A NURSERY LEGEND

Oh! listen, little children, to a proper little song Of a naughty little urchin who was always doing wrong: He disobey'd his mammy, and he disobey'd his dad, And he disobey'd his uncle, which was very near as bad.

He wouldn't learn to cipher, and he wouldn't learn to write, But he _would_ tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite; And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way, That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive To cure him of a theory that two and two made five And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked whims By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.

Instead of all such pretty books, (which _must_ improve the mind,) He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind; Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly, And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when n.o.body was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.

His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse, Till it scandalised his governess and horrified his nurse.

He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear, And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near: He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down, And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and Brown.

But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true, That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do.

He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown, And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town.

So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can, And profit by the history of this unhappy man.

Read Dr. Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell, Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!

_Henry S. Leigh._

A LITTLE GOOSE

The chill November day was done, The working world home faring; The wind came roaring through the streets And set the gas-lights flaring; And hopelessly and aimlessly The scared 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 cloak or hat her small, soft arms, And wind blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears; Her round blue eyes ran over; She cherished in her wee, cold hand, A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while She slipped in mine the other: Half scared, half confidential, said, "Oh! please, I want my mother!"

"Tell me your street 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 Milly's steps, The monkey took the money; And so I followed down the street, The 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 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 to keep us both From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep: Oh dear! I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy; people pa.s.sed All m.u.f.fled, homeward faring: "You'll have to spend the night with me,"

I said at last, despairing, I tied a kerchief round her neck-- "What ribbon's this, my blossom?"

"Why don't you know!" she smiling, said, 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 sometimes forget it: And so I wear a little thing That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure I should get lost without it."

_Eliza Sproat Turner._

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS

I haf von funny leedle poy, Vot comes schust to mine knee; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts off der house: But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs And eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine gla.s.s off lager bier, Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der schticks to beat it mit-- Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I d.i.n.ks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse: But nefer mind; der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vere dere plaze goes vrom her lamp Vene'er der glim I douse.

How gan I all dose dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes d.i.n.k I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy; But ven he vas aschleep in ped So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

_Charles Follen Adams._

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)-- Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-- (Good Heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-- (Where _did_ he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!