Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1
mind."
"Can't you hit the lady for the gentleman, Johnny?" asked the fond
parent.
Johnny cleverly landed the pellet on the end of the old woman's nose.
But she did mind it, and rising in her wrath soared down on the small
boy like a hawk. She put him over the line, reversed him, ran him
backwards, till he didn't know which end of him was front, and
finally dropped him into the lap of the scared mother, with a
benediction whereof the purport was that she'd be back in a moment to
skin him alive.
"She didn't seem to like it, Puddin'," smiled the old gentleman,
softly. "She's a perfect stranger to me; but I understand she is the
matron of an Orphans' Home, and I thought she would like a little
fun; but I was mistaken."
And the old man smiled sweetly as he went back to his seat. He was
sorry for the poor little boy, but he couldn't help it.
A Wicked Boy
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!
L'Envoi
Cooley's Boy
The boy not only preys on my melon-patch and fruit trees, and upon
those of my neighbours, but he has an extraordinary aptitude for
creating a disturbance in whatever spot he happens to be. Only last
Sunday he caused such a terrible commotion in church that the
services had to be suspended for several minutes until he could be
removed. The interior of the edifice was painted and varnished
recently, and I suppose one of the workers must have left a clot of
varnish upon the back of Cooley's pew, which is directly across the
aisle from mine. Cooley's boy was the only representative of the
family at church upon that day, and he amused himself during the
earlier portions of the service by kneeling upon the seat and
communing with Dr. Jones' boy, who occupied the pew immediately in
the rear. Sometimes, when young Cooley would resume a proper
position, Jones's boy would stir him up afresh by slyly pulling his
hair, whereupon Cooley would wheel about and menace Jones with his
fist in a manner which betrayed utter indifference to the proprieties
of the place and the occasion, as well as the presence of the
congregation. When Cooley finally sank into a condition of repose, he
placed his head, most unfortunately, directly against the lump of
undried varnish, while he amused himself by reading the commandments
and the other scriptural texts upon the wall behind the pulpit.
In a few moments he attempted to move, but the varnish had mingled
with his hair, and it held him securely. After making one or two
desperate but ineffectual efforts to release himself, he became very
angry; and supposing that Jones's boy was holding him, he shouted:
"Leg go o' my hair! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you!"
The clergyman paused just as he was entering upon consideration of
"secondly," and the congregation looked around in amazement, in time
to perceive young Cooley, with his head against the back of the pew,
aiming dreadful blows over his shoulder with his fist at some unseen
person behind him. And with every thrust he exclaimed:
"I'll smash yer nose after church! I'll go for you, Bill Jones, when
I ketch you alone! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you, or I'll knock the
stuffin' out o' yer," etc, etc.
Meanwhile, Jones's boy sat up at the very end of his pew, far away
from Cooley, and looked as solemn as if the sermon had made a deep
impression upon him.
Max Adeler
[Page 39--Boy Land]
Jack The Glutton
"Do look at those pigs, as they lay in the straw,"
Little Richard said to his papa;
"They keep eating longer than ever I saw,
What nasty fat gluttons they are!"
"I see they are feasting" his father replied,
"They eat a great deal I allow;
But let us remember, before we deride,
'Tis the nature, my dear, of a sow.
"But when a great boy, such as you, my dear Dick,
Does nothing but eat all day
And keeps sucking things till he makes himself sick,
What a glutton! indeed, we may say.
"When plumcake and sugar forever he picks,
And sweetmeats, and comfits, and figs;
Pray let him get rid of his own nasty tricks,
And then he may laugh at the pigs."
Tom the Dainty Boy
Never be dainty and throw food away;
'Tis sinful, as you must have heard many say;
Besides, you yourself may require food some day,
Though well fed.
So don't smell your plate and turn over your food,
And doubt if it's wholesome, or pleasant, or good;
Such conduct is not only senseless,--but rude
And ill-bred.
There was a young boy, who so dainty became,
That whether his dinner was fish, flesh or game,
He turned up his nose at them all, just the same,
And would cry,
"I cannot eat this,"--and, "I do not like that;"--
"This chicken's too lean,"--and "That mutton's too fat;
The dog he may eat it up all, or the cat,
But not I.
The consequence was that he soon became thin;
His bones they stuck out, and his cheeks they sunk in,
And his hands were not stronger nor thicker than tin,
If so strong.
And his legs grew as slender as little hat-pegs,
And almost as small was his waist as his legs;
And he looked like the laths that are fastened round kegs,
Thin and long.
And thinner, and thinner, and thinner he grew,
A shadow had been rather fat, of the two;
In fact, you might easily look him right through,
If you tried.
And when he was quite the skeleton grown,
As weak as a reed, and as cold as a stone
He fell all to pieces, and with a faint groan,
So he died.
Boy that robbed the Bird's nest
"To-whit! To-whit! To-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Not I," said the cow. "Oh, no;
Such a thing I'd never do;
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away."
"Coo, coo! said the dove,
I'll speak a word my love;
Who stole that pretty nest
From a little red-breast?"
"Not I," said the sheep. "Oh, no.
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so;
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine."
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow,
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day."
"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
Don't ask me again!
Why I hav'nt a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together;
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood."
"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
We will make a great stir;
Let us find out his name,
And all cry for shame!"
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"'Tis very cruel too,"
Said little Alice Neil:
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And hid his face, so crimson red;
For he stole that pretty nest
From little robin redbreast;
And he felt so full of shame,
I do not like to tell his name.
But during next week
Dressed in his Sunday best
This boy set out to seek
All for another nest.
He robbed a nest up high,
Suspended in a tree;
Two birds came through the sky,
What happened you can see.
Cruel Boy
What! go to see the kittens drowned
On purpose in the yard!
I did not think there could be found
A little heart so hard.
Poor kittens! No more pretty play
With pussy's wagging tail:
Why! I'd go far enough away
Before I'd see the pail.
Poor things! the little child that can
Be pleased to go and see,
Most likely, when he grows a man,
A cruel man will be.
And many a wicked thing he'll do
Because his heart is hard:
A great deal worse than killing you,
Poor kittens in the yard.
Tyrannical Pat
What became of tyrannical Pat,
Who pelted the dog, and beat the cat,
Why, puss scratched his face and tore his hat;
And Dash knocked him over as flat as a mat.
Mind that!
The little boy who bit his Nails
See here a naughty boy, John Thales,
Who had a shocking way
Of picking at his finger nails,
And biting them all day.
And though he had, like other boys,
Both soldiers, kites and drums,
He liked, much better than these toys,
His fingers and his thumbs.
Boy who tore his Hat
Above on a chair, a little boy sat,
For he had torn his nice new hat;
And so was punished for doing that.
Thief Charley
Charley, Charley, stole the barley
Out of the baker's shop;
The baker came out, and gave him a clout,
And made that Charley hop.
[Page 40--Whipping Machine]
Snook's Patent Whipping Machine for Flogging Naughty Boys in School
"The Snooks' Whipping Machine has proved a total failure."
--"Times."
Declaration of a Distracted Schoolmaster.
A year ago I took charge of a school of 1000 boys. They were a very
bad lot indeed, and I could do nothing with them. Being of a mild
disposition, I attempted to reason with them; but I might as well
have reasoned with the pigs. I then thought of punishing them, but
that was a big task, and, besides, what mode of punishment should I
adopt? In my utmost perplexity I wrote to Professor Wilderspin--a
great authority on the management of boys--and he wrote as follows:
"Nearly all boys can be managed by an intelligent schoolmaster
without punishment, but in a few cases it seems impossible to do
without it. In every large school in England, Ireland, and Scotland
some corporal punishment is used, and some must continue to be used
as long as very vicious children continue to exist, or as long as
parents spoil their children by over indulgence or by wilful
criminal neglect before they send them to school.
--Yours truly, Professor Wilderspin."
I then wrote to twenty-seven of the principal headmasters in the
world, and the following are the replies:--
From the High School of Eton wrote head-master, Mr. Squeers:
"If they don't behave as they should do, why, soundly box their
ears."
From the Grammar School of Harrow wrote head-master, Mr. Phfool:
"If they do not behave themselves, expel them from the school."
From the Training School of Rugby wrote head-master, Mr Wist:
"Just take a handful of their hair, and give a sharp, short twist."
From the College School of Oxford wrote Professor Rarey Hook: