Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1
Thus he wastes half his days
And his hours without number,
And when he gets up
He sits folding his hands,
Or walking about sauntering,
Or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden,
And saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle
Grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him
Are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes
Till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit,
Still hoping to find
That he took better care
For improving his mind;
He told me his dreams,
Talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible,
And never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart,
"Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture
Of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends
For their care in my breeding,
Who taught me bedtimes
To love working and reading."
Watts
Idle Dicky And The Goat
John Brown is a man
Without houses or lands,
Himself he supports
By the work of his hands.
He brings home his wages
Each Saturday night,
To his wife and his children,
A very good sight.
His eldest boy, Dicky,
On errands when sent,
To loiter and chatter
Was very much bent;
The neighbours all call'd him
An odd little trout,
His shoes they were broke,
And his toes they peep'd out.
To see such old shoes
All their sorrows were rife;
John Brown he much grieved,
And so did his wife,
He kiss'd his boy Dicky,
And stroked his white head,
"You shall have a new pair,
My dear boy," he then said.
"I've here twenty shillings,
And money has wings;
Go first get this note changed,
I want other things."
Now here comes the mischief--
This Dicky would stop
At an ill-looking, mean-looking
Greengrocer's shop.
For here lived a chattering
Dunce of a boy;
To prate with this urchin
Gave Dicky great joy.
And now, in his boasting,
He shows him his note,
And now to the green-stall
Up marches a goat.
The laughed, for it was
This young nanny-goat's way
With those who pass'd by her
To gambol and play.
All three they went on
In their frolicsome bouts,
Till Dick dropt the note
On a bunch of green sprouts.
Now what was Dick's wonder
To see the vile goat,
In munching the green sprouts,
Eat up his bank note!
He crying ran back
To John Brown with the news,
And by stopping to idle
He lost his new shoes.
Adelaide Taylor
Idleness and Mischief
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
How skilfully she builds her cell;
How neat she spreads the wax;
And labours hard to store it well;
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play
Let my first years be passed;
That I may give you every day
Some good account at last.
Watts
Come and Go.
Dick Dawdle had land
Worth two hundred a year,
Yet from debt and from dunning
He never was free,
His intellect was not
Surprisingly clear,
But he never felt satisfied
How it could be.
The raps at his door,
And the rings at his gate.
And the threats of a gaol
He no longer could bear:
So he made up his mind
To sell half his estate,
Which would pay all his debts,
And leave something to spare.
He leased to a farmer
The rest of his land
For twenty-one years;
And on each quarter-day
The honest man went
With his rent in his hand,
His liberal landlord
Delighted to pay.
Before half the term
Of the lease had expired,
The farmer, one day
With a bagful of gold,
Said, "Pardon me, sir,
But I long have desired
To purchase my farm,
If the land can be sold.
"Ten years I've been blest
With success and with health,
With trials a few--
I thank God, not severe--
I am grateful. I hope,
Though not proud of my wealth,
But I've managed to lay
By a hundred a year."
"Why how," exclaimed Dick,
"Can this possibly be?"
(With a stare of surprise,
And a mortified laugh,)
"The whole of my farm
Proved too little for me,
And you it appears,
Have grown rich upon half."
"I hope you'll excuse me,"
The farmer replies,
"But I'll tell you the cause,
If your honor would know;
In two little words
All the difference lies,
I always say Come,
And you used to say Go."
"Well, and what does that mean,
My good fellow?" he said.
"Why this, sir, that I
Always rise with the sun;
You said 'Go' to your man,
As you lay in your bed,
I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'
And I see the work done."
R. S. Sharpe
[Page 70--Cruelty Land]
The Tables turned--Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs
fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.
The Cruel Boy
Tom sat at the kitchen window
Watching the folks go by,
But what he was really doing
Was pulling the legs from a fly.
Yes, there he sat in the twilight,
Tormenting the tiny things;
First pulling their legs from their sockets,
And afterwards pulling their wings.
He knew not that his father
Was standing behind his back;
And very much wished to be giving
His cruel young fingers a crack.
But he waited till after dinner,
When Tommy was having a game;
Then he thought he would give him a lesson,
And treat him a little the same.
So catching his son of a sudden,
And giving his elbow a twist;
He pulled his two ears till he shouted,
Then hit him quite hard with his fist.
And did he not roll on the carpet?
And did he not cry out in pain?
But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"
His father would hit him again.
"Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,
You don't seem to like it, my boy;
And yet, when you try it on others,
You always are singing with joy;
"It seems very strange," said his father,
And this time his nose had a pull;
But Tommy could stand it no longer;
He bellowed and roared like a bull.
"Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,
And scrape off the flesh from your shin;
What you often yourself do to others,
Sure you do not think harm or a sin.
"Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,
"You'll leave these poor things alone,
If not, I go on with my lesson."
"I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.
But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,
The wounded bird flutters and dies;
Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies?
Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept when they want it--but who
Would sweep them for pleasure alone?
If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain.
The Worm
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm
The frame thy wayward looks decide
Required a God to form.
The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of His boundless love
On that poor worm bestow'd.
The sun, the moon, the stars He made
To all the creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade
For worms as well as thee.
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh, do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.
Gisborne
Story Of Cruel Frederick
Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he:
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And tore off their tiny wings;
He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And Oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.
The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,
And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,
And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.
At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growl'd and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!
So Frederick had to go to bed,
His leg was very sore and red!
The doctor came and shook his head
And made a very great to-do,
And gave him nasty physic too.
Don't Throw Stones
Boys, don't throw stones!
That kitten on the wall,
Sporting with leaves that fall,
Now jumping to and fro,
Now crouching soft and low,
Then grasps them with a spring,
As if some living thing.
As happy as can be,
Why cause her misery?
It is foolish stones to fling
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That squirrel in the tree,
Frisking in fun and glee,
Is busy in his way,
Although it looks all play,
Picking up nuts--a store
Against the winter hour
Frisking from tree to tree,
So blithe and merrily,
It is cruel stones to fling,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That bird upon the wing,
How sweet its song this Spring,
Perchance it seeks the food,
To feed its infant brood,
Whose beaks are open wide,
Until they are supplied;
To and fro to and fro,
The parent bird must go.
It is sinful stones to throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That stray dog in the street,
Should with your pity meet,
And not with shout and cry,
And brick-bat whirling by:
The dog's a friend to man,
Outvie him if you can:
So faithful, trusty, true,
A pattern unto you;
It is wicked stones to throw,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
It can no pleasure give
To injure things that live;
That beauteous butterfly,
The bird that soars on high,
The creatures every day
That round our pathway play;
If you thought of your cruelty;
You wouldn't wish even one to die.
Only cowards stones will throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating
the poor Boy.
[Page 71--Stealing Land]
No One Will See Me
"No one will see me,"
Said little John Day,
For his father and mother
Were out of the way,
And he was at home
All alone;
"No one will see me,"
So he climbed on a chair,
And peeped in the cupboard
To see what was there,
Which of course he ought
Not to have done.
There stood in the cupboard,
So sweet and so nice,
A plate of plum-cake
In full many a slice,
And apples so ripe,
And so fine;
"Now no one will see me,"
Said John to himself,
As he stretched out his arm
To reach up to the shelf;
"This apple, at least,
Shall be mine."
John paused and put back
The nice apple so red,
For he thought of the words
His kind mother had said,
When she left all these
Things in his care;
"And no one will see me,"
Thought he, "'tis not true;
For I've read that God sees us
In all that we do,
And is with us
Everywhere."
Well done, John;