Sweets for Leisure Hours Amusing Tales for Little Readers

Excerpt

THE FROZEN BIRD.

See, see, what a sweet little prize I have found!
A Robin that lay half-benumbed on the ground:
Well hous’d and well fed, in your cage you will sing,
And make our dull winter as gay as the spring.
But stay,—sure ’tis cruel, with wings made to soar,
To be shut up in prison, and never fly more—
And I, who so often have long’d for a flight,
Shall I keep you prisoner?—mamma, is that right?
No, come, pretty Robin, I must set you free—
For your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.

What a little thing am I!
Hardly higher than the table;
I can eat, and play, and cry,
But to work I am not able.
Nothing in the world I know,
But mamma will try and show me;
Sweet mamma, I love her so,
She’s so very kind unto me.
And she sets me on her knee
Very often for some kisses:
O! how good I’ll try to be,
To such a dear mamma as this is!

THE DUTIFUL SON.

Poor Susan was old and too feeble to spin,
Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin;
And she must have starv’d, as so many have done,
If she had not been bless’d with a good little son.
He went every morning, as gay as a lark,
And work’d all day long in the fields till ’twas dark,
Then came home again to his dear mother’s cot,
And joyfully gave her the wages he got.
Oh then, was not little Jem happier far
Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are?
For, as long as he liv’d, ’twas his comfort and joy,
To think he’d not been an undutiful boy.

Whilst you are asleep, the poor little sweep
At the dawning of morning must go,
With brushes and bags, and cloth’d all in rags,
In the winter, thro’ frost and thro’ snow.
We’re oblig’d, I am sure, for what they endure,
To save us from smoke and from fire;
And often I weep to think that the sweep
Must do such sad work for his hire.
Then we’ll keep in mind, that the sweep’s very kind,
For us such a service to do,
And never feel fright when he comes in our sight,
Because of his dark sooty hue.

TUMBLE UP.

Tumble down, tumble up, never mind it, my sweet,
No, no, never beat the poor ground;
’Twas your fault you could not stand straight on your feet,
Fall you will, if you twirl yourself round.
Oh dear! what a noise:—will a noise make it well?
Will crying wash bruises away?
Suppose that it should bleed a little, and swell,
’Twill all be gone down in a day.
That’s right; be a man, love, and dry up your tears,
Come, smile, and I’ll give you a kiss;
If you live in the world but a very few years,
You must bear greater troubles than this.

We’ll go to the meadow, where cowslips do grow,
And buttercups looking as yellow as gold;
And the daisies and violets beginning to blow,
For it is a most beautiful sight to behold.
The honey-bee humming about there is seen,
The butterfly merrily skims it along;
The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green,
And the linnet there sings us his liveliest song....