"A day, in such obedience spent,
Is sure to yield the most content,
For frequently I find

That one wrong word, or angry fray,
Or lazy fit, will spoil a day,

And make a heavy mind."


WHO show'd the little ant the way
Her narrow hole to bore?
And spend the pleasant summer day
In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest,
Of wool, and hay, and moss;
Who told her how to weave it best,
And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly

Among the sweetest flow'rs,
And lay his store of honey by,

To eat in winter hours?

"Twas God who show'd them all the way,

And gave their little skill,

And teaches children, if they pray,

To do his holy will.



So, so, you are running away, Mr. Fly,


But I'll come at you now, if you don't go too high;
There, there, I have caught you, you can't get away:
Never mind, my old fellow, I'm only in play.

Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill'd the poor fly,
You have pinch'd him so hard, he is going to die,
His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand;
There, now he has fallen down dead in your hand!
'I hope you are sorry for what you have done,
You may kill many flies, but you cannot make one.
No, you can't set it up,-as I told you before,
It is dead, and it never will stand any more.

Poor thing! as it buzz'd up and down on the glass,
How little it thought what was coming to pass !
For it could not have guess'd, as it frisk'd in the sun,
That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun.

The spider, that weaves his fe cobweb so neat,
Might have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat;
But the poor flies must learn to keep out of your way,
As you kill them for nothing at all, but your play.

J. T.

АH! there it falls, and now 'tis dead,
The shot went through it's pretty head,
And broke its shining wing!

How dull and dim its closing eyes,
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!

It was a lark, and in the sky,
In mornings fine it mounted high,
To sing a merry song;
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,
It whistled out its music there,
As light it skimm'd along.

How little thought its pretty breast,
This morning, when it left its nest,
(Hid in the springing corn,

To find some victuals for its young,
And pipe away its morning song,)
It never should return.

Those pretty wings shall ne more
Its callow nestlings cover o'er,

Or bring them dainties rare:
But long their gaping beaks will cry,
And then with pinching hunger dię,
All in the bitter air.

Poor little bird!-if people knew
The sorrows little birds go through,
I think that even boys

Would never call it sport and fun,
To stand and fire a frightful gun,
For nothing but the noise.


AH! the poor little blackamoor, see, there he goes,
And the blood gushes out from his half-frozen toes,
And his legs are so thin you may almost see the bones,
As he goes, shiver, shiver, all along on the stones.

He was once a negro-boy, and a merry boy was he,
Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm-tree,
Or bathing in the river, like a brisk water-rat,
And at night sleeping sound on a little piece of mat.

But there came some wicked people, and they stole
him far away,

And then good-bye to palm-tree tall, and merry, merry play,

For they took him from his house and home, and ev'ry body dear,

And now, poor little negro-boy, he's come a begging here.

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And fie upon

the wicked folks who did this cruel thing! I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the


For to steal him from his house and home must be a

crying sin,

Though he was a little negro-boy, and had a sooty skin.


"How can I the south from the north ever know,

When there is no S in the sky;

Oh! how can I tell the east from the west,
When not the least mark I can spy

His mother, who sat at her work by the fire,
To Alfred's request thus replied:

“Come, listen to me, and I'll soon tell you how,
The difficult point to decide.

"Wherever the sun rises, there is the east,
Now that is both easy and clear;

Wherever at ev'ning he sets from your view,
The west, my beloved, is there.

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