thee with soft lullaby,
Give me thy dear lips to be kiss'd, kiss'd, kiss'd.

Baby, baby, lay your head
On your pretty cradle bed;
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight,
Little baby, dear, good night.

  Hush thee, my babby,
  Lie still with thy daddy,
Thy mammy has gone to the mill,
  To grind thee some wheat,
  To make thee some meat,
And so, my babby, lie still.

Oh, my lady! my lady! my lady!
Here's that funny monkey
Has put on your night-cap,
And is feeding
The baby! the baby! the baby!

Baby, baby ope your eye,
For the sun is in the sky,
And he's peeping once again
Through the pretty window pane:
Little baby, do not keep
Any longer fast asleep.

Wash hands, wash,
  Daddy's gone to plough;
If you want your hands wash'd,
  Have them washed now.

Comb hair, comb,
  Daddy's gone to plough;
If you want your hair comb'd
  Have it combed now.

My pretty baby-brother
  Is six months old to-day,
And though he cannot speak,
  He knows whate'er I say.

Whenever I come near,
  He crows for very joy;
And dearly do I love him,
  The darling baby-boy.

He opens his mouth when he kisses you;
He cries very loud when he misses you;
He says "Boo! boo! boo!" for "How-do-you-do?"
And he strokes down your face when he's loving you.

Come, my darling, come away,
Take a pretty walk to-day;
Run along, and never fear,
I'll take care of baby dear;
Up and down with little feet,
That's the way to walk, my sweet.

See-saw sacradown,
Which is the way to London town,
One foot up is the other down,
That is the way to London town.

Baby, baby Charlie,
  Naughty in his play,
Slapping little Annie,
  Pushing her away.

Patting with his soft hands,
  Laughing in his fun;
Slapping with such good-will,
  That the tear-drops run.

Do not cry, dear Annie,
  Wipe away the tear;
Keep away from Charlie,
  Do not come so near,

Or his little hands will
  Pull your curly hair;
Peep at baby, Annie—
  Peep behind the chair.

Kiss the baby, darling,
  Kiss the little one;
He is only playing,
  In his baby fun.

A was an archer, who shot at a frog;
B was a butcher, who had a great dog;
C was a captain, all covered with lace;
D was a drunkard, and had a red face;
E was an esquire, with pride on his brow;
F was a farmer, who followed the plough;
G was a gamer, who had but ill luck;
H was a hunter, and hunted a buck;
I was an innkeeper, who loved to bouse;
J was a joiner, and built up a house;
K was King William, once governed this land;
L was a lady, who had a white hand;
M was a miser, and hoarded up gold:
N was a nobleman, gallant and bold;
O was an oyster girl, and went about town;
P was a parson, and wore a black gown;
Q was a queen, who wore a silk slip;
R was a robber, and wanted a whip;
S was a sailor, and spent all he got;
T was a tinker, and mended a pot;
U was an usurer, a miserable elf;
V was a vintner, who drank all himself;
W was a watchman, and guarded the door;
X was expensive, and so became poor;
Y was a youth, that did not love school;
Z was a Zany, a poor harmless fool;

Sing a song-a-sixpence,
  A pocket full of rye;
Four-and-twenty blackbirds
  Baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened
  The birds began to sing:
Was that not a dainty dish
  To set before the king?
The king was in his counting-house,
  Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlour,
  Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden,
  Hanging out the clothes;
Down came a blackbird,
  And snapt off her nose.

If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend;
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;
I never would cry old chairs to mend.
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;
I never would cry old clothes to sell.

Cock-a-doodle-doo,
My dad's gane to ploo;
Mammy's lost her pudding-poke
And knows not what to do.

Hot-cross buns! Hot-cross buns!
One a penny, two a penny,
  Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns! Hot-cross buns!
If you have no daughters,
  Give them to your sons.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit-pie!
Come, my ladies, come and buy;
Else your babies they will cry.

A apple pie;
B bit it;
C cut it;
D danced for it;
E eat it;
F fought for it;
G got it;
H had it;
I ignored it;
J jumped for it;
K kept it;
L longed for it;
M mourned for it;
N nodded at it;
O opened it;
P peeped in it;
Q quartered it;
R ran for it;
S stole it;
T took it;
U uncovered it;
V viewed it;
W wanted it;
X ax'ed for it;
Y yawned for it:
Z cried, "Zounds! let's eat it up."

Rub a dub, dub,
Three men in a tub;
And who do you think they were?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
They all came out of a rotten potato.

Hey ding a ding, what shall I sing?
How many holes in a skimmer?
Four-and-twenty, my stomach is empty;
Pray mamma, give me some dinner.

Barber, barber, shave a pig,
How many hairs will make a wig?
"Four-and-twenty, that's enough,"
Give the barber a pinch of snuff.

Punch and Judy fought for a pie;
Punch gave Judy a blow on the eye.

Pease pudding hot,
  Pease pudding cold,
Pease pudding in the pot,
  Nine days old.

A little bit of powdered beef,
  And a great net of cabbage,
The best meal I have to-day
  Is a good bowl of porridge.

The barber shaved the mason,
As I suppose cut of his nose,
And popp'd it in a basin.

I saw a ship a-sailing,
  A-sailing on the sea;
And, oh! it was all laden
  With pretty things for thee.
There were comfits in the cabin,
  And apples in the holds;
The sails were made of silk,
  And the masts were made of gold.
The four-and-twenty sailors
  That stood between the decks,
Were four-and-twenty white mice,
  With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
  With a packet on his back;
And when the ship began to move,
  The captain said "Quack quack!"

Little Tee Wee' he went to sea
In an open boat; and while afloat
The little boat bended,
And my story's ended.

Jack be nimble, and Jack be quick;
And Jack jump over the candle-stick.

Jack Sprat had a cat,
  It had but one ear;
It went to buy butter
  When butter was dear.

Little Jack Horner sat in the corner,
  Eating a Christmas Pie;
He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"

Little Tom Tucker
Sings for his supper;
What shall he eat?
White bread and butter.
How shall he cut it
Without e'er a knife?
How will he be married
Without e'er a wife?

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the girls came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away.

See-saw, Margery Daw,
Little Jacky shall have a new master;
Little Jacky shall have but a penny a day,
Because he can't work any faster.

Little lad, little lad, where wast thou born?
Far off in Lancashire, under a thorn,
Where they sup sour milk in a ram's horn.

Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy,
Loved plum-cake and sugar-candy;
He bought some at a grocer's shop,
And out he came, hop, hop, hop.

Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, the other shoe on.
Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
  To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
  And Jill came tumbling after.

Willie drew a little pig,
Harry drew a mouse,
Tommy drew a ladder tall
Leaning on a house.

Baa, baa, black sheep,
  Have you any wool?
Yes, marry have I,
  Three bags full:
One for my master,
  And one for my dame,
But none for the little boy
  Who cries in the lane.

Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran after the spoon.

  "Hey! diddle diddle,
  The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped under the moon;
  The little dog barked
  to see such sport
And the cat ran after the spoon!" [*]

There was a little boy, went into a barn,
  And lay down on some hay;
An owl came out, and flew about,
  And the little boy ran away.

Tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee
  Resolved to have a battle,
For tweedle-dum said tweedle-dee
  Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
Just then flew by a monstrous crow,
  As big as a tar-barrel,
Which frightened both the heroes so,
  They quite forgot their quarrel.

  Baby and I
  Were baked in a pie,
The gravy was wonderful hot;
  We had nothing to pay
  To the baker that day
  And so we crept out of the pot.

High diddle doubt, my candle's out,
  My little maid is not at home;
Saddle my hog, and bridle my dog,
  And fetch my little maid home.

Rowsty dowt, my fire's all out,
My little dame is not at home;
I'll saddle my goose and bridle my hen,
And fetch my little dame home again;
Home she came, tritty trot;
And asked for the porridge she left in the pot.

  We're all in the dumps,
  For diamonds are trumps;
The kittens are gone to St. Paul's!
  The babies are bit,
  The moon's in a fit,
And the houses are built without walls.

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!
  That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it,
And into rolls make it,
  And send us some hot in the morn.
    Rosemary green,
      And lavender blue,
    Thyme and sweet marjoram,
      Hyssop and rue.

Come, let's to bed, says Sleepy-head
  Tarry a while says Slow;
Put on the pot, says Greedy-Jock,
  Let's sup before we go.

Go to bed first,
A golden purse;
Go to bed second,
A golden Pheasant;
Go to bed third,
A golden bird.

  Cry-baby Belle
  Is always in tears
Nothing you can give her can ease her!
  Sugar and spice,
  And everything nice,
Kisses and cakes will not please her.

  She'll cry if she happens
  To get a slight fall,
She'll cry if the naughty boys tease her;
  She'll cry for a spoon,
  And she'll cry for the moon;
So there's no use in trying to please her.

  If the food set before her
  Don't happen to suit—
Oh, then just as loud as she's able,
  This cry-baby Belle
  Will set up a yell,
And scare all the folks at the table.

  If she wants to go out
  In the street she will cry;
If she wants to come in how she screeches!
  For nothing at all
  She will set up and bawl,
Unmindful of comforting speeches,

  She screams in the morning
  Because she's not dress'd;
And at night when they want to undress her
  More loudly she'll roar,
  And roll over the floor
As if she had pains to distress her.

  She cries when she's sick,
  And she cries when she's well,
And often cries when she's sleeping,
  So that heavy and red,
  And most out of her head
Are her eyes, on account of such weeping.

  She always is fretful,
  Unhappy, and cross,
No matter what she may be doing,
  And cry-baby Belle
  Pleases nobody well
Because of her constant boo-hooing.

My sweet little girl should be careful and mild,
  And should not be fretful, and cry!
Oh! why is this passion? remember, my child,
  God sees you, who lives in the sky.

That dear little face, which I like so to kiss,
  How frightful and sad it appears!
Do you think I can love you, so naughty as this,
  Or kiss you so wetted with tears?

Remember, tho' God is in heaven, my love,
  He sees you within and without,
And he always looks down from His glory above,
  To notice what you are about.

If I am not with you, or if it be dark,
  And nobody is in the way,
His eye is as able your doings to mark,
  In the night as it is in the day.

Then dry up your tears, and look smiling again
  And never do things that are wrong;
For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain,
  To be naughty, and crying so long.

  Paulina Pry
  Would eat nothing but pie;
Pie was her daily diet;
  Apple or plum,
  She must have some
Or else she wouldn't be quiet.

  She would not eat
  Any bread or meat,
Though plenty of these were handy,
  But would pout and cry
  For a piece of pie,
Or a stick of sugar-candy.

  They heard her cry
  In the Land of Pie,
And sent her dozens and dozens,
  Both tender and tough,
  Till she'd had more than enough
For her sisters, her aunts and her cousins.

Poor little Annie, you will find,
Is very gentle, good, and kind,
But soon a a fault appears.
The slightest thing will give her pain,
Her feelings she can ne'er restrain,
But gives way to her tears.

The other day when Ferdinand—
And if you search throughout the land,
No nicer boy you'll find—
Said something which he never meant
To cause the slightest discontent,
For hours she sobbed and whined.

Her father grieved, said: "This must cease
We never have a moment's peace,
She cries both day and night."
A portrait painter then he paid,
To paint his little tearful maid,
Crying with all her might.

He set to work that very day,
Directly he received his pay;
The picture soon was done.
Yes, there she was, all sobs and sighs,
Large tear-drops streaming from her eyes.
"How like!" said every one.

It was in truth a great success;
Quite perfect, neither more nor less;
Her father was so glad.
He hung the portrait in her room;
It filled her with the deepest gloom;
She felt annoyed and sad.

With every relative who came,
And saw the picture, 'twas the same,
All startled with affright.
Uncles, and aunts, and cousins too,
Found it so striking, life-like, true
That soon they took to flight.

Annie not long could this endure;
It brought about a speedy cure,
She ceased to cry and moan.
Her father ceased to scold and frown,
He had the picture taken down,
And in the garret thrown.

Oh! This is a happy, beautiful world!
  My heart is light and gay;
The birds in the trees sing blithely to me
  And I'm six years old to-day.

Yes, six, and father has bought me a book,
  And mother, the sweetest doll,
All dressed in white with blue eyes bright,
  And the nicest hat and shawl.

My kitty sat quietly near the fire
  As Dolly and I came by;
Miss Dolly bowed, and pussy meowed,
  And opened her yellow eye.

Ah me! if Kit could only talk,
  And Dolly could but chat,
We'd social be as any three—
  Talk, sing, and all of that.

I dressed all up in grandma's cap,
  And put on her glasses too;
"Why, Grandma!" I said, as I looked at myself,
  "I'm almost as old as you."

My mother softly kissed my cheek,
  And then she blessed me too,
Praying that I, as years went by,
  Might be as good and true.

My birthday song is a merry one,
  And my heart is warm and light;
Kind father, mother, and dear grandma,
  Sweet dolly and pussy, good night.

A funny thing I heard to-day,
  I might as well relate.
Our Lil is six, and little May
  Still lacks a month of eight.

And, through the open play-room door,
  I heard the elder say:
"Lil, run downstairs and get my doll;
  Go quick, now—right away!"

And Lillie said—(and I agreed
  That May was hardly fair):—
"You might say 'please,' or go yourself—
  I didn't leave it there."

"But, Lillie," urged the elder one,
  "Your little legs, you know,
Are younger than mine are, child,
  And so you ought to go!"

"I would not be a girl," said Jack,
  "Because they have no fun;
They cannot go a-fishing, nor
  A-shooting with a gun;
They cannot climb up trees for fruit,
  Nor bathe without a bathing dress,
Which is no fun at all."

"I would not be a boy," said May,
  "For boys are nasty things,
With pockets filled with hooks and knives,
  And nails, and tops and strings
And when a boy becomes a man,
  He's got to buy girls rings;"

"I'm losted! Could you find me, please?"
  Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece,
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees,
I stooped and lifted her with ease,
  And softly whispered "Maybe."

"Tell me your name, my little maid:
  I can't find you without it."
"My name is Shiny-eyes," she said,
"Yes; but your last name?" She shook her head:
"Up to my house 'ey never said
  A single word about it."

"But, dear," I said, "what is your name?"
  "Why, didn't you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought came:
"Yes, when you're good. But when they blame
You little one,—is it just the same
  When mamma has to scold you?"

"My mamma never scolds," she moans,
  A little blush ensuing,
"'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones;
And then she says (the culprit owns),—
Mehitabel Sapphira Jones.
  What has you been a-doing?"

                  Anna E. Burnham

  Here stands little, little Mary,
With her face of winning grace,
Chattering tongue that runs apace,
  And her ways contrary

  Who so gay as Mary?
With her laughs of rippling glee
Brimming o'er with melody,—
  Bonny, blithesome Mary.

  Household pet is Mary—
Such a merry, joyous sprite,
Filling all our home with light—
  Pretty winsome Mary!

  Mischief-loving Mary,
Busy as the busiest bee,
Full of sunshine, life, and glee
  Is our heart's sweet Mary!

As Peter sat at Heaven's gate
  A maiden sought permission,
And begged of him, if not too late,
  To give her free admission.

"What claim hast thou to enter here?"
  He cried with earnest mien.
"Please sir," said she, 'twixt hope and fear,
  "I'm only just sixteen!"

"Enough," the hoary guardian said,
  And the gate wide open threw.
"That is the age when every maid
  Is girl and angel too."

Once I knew a little girl,
  Who wouldn't go to bed,
And in the morning always had
  A very sleepy head.

At night she'd stop upon the stairs,
  And hold the railings tight
Then with a puff she'd try to blow
  Out Mary Ann's rushlight.

The bed at last they tuck'd her in,
  The light she vow'd to keep;
Left in the dark she roar'd and cried;
  Till tired she went to sleep.

Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
  Your little sister dear;
I must not have such things as this,
  Nor noisy quarrels here.

What! little children scold and fight
  Who ought to be so mild;
Oh! Mary, 'tis a shocking sight
  To see an angry child.

I can't imagine for my part,
  The reason of your folly,
As if she did you any hurt
  By playing with your dolly.

Let dogs delight to bark an bite,
  For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight:
  For 'tis their nature to.

But children you should never let
  Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
  To tear each other's eyes.

Why is Mary standing there,
  Leaning down upon the chair,
With pouting lip and frowning brow?
  I wonder what's the matter now.

Come here, my dear, and tell me true,
  Is it because I spoke to you
About what you just now had done,
  That you are such a naughty one?

When, then, indeed, I'm grieved to see
  That you can so ill-tempered be:
You make your faults a great deal worse
  By being sulky and perverse.

Oh! how much better it appears,
  To see you melting into tears,
And then to hear you humbly say,
  "I'll not do so another day!"

What! cry when I wash you! not love to be clean?
There, go and be dirty, unfit to be seen;
And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled,
I'll not take the trouble to wash such a child.

A little girl, named Mary Kate,
  Whom you may have chance to see,
Would have been loved by small and great,
But for one thing, which I'll relate;
  So listen now to me.

A silly habit she's acquired
  Of putting in her mouth,
The pretty fingers of her hand,
And sucking them, for hours she'd stand,
  In a manner most uncouth.

Her play-companions used to laugh,
  And jeeringly would say,
"Oh, pray bring Mary Kate some crumbs,
Poor thing! she's dining off her thumbs,
  She'll eat them all away."

This is Nelly Pilfer;
  I'll tell you what she earned
By stealing off the treacle
  When Mary's back was turned.

They caught the greedy Nelly
  With treacle on her hand,
They put her in the corner,
  And there they made her stand.

Little Polly Flinders,
Sat among the cinders,
  Warming her pretty toes;
Her mother came and caught her,
And scolded her little daughter,
  For spoiling her nice new clothes.

I knew a greedy little girl,
  Who all day long did roar;
Whatever toys were given her,
  She always wanted more.

Five dolls she had—one was black,
  A ball and battledore,
But held them all so very tight,
  The roar'd and scream'd for more.

Now this was wicked of the child,
  As everyone must own;
So for the whole of one long day
  They shut her up alone.

Mamma, a little girl I met,
Had such a scar, I can't forget!
All down her arms and neck and face;
I could not bear to see the place.

Poor little girl! and don't you know
The shocking trick that made her so?
'Twas all because she went and did
A thing her mother had forbid.

For once, when nobody was by her,
This silly child would play with fire;
And long before her mother came,
Her pinafore was all in flame.

In vain she tried to put it out,
Till all her clothes were burnt about;
And then she suffer'd ten times more,
All over with a dreadful sore.

For many months before 'twas cured,
Both day and night the pain endured;
And still you see, when passing by her,
How sad it is to play with fire.

Little Miss Consequence strutted about,
  Turned up her nose, pointed her toes,
And thought herself quite a grand person, no doubt.
Gave herself airs; took many cares,
  To appear old; was haughty and cold.
She spoke to the servants like a dog or a cat
And fussed about this, and fussed about that.

"But, mamma, now," said Charlotte, "pray don't you believe
  That I'm better than Jenny my nurse?
Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve;
  Her clothes are a thousand times worse.

"I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do.
  And the country folks stare at me so;
And nobody dares to control me but you,
  Because I'm a lady, you know.

"Then servants are vulgar and I am genteel;
  So, really, 'tis out of the way,
To think that I should not be better a deal
  Than maids, and such people as they."

"Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied,
  "Belongs to no station or place;
And nothing's so vulgar as folly and pride,
  Though dressed in red slippers and lace.

"Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess
  Should teach them the poor to despise;
For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress,
  That the truest gentility lies."

"I won't be dressed, I won't, I won't!"
  Cried Peggy one morn to mamma.
"Very well, dear," was quietly said,
  "I'll teach you how silly you are."

Peggy then frowned and set her lips
  Expecting a kiss as of old,
But mother had gravely walked away,
  And Peggy was getting so cold.

The minutes passed, and Peggy sighed,
  For thoughts of her breakfast arose,
And "Mammy, dear," she loudly wept,
  While stamping her bare little toes.

Then mother came, and firmly said,
  "I'm taking you, dear, at your word;
'I won't be dressed—I won't, I won't!'
  Has many times lately been heard.

"So now to bed, my little maid,
  For you will not be dressed to-day;
Then Peggy will be taught to think
  Before acting in such a way."

Oh, for the tears that Peggy shed!
  But now every morn, I am told,
A wee young maid is quietly dressed,
  And is always as good as gold.

"Mamma! I see something
  Quite dark on the wall;—
It moves up and down,
  And it looks very strange!
Sometimes it is large,
  And sometimes it is small;
Pray, tell me what it is,
  And why does it change?"

"It is Mamma's shadow
  That puzzles you so,
And there is your own
  Close beside it, my love!
Now run round the room,
  It will go where you go;
It rests where you sit,
  When you rise it will move.

"These wonderful shadows
  Are caused by the light
From fire and from candles
  Upon us that falls;
If we were not here,
  All that place would be bright,
But light can't shine
  Through us to lighten the wall.

"And when you are out
  Some fine day in the sun,
I'll take you where shadows
  Of apple-trees lie;
And houses and cottages too—
  Every one
Repose on their shadows
  Beneath the bright sky.

"Now hold up your mouth,
  And give me a sweet kiss;
Our shadows kiss too!—
  Don't you see it quite plain?"
"O yes! and I thank you
  For telling me this,
I'll not be afraid
  Of a shadow again."

                  Mary Lundie

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
  And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home
  And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep,
  And dreamed she heard them bleating,
But when she awoke, 'twas all a joke—
  Alas! they still were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,
  Determined for to find them;
She found them, indeed, bit it made her heart bleed,
  They'd left their tails behind them.

It happened one day, as Bo-Peep did stray
  Over the meadows hard by,
That there she espied their tails side by side,
  All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and gave by-and-by
  Each careless sheep a banging;
And as for the rest, she thought it was best
Just to leave their tails a-hanging.

Mary had a little lamb
  Whose fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went
  That Lamb it would not go;

So Mary took that little Lamb
  And put it on the spit,
And soon it was so nicely done
  She ate it every bit.

Pemmy was a pretty girl,
  But Fanny was a better;
Pemmy look'd like any churl,
  When little Fanny let her.

Pemmy had a pretty nose,
  But Fanny had a better;
Pemmy oft would come to blows,
  But Fanny would not let her.

Pemmy had a pretty song,
  But Fanny had a better;
Pemmy would sing all day long,
  But Fanny would not let her.

I had a little husband,
  No bigger than my thumb;
I put him in a pint pot,
  And there I bid him drum.

I bought a little horse,
  That galloped up and down;
I bridled him, and saddled him,
  And sent him out of town.

I gave him some garters,
  To garter up his hose,
And a little handkerchief,
  To wipe his pretty nose.

Now children dear, you all come near
And do not make a noise;
But listen here, just take and clear
That desk of all those toys.

For now I'm Governess you'll find,
That its myself will make you mind;
So Alice Brown you do your sum,
And Betty Snooks don't look so glum.

And Sarah White sit down at once,
And Susan Black you are a dunce,
And Annie Grey you needn't think
I didn't see you spill the ink.

And find your thimble Maggie More,
And mind your sewing Jennie Shore;
And Linda Cole you know 'tis wrong
To make a stitch two inches long.

And Bridget Mace don't make that face;
And Norah Finn keep your tongue in.
Don't be a Tom-boy Emma Pyke,
You really must act lady-like.

Now I want all good children in my school,
Don't want a single dunce, bad girl or fool,
So I will kindly ask you to be brave,
And try to very, very well behave.

Yes all be good and learn your lessons well,
And then I'll ring the little bell to tell
That school is over for the day,
And you can all run out to play.

Little Nellie Nipkin, brisk, and clean, and neat,
Keeps a little baby-school in the village street;
Teaches little pupils all that she can find,
And keeps a little birch that teaches them to mind.

Dingty diddledy, My mamma's maid,
She stole oranges, I'm afraid;
Some in her pockets, some in her sleeve,
She stole oranges, I believe.

I have a little doll, I take care of her clothes;
She has soft flaxen hair, and her name is Rose.
She has pretty blue eyes, and a very small nose,
And a funny little mouth, and her name is Rose.

As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks
  Were walking out one Sunday,
Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks,
  "To-morrow will be Monday."

Little Betty Blue, lost her left shoe,
  What can little Betty do?
Give her another, to match the other,
  And then she may walk in two.

Cross patch, draw the latch,
  Sit by the fire and spin;
Take a cup, and drink it up,
  Then call your neighbours in.

Hinx, minx! the old witch winks,
  The fat begins to fry;
There's nobody at home but jumping Joan,
  Father, mother, and I.

Doodle, doodle, doo,
The Princess lost her shoe;
  Her highness hopp'd
  The fiddler stopp'd
Not knowing what to do.

The girl in the lane that couldn't speak plain,
  Cried "Gobble, gobble, gobble;"
The man on the hill that couldn't stand still,
  Went "Hobble, hobble, hobble."

Mary, Kate, and Maria went down as agreed,
To the hutch in the garden, the rabbits to feed;
There was the mother, a steady old bunny,
Moving her nose in a manner so funny.

A young rabbit also, tho' seeming to dose,
Kept munching his breakfast and moving his nose;
Mary, Kate, and Maria gave the rabbits some food,
And lovingly stroked them because they were good.

One ugly trick has often spoiled
  The sweetest and the best;
Matilda, though a pleasant child,
  One ugly trick possessed,
Which, like a cloud before the skies,
Hid all her better qualities.

Sometimes she'd lift the teapot lid
  To peep at what was in it;
Or tilt the kettle, if you did
  But turn your back a minute.
In vain you told her not to touch—
Her trick of meddling grew so much.

Her grandma went out one day,
  And by mistake she laid
Her spectacles and snuff-box gay
  Too near the little maid;
"Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on,
As soon as grandmamma is gone,"

Forthwith she placed upon her nose
  The glasses large and wide;
And looking round, as I suppose,
  The snuff box she too spied:
"Oh! what a pretty box is that;
I'll open it." said little Matt.

"I know grandmamma would say,
  'Don't meddle with it, dear;'
But then she's far enough away,
  And no one else is near;
Besides, what can there be amiss
In opening such a box as this?"

So thumb and finger went to work
  To move the stubborn lid;
And presently a mighty jerk
  The mighty mischief did;
For all at once, ah! woeful case,
  The snuff came puffing in her face.

Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth beside,
  A dismal sight presented;
In vain, as bitterly she cried,
  Her folly she repented.
In vain she ran about for ease;
She could do nothing now but sneeze.

She dashed the spectacles away,
  To wipe her tingling eyes;
And as in twenty bits they lay,
  Her grandmamma she spies.
"Heyday! and what's the matter now?"
Says grandmamma, with lifted brow.

Matilda, smarting with the pain,
  And tingling still and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
  From meddling evermore.
And 'tis a fact, as I have heard,
She ever since has kept her word.

"Oh! Lucy! Fanny! Make haste here!
Mamma will be so vexed, I fear,
  For I've upset the ink!
See, on my frock and pinafore,
Such great black stains! And there are more
  Upon my socks, I think."

And Lucy cries, with open eyes,
And hands extended in surprise,
  "Oh, naughty Mary Ann,
Those stains can never be washed out;
Whatever have you been about?
  Look at her, sister Fan!"

Mamma comes in: "Heyday! what's this?
Why, Mary Ann, I told you, Miss,
  The inkstand ne'er to move;
And little girls who won't obey,
And mind each word their parents say,
  Good people ne'er will love."

A naughty girl had got no toy,
  And didn't know what to do,
So she rumpled her frock
And tore her sock,
  And tried to eat her shoe.

  Little Miss Baster, of Sunnyside,
  Was known as a taster, far and wide;
Picking and licking, spying and prying,
Each bottle and dish with her fingers trying.
Dangerous practice! dreadful little fact is!
Once almost poisoned, and very near dying.
  Little Miss Baster, of Sunnyside,
  Has got some poison in paper tied;
Harmless she deems it, yes, she must taste,
Like sugar seems it, ah! but 'tis paste.
Rat's-bane, the mixture. Oh! woe the day!
Run for the doctor, bid him not stay.
Dreadful her anguish—nearly she died,
Did little Miss Baster, of Sunnyside.

Four naughty little children thought
  Some jam they'd try and steal;
But see how nicely they were caught
  With a crash that made them squeal.

Their mother who was just next door,
  And heard the horrid noise,
Came in and shook those naughty girls,
  And whipped those naughty boys.

Her sister would come to the bedside and call,
  "Do you mean to sleep here all the day?"
I saw Kitty Miles up two hours ago,
  A-washing and working away.

"The water is boiling, the table is spread,
  Your father is just at the door;
If you are not quick, we shall eat all the bread,
  And you will not find any more."

Then Sally sat up and half opened her eyes,
  And gave both a grunt and a groan;
And yawning she said, in a quarrelsome voice,
  "I wish you would let me alone."

But though she was lazy, she always could eat,
  And wished for a plentiful share,
So tumbled her clothes on, and smeared her white face,
  Forgetting her hands and her hair.

Her frock was all crumpled and twisted away,
  Her hair was entangled and wild,
Her stockings were down and her shoes were untied,
  She looked a most slovenly child.

She sauntered about till the old village clock
  Had sounded and then died away,
Before she put on her torn bonnet and went
  To school without further delay.

But soon as she came to the little cake shop,
  She loitered with lingering eyes,
Just wishing that she had a penny to spend,
  For one of the pretty jam pies.

Again she went on, and she loitered again
  In the same foolish way as before,
And the clock in the school was just warning for ten,
  As she lifted the latch of the door.

The governess frowned as she went to her place,
  She had often so spoken in vain,
And now only said, with a sorrowful sigh,
  "There's Sally the latest again!"

She hated her reading, and never would write,
  She neither could cypher nor sew,
And little girls whispered, "We never will be
  So silly as Miss Sally Slow."

I tell you of a little girl, who would herself have been,
  As pretty a young lady as ever could be seen,
But that about her little head she had no cleanly care.
  And never, never could be made to brush and comb her hair.

The school was closed one afternoon,
  And all the girls were gone;
Some walked away in company,
  And some walked on alone.

Some plucked the flowers upon the banks,
  Some chatted very fast,
And some were talking secretly,
  And whispered as you passed.

And if, perchance, a girl came near,
  Then one of these would say,
"Don't listen to our secrets, Miss,
  You'll please to go away."

As Nelly White ran home from school,
  Her work-bag in her hand,
She chanced to pass near Lucy Bell,
  And her friend Susan Brand.

"We don't want you," said Lucy Bell,
  "You little tiresome chit;
Our secrets are not meant for you,
  You little tell-tale-tit."

Then both girls cried, "Tell-tale-tit,"
  And pushed her roughly by;
Poor Nelly said, "I'm no such thing,"
  And then began to cry.

Little Miss Jewel
Sat on a stool,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a little spider
Who sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Jewel away.

Little girl, little girl, where have you been;
Gathering Roses to give to the Queen.
Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?
She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe.

Little Betty Blue lost her pretty shoe;
What can Little Betty do?
Give her another, to match the other,
And then she can walk in two.

Last night when I was in bed,
  Such fun it seemed to me;
I dreamt that I was Grandmamma,
  And Grandmamma was me.

But she was such a tiny girl,
  And dressed in baby clothes;
And I thought I smacked her face, because
  She wouldn't blow her nose.

An I went walking up the street,
  And she ran by my side;
And because I walked too quick for her,
  My goodness, hoe she cried.

And after tea I washed her face;
  And when her prayers were said,
I blew the candle out, and left
  Poor Grandmamma in bed.

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.

An orphan child was Jenny Lee;
  Her father, he was dead.
And very hard her mother worked;
  To get the children bread.

In winter time, she often rose
  Long ere the day was light,
And left her orphan family,
  Till dark again at night.

And she would always say to Jane,
  Before she went away;
"Be sure you mind the little ones,
  And don't go out to play.

"Keep baby quiet in his bed,
  As long as he will lie;
Then take him up, and dance him well,
  Don't leave him there to cry.

"And don't let little Christopher,
  Get down into the street,
For fear he meets an accident
  Beneath the horse's feet.

"And mind about the fire, child,
  And keep a tidy floor;
We never need be dirty, Jane,
  Although we may be poor.

"Good-by my precious comforter,
  For all the neighbours say,
That I can trust my little maid,
  Whenever I'm away."

Then Jenny she was quite as proud
  As England's noble Queen,
And she resolved to do the work,
  And keep the dwelling clean.

She did not stop to waste her time,
  But very brisk was she,
And worked as hard and cheerfully
  As any busy bee.

If down upon the cottage floor
  Her little brother fell,
She stroked the places tenderly,
  And kissed and made them well.

And when the little babe was cross,
  As little babes will be,
She nursed and danced it merrily,
  And fed it on her knee.

But when they both were safe in bed,
  She neatly swept the hearth,
And waited until her mother's step
  Came sounding up the path.

Then open flew the cottage door,
  The weary mother smiled.
"Ah! Jenny dear, what should I do,
  Without my precious child!"

"Mother has sent me to the well,
  To fetch a jug of water,
And I am very glad to be
  A useful little daughter;
That's why I cannot play
  With you and Mary Ann to-day.

"Some afternoon I'll come with you,
  And make you wreaths and posies;
I know a place where blue-bells grow,
  And daisies and primroses;
But not to-day, for I must go
  And help my mother, dears, you know.

"She says, that I am nearly eight,
  So I can fill the kettle,
And sweep the room and clean the grate,
  And even scrub a little;
Oh! I'm so very glad to be
  A little useful girl, you see.

"So Johnny, do not ask to-day—
  Perhaps I'll come to morrow;
But you'd not wish me now to stay,
  And give my mother sorrow.
When she can spare me, she will say,
  'Now, Susan, you may go and play.'"

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
  And, when I crossed the wild,
I managed to see at break of day
  The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
  She dwelt on a wide moor,—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
  Besides a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
  The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
  Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—
  You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
  Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do!
  'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
  And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his book
  And snapped a faggot band;
He piled his work,—and Lucy took
  The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe;
  With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
  That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before it's time;
  She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
  But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
  Went shouting far and wide,
But there was neither sound or sight
  To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
  That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
  A furlong from their door.

And, turning homeward, now they cried
  "In heaven we shall meet!"
When in the snow the mother spied
  The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
  They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn edge,
  And by the long stone wall.

And then an open field they crossed—
  The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
  And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
  The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
  And further there were none!

Yet some maintain that to this day
  She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
  Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
  And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
  That whistles in the wind.

Mary had a little lamb,
  It's fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went
  The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day—
  That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play,
  To see a lamb at school.

The teacher therefore turned him out;
  But still he lingered near,
And on the grass he played about
  Till Mary did appear.

At once he ran to her, and laid
  His head upon her arm,
As if to say, I'm not afraid—
  You'll keep me from all harm.

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"
  The little children cry;
"Oh! Mary loves the lamb you know,"
  The teacher did reply.

I met a little cottage girl;
  She was eight years old, she said;
Her head was thick with many a curl
  That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
  And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
  Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
  How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
  And wondering, looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
  She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
  And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie—
  My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
  Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
  And two are gone to sea;
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
  Sweet maid how this may be?"

Then did the little maid reply,
  Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
  Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
  Your limbs they are alive!
If two are in the churchyard laid,
  Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
  The little maid replied;
"Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door,
  And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
  My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
  I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
  When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
  And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane;
  In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
  And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
  And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
  My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
  And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
  And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then? said I,
  "If they two are in heaven!"
The little maiden did reply
  "O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead;
  Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
  And say, "Nay, we are seven."

Young Lucy Payne lives on the Village Green;
  Mary, you know the cottage, I am sure,
Under the hawthorn! 'Tis so neat and clean,
  Though Widow Payne, alas! is blind and poor.

She plies her needles, and she plies them well,
  And Lucy never spends an idle hour;
On market days their mits and socks they sell,
  And thus their balls of worsted turn to flour.

I pass'd one morning by their cottage door;
  Lucy was talking to a little child,
A ragged thing that lives upon the moor;
  It's parents leave it to run rude and wild.

Hanger had tamed the little wilding thing,
  It's cheeks were hollow, but it's air was light;
Young Lucy did not know I saw her bring
  That porringer she kept so clean and bright.

  It was her breakfast—all the darling had;
  But oh! she gave it with a heart so glad.

"Over the wave, the stormy wave,
  Hasten, dear father, with me,
The crew to save from a wat'ry grave,
  Deep in the merciless sea.
Hear ye the shriek, the piercing shriek,
  Hear ye the cry of despair?
With courage quick the wreck we'll seek;
  Danger united we'll dare.

"Out with the boat, the gallant boat;
  Not a moment to be lost;
See! she's afloat, proudly afloat,
  And high on the waves we're tossed;
Mother, Adieu, a short adieu;
  Your prayers will rise to heaven;
Father to you—your child and you—
  Power to save is given.

"I have no fear, no maiden fear;
  My heart is firm to the deed,
I shed no tear, no coward tear;
  I've strength in time of need.
Hear ye the crash, the horrid crash?
  Their mast over the side is gone;
Yet on we dash, 'mid lightning flash,
  Safe through the pelting storm.

"The wreck we near, the wreck we near,
  Our bonny boat seems to fly,
List to the cheer, their welcome cheer,
  They know that succour is nigh."
And on that night, that dreadful night,
  The father and daughter brave,
With strengthened might they both unite,
  And many dear lives they save.

Hail to the maid, the fearless maid,
  The maid of matchless worth;
She'll e'er abide the cherished pride
  Of the land that gave her birth.
The send her gold, her name high uphold,
  Honour and praise to impart;
But, with true regard, the loved reward
  Is the joy of her own brave heart.

Who is it each day in the week may be seen,
With her hair short and smooth, and her hands and face clean;
In a stout cotton gown, of dark and light blue,
Though old, so well mended, you'd take it for new;
Her handkerchief tidily pinned o'er her neck.
With a neat little cap, and an apron of check;
Her shoes and her stockings all sound and all clean?
She's never fine outside and dirty within.

Go visit her cottage, though humble and poor.
'Tis so neat and so clean you might eat off the floor;
No rubbish, no cobwebs, no dirt can be found,
Though you hunt every corner, and search all around.
Who sweeps it so nicely, who makes all the bread,
Who tends her sick mother, and works by her bed?
'Tis the neat, tidy girl—she needs no other name;
Abroad or at home, she is always the same.

"I will be good, dear mother,"
  I heard a sweet child say;
"I will be good; now watch me—
  I will be good all day."

Oh, many, many, bitter tears
  'Twould save us, did we say,
Like that dear child, with earnest heart,
  "I will be good to-day."

I have a little sister,
  She's only three years old;
I do most dearly love her,
  She's worth her weight in gold.
We often play together
  And I begin to find,
To make my sister happy,
  I must be very kind.

She danced like a Fairy,
She sung like a Frog,
She squeaked like a Pig,
She barked like a dog.

  Oh yes! Oh yes! She did! She Did!
  And Frog-gy played a tune.

She mooed like a Bullock,
She baaed like a Ram,
She leaped like a Goat,
She skipped like a Lamb—Oh yes!

She brayed like a Donkey,
She cried like a Hare,
She neighed like a Horse,
She growled like a Bear!—Oh yes!

She munched like a Rabbit,
She gnawed like a Rat,
She popped like a Mouse,
She flew like a Bat—Oh yes!

She talked like a Parrot,
She quacked like a Drake,
She mewed like a Cat,
She hissed like a Snake—Oh yes!

She climbed like a Squirrel,
She flopped like a Seal,
She ran like a Deer,
She slid like an Eel—Oh yes!

She crept like a Tortoise,
She soared like a Lark,
She drank like a Fish,
She ate like a Shark—Oh yes!

She roared like a Lion,
She dived like a Whale,
She swam like a Goose,
She crawled like a Snail—Oh yes!

She croaked like a Raven,
She screeched like an Owl,
She cawed like a Crow,
She crowed like a Fowl—Oh yes!

She grinned like a Monkey,
She hummed like a Bee,
She buzzed like a Fly,
She jumped like a Flea—Oh yes!

There is no death! what seems so is transition
  This life of mortal breath,
Is but a suburb of life Elysian
  Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead—the child of our affection—
  But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection
  And GOD himself doth rule.

  Little Jack Jingle,
  He used to live single;
But when he got tired of this kind of life,
He left off being single, and lived with his wife.

  I'll tell you a story
  About Jack Nory,—
And now my story's begun:
  I'll tell you another
  About Jack his brother,—
And now my story's done.

  Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
  Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
They made him a coat
Of an old nanny-goat,
  I wonder how they could do so!
With a ring and a ting tang,
And a ring and a ting tang,
  Poor old Robinson Crusoe!

"John, come sell thy fiddle,
  And buy thy wife a gown."
"No; I'll not sell my fiddle
  For any wife in town."

Jacky, come give me thy fiddle
  If ever thou mean'st to thrive;
Nay, I'll not give my fiddle
  To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
  They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day
  My fiddle and I have had.

Jack was a fisherman
  Who went out one day,
But couldn't catch a single fish,
  And so he came away.
And then he came home,
  This angler so bold,
And found he'd caught something—
  For he'd caught a cold.

  The Queen of Hearts,
  She made some tarts,
All on a summer day;
  The Knave of Hearts
  He stole those tarts
And took them clean away.

  The King of Hearts
  Called for the tarts,
And beat the knave full sore;
  The Knave of Hearts
  Brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.

Charley Wag
Ate the pudding and left the bag.

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away did run!
The pig he eat, and Tom they beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street.

Tom, he was a piper's son:
He learned to play when he was young:
But all the tunes that he could play
Was, "Over the hills and far away;
Over the hills and a great way off,
And the wind will blow my topknot off."

Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise,
That he pleased both the girls and the boys,
And they stopped to hear him play
"Over the hills and far away."

As Dolly was milking her cow one day,
Tom took out his pipe and began for to play;
So Doll and the cow danced "the Cheshire round,"
Till the pail they broke and the milk ran on the ground.

He met old Dame Trot with a basket of eggs,
He used his pipe and she used her legs;
She danced about till all the eggs she broke,
She began for to fret, but he laughed at the joke.

He saw a cross fellow beating an ass,
Heavily laden with pots, pans, dishes and glass;
He took out his pipe and played them a tune,
And the jackass did kick off his load very soon.

Tom met the parson on his way,
Took out his pipe, began to play
A merry tune that led his grace
Into a very muddy place.

The mayor then said he would not fail
To send poor Tommy off to gaol.
Tom took his pipe, began to play,
And all the court soon danced away.

'Twas quite a treat to see the rout,
How clerks and judges hopped about;
While Tommy still kept playing the tune,
"I'll be free this afternoon."

The Policeman Grab, who held him fast,
Began to dance about at last;
Whilst Tom, delighted at the fun,
Slipped out of court and off did run.

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house, and stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone.
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not in.
Taffy came to my house, and stole a silver pin.
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed.
I took up a poker and flung it at his head.

  Old King Cole
  Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
  He called for his pipe,
  And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.

Peter White will ne'er go right;
  Would you know the reason why?
He follows his nose where'er he goes,
  And that stands all awry.

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn,
That awaked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That awaked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.

Simple Simon met a pieman
  Going to the fair;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman:
  "Let me taste your ware."

Says the pieman to Simple Simon,
  "Show me first the penny."
Says Simple Simon to the pieman:
  "Indeed I have not any."

Simple Simon went a-fishing
  For to catch a whale—
All the water he had got
  Was in his mother's pail.

Simple Simon went to look
  If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
  Which made poor Simon whistle.

He went to catch a dicky bird,
  And thought he could not fail
Because he'd got a little salt
  To put upon it's tail.

Then Simple Simon went-a-hunting,
  For to catch a hare.
He rode on a goat about the street,
  But could not find one there.

Simon made a great snowball,
  And brought it in to roast;
He laid it down before the fire,
  And soon the ball was lost.

Simple Simon went a-skating
  When the ice was thin,
And Simon was astonished quite
  To find he tumbled in.

And Simon he would honey eat
  Out of the mustard pot;
He bit his tongue until he cried:
  "That was all the good he got."

Ten little Niggers going out to dine,
One choked his little self, and then there were Nine.

Nine little Niggers crying at his fate,
One cried himself away, and then there were Eight.

Eight little Niggers to travelling were given.
But one kicked the bucket, and then there were Seven.

Seven little Niggers playing at their tricks,
One cut himself in halves, and then there were Six.

Six little Niggers playing with a hive,
A bumble bee killed one, and then there were Five.

Five little Niggers went in for law,
One got into Chancery, and then there were Four.

Four little Niggers going out to sea,
A ref herring swallowed one, and then there were Three.

Three little Niggers walking in the Zoo,
A big bear cuddled one, and then there were Two.

Two little Niggers sitting in the sun,
One got frizzled up, and then there was One.

One little Nigger living all alone,
He got married, and then there were None.

I remember, I remember,
  When I was a little Boy,
One fine morning in September
  Uncle brought me home a toy.

I remember how he patted
  Both my cheeks in his kindliest mood;
"Then," said he, "you little Fat-head,
  There's a top because you're good."

Grandmamma—a shrewd observer—
  I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fervour,
  "Oh! how kind of Uncle John."

While mamma, my form caressing—
  In her eyes the tear-drop stood,
Read me this fine moral lesson,
  "See what comes of being good."

I remember, I remember,
  On a wet and windy day,
One cold morning in December,
  I stole out and went to play.

I remember Billy Hawkins
  Came, and with his pewter squirt
Squibbed my pantaloons and stockings
  Till they were all over dirt.

To my mother for protection
  I ran, quaking every limb;
She exclaim'd, with fond affection,
  "Gracious goodness! look at him!"

Pa cried, when he saw my garment,
  'Twas a newly purchased dress—
"Oh! you nasty little varment,
  How came you in such a mess?"

Then he caught me by the collar,
  —Cruel only to be kind—
And to my exceeding dolour,
  Gave me—several slaps behind.

Grandmamma, while I yet smarted,
  As she saw my evil plight,
Said—'twas rather stony-hearted—
  "Little rascal! serve him right!"

I remember, I remember,
  From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December
  Did I venture out to play.

And the moral which they taught, I
  Well remember: thus they said—
"Little Boys, when they are naughty,
  Must be whipp'd and sent to bed!"

  There was one little Jack,
  Not very long back,
And 't is said to his lasting disgrace,
  That he never was seen
  With his hands at all clean,
Nor yet ever clean was his face.

  His friends were much hurt
  To see so much dirt
And often and well did they scour,
  But all was in vain,
  He was dirty again
Before they had done it an hour.

  When to wash he was sent,
  He reluctantly went
With water to splash himself o'er,
  But he left the black streaks
  Running down both his cheeks,
And made them look worse than before.

  The pigs in the dirt
  Could not be more expert
Than he was, in grubbing about;
  And people have thought
  This gentleman ought
To be made with four legs and a snout.

  The idle and bad
  May, like to this lad,
Be dirty and black, to be sure.
  But good boys are seen
  To be decent and clean,
Although they be ever so poor.

Johnny Jones, why do you do it?
Those who throw stones
Surely will rue it;
Little of pleasure, evil may flow,
Mischief past measure comes of a blow.

Yes, yes! stone flinging.
Laugh as you may,
Woe may be bringing
Upon you some day.

Someone is watching,
Armed by the law,
Truncheon from pocket
Soon he will draw.
Off he will march you—
Dreadful to think!—to a dark prison:
Light through a chink,
Bread without butter, water for drink.

Dirty, noisy, mischievous Dick,
  Struggled and tore, and wanted to fight
Susan, the nurse, who in the bath
  Began to wash him on Saturday night.

Her hair he tried to pull up by the roots,
  The water he splashed all over the floor,
Which ran downstairs, and one night made
  A terrible slop at the parlour door.

To give him advice was a waste of time,
  So his father resolved to try a stick,
And never since then has he been called
  Dirty, noisy, mischievous Dick.

A boy looked over a wall,
  And spied some lovely apples;
"But," says he "the tree is tall,
  And belongs to 'Grumpie Chapples!'
Still, I think some could be got
  By a climbing lad like me:
I'll try and steal a lot,
  So here goes up the tree."

Look at the Picture!!!

Pretty little fingers,
  Wherefore were they made?
Like ten smart young soldiers,
  All in pink arrayed.

Apt and quick obedient
  To your lightest thought,
Doing in an instant
  Everything they're taught.

'T was for play or study,
  Pen to wield or ball;
Kite, top, needle, pencil,
  Prompt at parents' call.

Picking, poking, soiling
  Costly things and dear,
Wrecking, cracking, spoiling
  All that they come near.

Thus 't was with Robert Chivers,
  Brandishing a swish,
Broke a vase to shivers
  Filled with silver fish.

"Tick, tick" says the Dutch clock.
  Robert fain would know
How it's pendulum swinging
  Made it's wheels go.

Who not ask? No! foolish
  Robert takes a stick,
Pokes and breaks the clock, which
  Ceases soon to tick.

"Puff, puff," sighs the bellows.
  Robert wants to find,
Yet he will not ask, whence
  Comes it's stock of wind.

With a knife upripping,
  Finds them void and flat.
Ah! be sure a whipping
  Robert caught for that.

Listen about a naughty boy
Who might have been a parent's joy,
But that he had a strong desire
To always meddle with fire.

One day when his mamma went out,
She said "Mind, dear, what you're about:
With your nice books and playthings stay,
And with the fire, oh! do not play."

But as soon as his mamma was gone,
And this bad boy left all alone,
Thought he, "In spite of all ma says,
Now we'll have a glorious blaze.

"No one is by, 't is quickly done,
And oh! 't will be such famous fun."
Quick then about the hearth he strewed
Some scraps of paper and of wood.

Then lighted them and drew them out,
And with them, laughing, ran about.
But soon he changed his merry note—
The flames, alas, had caught his coat,
And every moment, mounting higher,
His body soon was all on fire;
And though he screamed with shriek and shout,
No one came near to put it out:
So it happened, sad to say,
That boy was burned to death that day.

Willie was a wicked boy,
  Snubbed his poor old mother;
Willie was a dreadful boy,
  Quarrelled with his brother;
Willie was a spiteful boy,
  Often pinched his sister,
Once he gave her such a blow,
  Raised a great big blister!

Willy was a sulky boy,
  Sadly plagued his cousins,
Often broke folks' window panes,
  Throwing stones by dozens,
Often worried little girls,
  Bullied smaller boys,
Often broke their biggest dolls,
  Jumped upon their toys.

If he smelled a smoking tart,
  Willie longed to steal it;
If he saw a pulpy peach,
  Willie tried to peel it;
Could he reach a new plum-cake,
  Greedy Willie picked it,
If he spied a pot of jam,
  Dirty Willie licked it.

If he saw a poor old dog,
  Wicked Willie whacked it;
If it had a spot of white,
  Silly Willy blacked it,
If he saw a sleeping cat,
  Horrid Willie kicked it;
If he caught a pretty moth,
  Cruel Willie pricked it.

If his pony would not trot,
  Angry Willie thrashed it;
If he saw a clinging snail,
  Thoughtless Willie smashed it;
If he found a sparrow's nest,
  Unkind Willie hit it.
All the mischief ever done,
  Folks knew Willie did it.

No one liked that horrid boy,
  Can you wonder at it?
None who saw his ugly head,
  Ever tried to pat it.
No one ever took him for a ride—
  Folks too gladly skipped him.
No one ever gave him bats or balls,
  No one ever "tipped" him.

No one taught him how to skate,
  Or to play at cricket;
No one helped him if he stuck
  In a prickly thicket.
Oh no! for the boys all said
  Willie loved to tease them,
And that if he had the chance,
  Willie would not please them.

And they shunned him every one,
  And they would not know him,
And their games and picture-books
  They would never show him,
And their tops they would not spin,
  If they saw him near them,
And they treated him with scorn
  Till he learned to fear them.

They all left him to himself,
  And he was so lonely,
But of course it was his fault,
  Willie's own fault only.
If a boy's a wicked boy,
  Shy of him folks fight then,
If it makes him dull and sad,
  Why, it serves him right then!

He said he would be Good,
but he got into the mud,
and was a Naughty, Bad,
Bad Boy!!!

  Boys, stop your noise! Girls, stop your jumping and skipping!
  While I tell you about a bad boy, who often deserves a whipping.
  If this boy to you were named, to speak to him you'd feel ashamed,
  So to-day I'll only say—He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  I won't tell you his age, nor the colour of his hair,
  Nor say anything about the clothes he sometimes does wear;
  You never see them neat and clean, and seldom without a tear,
  Because—He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  If he's sent on a message, such a long time he stops,
  To pelt stones at Chinamen, and stare in the shops;
  Running behind drays, and wastes time so many ways,
  That when he gets home his mother says—
  Oh you wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  If his mother gives him lolly, cake, piece of beef or mutton,
  In a corner he'll eat it by himself, he's such a nasty, greedy glutton.
  And he'll smug from his playmates a marble, top or button,
  That scarcely any one can with him have any fun,
  Because—He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  He's been going to school for years, I can't tell you how long,
  If you ask him to spell three words, two are sure to be wrong;
  If you saw the dirty books and broken slate which to him belong,
  You'd easily guess from such a mess that—
  He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  You can't believe a word he says, he tells so many lies.
  He's such a coward, he'll only hit a girl or boy much less than his size,
  But if he gets a blow himself, he howls, bawls, yelps, and cries,
  That anyone who sees him never tries to please him,
  Because—He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  He won't play any game without being always cheating,
  I often wonder how he so many times escapes a beating,
  And he never says grace before or after eating.
  He's scarcely better in the least than a brute beast,
  Because—He's a wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

  What school he goes to at present I won't tell,
  But I mean to watch him, and if he don't mind and behave well,
  I'll go to every school and ring a little bell,
  I'll make a great noise, and show all the girls and boys
  This wicked, rude, bad, naughty, cross, nasty, bold, dirty-faced boy!

There was a little Chinese Boy,
  That ran away from home—
"Ha! ha!" he said, "I'll see the world
  And through the streets I'll roam.

"I won't go any more to school,
  Or go so soon to bed,
Nor yet be scolded if I choose
  To stand upon my head."

So little Chinkey ran away,
  His tail flew in the wind;
He thought not of his good mamma
  Who was so very kind:

He knew she could not follow him
  Along the crowded street,
Because mammas in China have
  Such very tiny feet.

Now, as he went along he saw
  Such strange and lovely sights,
Such pretty painted houses—
  Such tops! and oh! such kites!

He saw so many gilded toys,
  and ivory things so white,
That he forgot about the time,
  Until he found it night.

Ah! then he saw such fireworks!
  They glistened in his eyes;
The crackers and the lanterns too
  Quite took him by surprise.

He listened to the music of
  The fiddle and the gong,
And felt that it was jolly, though
  He knew that it was wrong.

But after that he began to think
  Things were not so bright;
The men were going, and there came
  The watchman of the night;

And sleep was stealing over him,
  He scarce could lift his head,
So he lay on the cold, cold stones,
  Which served him for a bed.

Little Chinkey Chow-Chow
  Woke up with early light,
And wandered far away from where
  He passed the dreary night;

He was so very worn and cold,
  And sadly wanted food,
So he sat upon a well
  In not a pleasant mood.

He saw the well was very deep,
  The water too was clear,
And soon he saw a golden fish
  That looked so very near.

He stretched his hand to catch the fish;
  But oh! how sad to tell,
He tumbled over and he sank
  To the bottom of the well.

Some other boys were playing there
  And saw him disappear,
And ran along the road to see
  If anyone was near.

A Great BIG Market Gardener,
  Was soon upon the ground,
And caught our little Chinkey up,
  Who soon would have been drowned.

The boys began to jeer at him,
  For he was very wet;
They pulled his dripping tail, and called
  Him names that I forget.

One took his wooden shoes away,
  Another took his hat,
And someone said, "It serves him right,"
  Now only think of that!

When little Chinkey ran away,
  His tail flew in the wind;
But when our Chinkey turned again
  His tail hung down behind.

He wandered past the painted shops,
  Where they put up the tea,
And I am sure the boys at school
  Were happier than he.

Poor Chinkey Chow was very tired,
  And very sore his feet,
When his mother saw him from
  The corner of a street.

She said he was a wicked boy,
  And ought to have a smack!
And yet I think she loved him more
  Because she'd got him back.

Now when I see a Chinaman,
  And that is every day,
I wonder if he is, grown up,
  The boy that ran away.

But what I still think most about
  When I this story tell,
Is the GREAT BIG Market Gardener
  That raised him from the well

  From Calvert's Australian Toy Books

Of all the small boys in our town
  That Jones boy was the worst,
And if the "bad man" came around
  He'd take that Jones boy first.

One day he slipped away from home
  And went out for a skate
Down on a deep and dangerous pond
  Beyond the garden gate.

His mother missed him after a while,
  And thought he'd gone to skate;
And running to the fatal pond,
  She found she was too late.

For there, upon the cruel ice,
  Beyond an air-hole wide,
She saw his pretty little hat,
  And a mitten by it's side.

He was her boy, and all the love
  That fills a mother's heart
Came forth in tears and sobs and moans
  Beyond the strength of art.

She called the neighbours quick to come,
  They scraped along the ground;
Beneath the water and the ice—
  The boy could no be found.

At last their search was given up
  Until a thaw should come;
The mother's sobs began afresh,
  Her sorrow was not dumb.

They turned to leave the fatal pool,
  A voice came clear and free—
"Hallo! If you want Frankie Jones,
  You'll find him up this tree."

And so it was—the mother's tears
  Were changed to smiles of joy;
But gracious heaven, how she spanked
  Her darling, fair-haired boy!

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