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And when he trotted off to school,
The children all about would cry, “There goes the curly-headed boy,
The boy who never tells a lie." And everybody loved him so,
Because he always told the truth, That every day, as he grew up,
'Twas said, “There goes the honest youth.” And when the people that stood near
Would turn to ask the reason why, The answer would be always this,—
6 Because he never tells a lie.”
Little grains of sand,
And the pleasant land.
Humble though they be,
Lead the soul away
Off in sin to stray.
Little words of love,
Like the heaven above.
How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower !
The glory of April and May !
And they wither and die in a day.
Above all the flowers of the field ;
Still, how sweet a perfume it will yield ! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they hloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Since both of them wither and fade;
DR. Watts, 1674-1748.
With acorn, nut, and corn,
For winter's coming on.
Until his work is done;
Cold winter's coming on.
His storehouse, filled with all that's good,
His eye looks proudly on;
“ Now let cold winter come.”
Come, children, like the squirrel, try
In life's bright sunny morn To seek a good, a wise supply Before old age comes on.
« WELL SPRING.”
Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew ;
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair ;
Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed ;
Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.
JANE TAYLOR, 1783-1824.
LUCY GRAY. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ;
And when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
She dwelt on a wide moor,
Beside a cottage door.
green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.” “ That, father, will I gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon.”
And snapped a fagot-band ;
The lantern in her hand.
With many a wanton stroke
That rises up like smoke.
She wandered up and down;
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
To serve them for a guide.
That overlooked the moor;
A furlong from their door.
“ In heaven we all shall meet : When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
They tracked the footmarks small;
And by the long stone wall;
The marks were still the same;
And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;
And farther there were none !
She is a living child-
Upon the lonesome wild.
And never looks behind;
WORDSWORTH, 1770— 1850.