The Saddest Little Whisker I Ever Did See

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They decide that Jody should cut off a few of Mr. Meanwhile, Bill is leaving on another trip, and Buffy and Cissy are heading to the planetarium. They invite Jody, but he wants to stay home and carry out his plan. Cissy sums up the situation quite well: Sharon has tickets for a folk rock festival. They run off to discuss the situation. That night, the kids rush French through his bedtime story. With renewed determination, Jody goes home to do the deed. Random Set Design Observation: Bill finds out what happened when the daredevils come to the door and express remorse for the way they treated Jody.

Though Jody still faces punishment, Bill quickly entrusts him with another errand. The beard-snipping scene generates about as much suspense as Family Affair can muster, and French outrage is always entertaining. Random Set Design Observation 2: The girls have some dreary-looking books. And what is that yellow thing?! For Patrick, this episode fell between his stints on The Munsters and Lidsville. Schulman also made one appearance as Gordon. You are commenting using your WordPress.

You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Then at last comes winter ; fields are cold and lorn, But there 's happy Christmas, when our Lord was born. Thus as years roll onward merrily we sing, Thankful for the blessings all the seasons bring. The Children's Book of Poetry. Bring the flowers back again ; Yellow cowslip and violet blue, Buttercups and daisies too. He the leafless trees has thinned ; Loudly doth he roar and shout ; Bar the door and keep him out.

O'er the fields thy covering strow ; Cover up the seed so warm, Through the winter safe from harm. The scuttles are shut, or I 'd dash right in And stream down the attic stair. WHEN woods were still and smoky, And roads with dust were white, And daily the red sun came up, With never a cloud in sight, And the hill-side brook had hardly strength To journey down to the plain, A welcome sound it was to hear The robins' song of rain. Your doubts and fears are vain, For He who knoweth all your needs To-morrow will send you rain. Lift up your heads and listen, Forget your thirst and pain, For He who knoweth all your needs To-morrow will send you rain.

Each told the news to his neighbor, Each neighbor passed it along, Till the lowliest flower in the quiet wood Had heard of the robins' song. Dear little feathered prophets! Your message was not in vain, For in the silence of the night Came the footsteps of the rain. I will hear what they say of me In my drapery of snow. The sun rose up in the morn, And looked from east to west, And April lay still and white ; Then he called the wind from his rest.

Cover the golden hair, Close down the beaming eyes. One last time let us kiss thee, Sweet April ; we shall miss thee! The sun touched his lips to her cheeks, And the color returned in a glow ; The wind laid his hand on her hair, And it glistened under the snow, As, laughing aloud in glee, Sweet April shook herself free. Come, rain, come, That the water may run, That the mill may make our meal ; 'T will grind our wheat And corn so sweet, When it turns the old mill-wheel.

A little bit of patience often makes the sunshine come, And a little bit of love makes a very happy home ; A little bit of hope makes a rainy day look gay, And a little bit of charity makes glad a weary way. WITH a little water mix a little clay ; Stir it with a crooked stick half the day, Sweeten it with sand, put in some biscuit crumbs, White stones for citron, and black stones for plums ; Take it up carefully, roll it on a board, Then you have the best pie money can afford.

Put it on a flat stone, set it in the sun ; There let it bake till the mud-pie is done. How the clanking of the wheels Wears the hours away! Languidly the autumn wind Stirs the greenwood leaves ; From the fields the reapers sing, Binding up the sheaves, And a proverb haunts my mind, As the spell is cast — " The mill will never grind With the water that has passed.

Golden years are fleeting by, Youth is passing too ; Learn to make the most of life, Lose no happy day ; Time will never bring thee back Chances swept away. Leave no tender word unsaid, Live while life shall last — " The mill will never grind With the water that has passed. APRIL is called so for it opens the flowers.

April, the opener, unlocks everything: Gray fields, bare fallows, and these hearts of ours All but the miser's — feel the joy of spring. GOOD morning, merry sunshine How did you wake so soon? You 've scared the little stars away, And shined away the moon. I saw you go to sleep last night, Before I ceased my playing. How did you get away over here, And where have you been staying?

Family Affair Friday(ish): Season 3, Episode 2, “By a Whisker,” 9/30/1968

I just go round to see My little children of the East, Who rise and watch for me. I waken all the birds and bees And flowers on my way ; And, last of all, the little child Who stayed out late to play. Little brook, sing us your parting song! Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade ; Say, will you dream of our loving shade? Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds, The snow laid a coverlet over their heads.

Luhu is also called "the saddest cat in the world"

WELL, April, fickle lass, you 're here, With muddy shoes and cap of snow, With now a smile and now a tear, With first a kiss and then a blow. You come with saucy flap and skirt, With pout of lip and roguish eye, That mark you, April, for a flirt Who offers love but to deny. But then, dear April, we forgive The follies of your wanton way ; You tend the flowers while you live, And, dying, give them all to May.

He who does one fault at first, And lies to hide it, makes it two. THE wind blew coldly through the streets, And laughed in the people's faces, As if he would say, I 've caught you to-day, And enjoy your stern grimaces. But the children smiled, and, laughing, said, We like to hear you bellow, For with furs and muff it is easy enough To hide from you, old fellow. A cheerful temper joined with innocence will make beauty attractive, knowledge delightful, and wit good- natured.

The fruit when young is soft and white, And closely wrapped in green, And tassels hang from every ear, Which children love to glean.

Meet Luhu, the saddest cat in the world

But when the tassels fade away, The fruit is ripe and old ; It peeps from out the wrapping dry- Like beads of yellow gold. The fruit when young we boil and roast, When old we grind it well. Now think of all the plants you know, And try its name to tell. Children's Book of Poetry. THIS is only a blade of grass ; But how does it grow? Does any one know? The seasons come, and the seasons pass, And with every year the grass we have here, So green and bright in the sun and rain ; And then it is brown when the snow comes down, But young and fresh in the spring again.

This is only a little girl ; But how does she grow? With her hair of gold and her teeth of pearl, From a baby so wee she will grow to be A maiden as fair as a blooming rose ; But no one can say, as day follows day, How a blade of grass or a little girl grows.

Evoking bygone amusements and guilty pleasures

Quick believers should have broad shoulders. SAID the old rook to the young rook, Will you get out of that nest? Said the young rook to the old rook, No ; I like this place the best. Said the old rook to the young rook, Do you hear me? Said the young rook to the old rook, Yes, I hear ; but I mean to stay.

Said the old rook to the young rook, We are too many here! Said the young rook to the old rook, Then go yourself, my dear. Said the old rook to the young rook, I am king of this elm-tree! Said the young rook to the old rook, That matters not to me.

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Said the old rook to the young rook, Take that long bough to the right ; Said the young rook to the old rook, I am sleepy, so good-night. Said the old rook to the young rook, For the last time, will you go? Said the young rook to the old rook, For the last time, no, no, no. Said the old rook to the young rook, I shall make you feel my beak!

Said the young rook to the old rook, Grandfather, did you speak? So the old one pecked the young one Till he fairly turned him out ; — And that was why I could not sleep, The rooks made such a rout. THERE'S a purple tint on the woodland leaves, And the winds are up all day ; There 's a rustling heard on the yellow sheaves, And it seems to sadly say, Sweet summer 's gone away.

In the wrinkled brook no roses peep, And the bees no longer stay, And the butterflies have gone to sleep, And the locusts trill all day. Sweet summer 's gone away. On the browning fields the spider spins Where the lambs no longer play ; And the cricket now his chirp begins, And the quail is whistling gay.

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There are loving arms for baby dear Though the skies are chill and gray, And a cosey home-nest all the year, And sweet kisses every day, Though summer 's gone away. THE bird that soars on highest wing Builds on the ground her lowly nest. And she that doth most sweetly sing Sings in the shade when all things rest. In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility. FLY away, little birds, 't is your season to go ; The winter is coming, With cold winds and snow.

The flowers have gone from the meadows around, To live in their seeds, And their roots underground. The leaves have turned red on the bushes and trees, And fall from the branches In every light breeze. The moth lies asleep in the bed he has spun, And the bee stays at home With his honeyed work done. So now, little birds, you must hasten away To the South, where the sunshine And blossoms will stay.

But return with the spring, when the weather is fair. And sing your sweet songs In the warm pleasant air. Their toes turned in and their bills were round, And they always waddled over the ground In search of a muddy spot. And they did n't seem to have any sense, For they would n't roost on the barnyard fence, Or make any use of their wings. As they grew older, the mother-hen Went out with her chickens a-walking, when They came to a pretty pond, And into it straight, with a fearless dash, The web-footed chickens went splashety-splash, And scared their mother so fond. As they grew bigger, they would n't mind, But wandered off wherever inclined.

And the motherly hen declared That, if they continued behaving so, She was n't to blame, and they might go And drown, for all she cared. HE hopped down cheerily into the snow, Brave little barefoot Brownie — As if snow were the warmest thing below, And as cosey as it is downy! And his brown, little, knowing, saucy head, In a way that was 'cutely funny, He jerked to one side, as though he said, " I do n't care if it is n't sunny," " I do n't care! I do n't care! I do n't care if I have n't a shoe to my foot ; — I 'm a bird, sir, for all sorts of weathers. Through life I '11 try to remember To meet its winters with a cheerful word, Like thee to brave my December.

He nibbled at the roots awhile, And frisked beneath the trees ; And watched the birds and flowers bright In sweet content and ease. Till Fido, seeing Bunny there, With yelps, to catch him tried ; But Bunny sped, an opening found, And in he went to hide. And when he dared to look around To find where he might be, Some brother rabbit said, " Good Day," And met him cheerily. ITTLE brown squirrel, pray, what do you eat?

What had you for dinner to-day? Nuts, beautiful nuts, so nice and so sweet! I gather them off the tall trees in the wood, And eat all the kernels I find that are good, And then throw the hard shells away. Little brown squirrel, but what do you do When the season for nuts is o'er? I gather ripe nuts all the long summer through, And hide them so deep in a hole in the ground ; Then, when the dark winter again has come round, I have plenty still laid up in store.

Dear little reader, I wonder if you Are laying in food for your mind? You should seek what is good and instructive and true. You should gain all the knowledge that ought to be known, — That when the bright days of your childhood are flown, You may be of some use to mankind. YES, go, little butterfly! A poor fluttering prisoner no longer you '11 be! There, out of the window! Go, rest on the bosom of some favorite flower ; Go, sport in the sunlight your brief little hour, For your day, at the longest, is scarcely a span ; Then go and enjoy it ; be gay while you can.

As for me, I have something more useful to do. I must work, I must learn ; — Though I play sometimes too, All your days with the blossoms, bright thing, you may spend ; They will close with the summer ; Mine never shall end. Sweet love is the sunshine That warms into life ; For only in darkness Live hatred and strife. There is no dearth of charity in the world in giving ; but there is comparatively little exercised in thinking and speaking. Dear little worm, we '11 say " Good-by " Till you come out a butterfly.

Oh, see it fly! The lovely, lovely butterfly! Dear little butterfly, you 're ours! Flutter, flutter, flutter on While the sun is shining ; Gently flit from bower to bower Joyous little rover; soon the summer will be gone. Be slow to promise and quick to perform. They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts. Said one little chick, " That belongs to me!

It is nice and sweet," Said number three ; " let us share the treat. They pulled and they tugged, the downy things ; And, oh, how they flapped their baby wings! Just please let go of this bit of wheat! For a saucy crow has watched the fight, And laughs: THE oxen are such clever beasts, They '11 drag the plough all day ; They 're very strong and tug along Great loads of wood or hay. They feed on grass when green or dry ; Their flesh is beef, for food ; Their lungs are "lights," their stomach "tripe," Their skin for leather 's good. Their hair men use in mortar too, — Lime, water, sand, and hair They nicely mix and smoothly fix For plastering so fair.

For making soap their bones are used ; Their horns for combs we group ; Their feet we boil for " neat's-foot oil," Their tails for ox-tail soup. Thus every part is useful made. The same is true of cows, — Except their ilk gives luscious milk, Instead of dragging ploughs. Here we are — rams and sheep and lambs — All flocking up around you. Never speak to deceive, nor listen to betray. WHAT does the kitten say? Up jumps the dog, and says, " Bow, wow, wow I I 'm as good as kitty, and I 'm hungry now. The rooster struts around and cries, " Cock-a-doodle-do,' As if that were just about the only thing he knew.

On the roof, the gentle dove says, " Coo, coo, coo! Love me, little girls and boys, for I love you. What does our baby say? OPEN the snowy little bed, and put the baby in it ; Lay down her pretty curly head, She '11 go to sleep in a minute. Tuck the sheet down round her neck, And cover the dimples over, Till she looks like a rose-bud peeping out From a bed of sweet white clover. RED and white, red and white, Oh, I have seen a funny sight, — The old red cow with her pretty white calf, And she was trying to teach him to laugh. Hearts, like doors, can ope with ease To very, very little keys ; And do n't forget that two of these Are " I thank you, sir " and " If you please.

I'M very glad to get here ; I only came to-day ; I was this very morning a hundred miles away. Oh, what a long, long way to come! How tired you must be! I 'm fond of going far ; it is the best for me. You left us last -September ; And, pray, where did you go? I went South for the winter ; — I always do, you know. How do you like it? I like its sunny skies ; — Among the orange-blossoms I caught the nicest flies ; But when the spring had opened, I wanted to come back.

You're just the same old swallow — Your wings are just as black. Your little last year's nestlings, — Do tell us how they are. My nestlings are great swallows, And mated long ago. And will you build this summer, Among the flowers and leaves? No ; I have taken lodgings beneath the stable-eaves ; You '11 hear each night and morning My twitter in the sky.

Your song is always welcome ; and now good-by. Oh what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive! In this winter weather Cold must be your nest. Hopping o'er the carpet, Picking up the crumbs — Robin knows the children Love him when he comes. Is the story true, Robin, You were once so good To the little orphans Sleeping in the wood? Did you see them lying, Pale and cold and still, And strew leaves above them With your little bill? Whether true or not, Robin, We are glad to see How you trust us children — Walking in so free, Hopping o'er the carpet, Picking up the crumbs — Robin knows the children Love him when he comes.

The snow is on the ground. Robin, Robin, what will you do? There 's nothing green around. Dear child, I come a messenger To tell you of the spring. The snow will soon be gone away, And that is why I sing. Who only joys when skies are fair, And trees and blossoms grow, Will never cheer an aching heart And bid it comfort know. Value a good conscience more than praise. THE snow 's on the ground, And the cold 's in the air ; There is nothing to eat, And the branches are bare: Open the window, Kind lady, we pray ; Bestow a few crumbs Upon us to-day: You 've flannels and furs To keep yourself warm ; You are not obliged To be out in the storm: It is not necessary for all men to be great in action.

The greatest and sublimest power is often simple pa- tience. Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have? J- Will you listen to me? Who stole the nest away From the plum-tree to-day? Such a thing I 'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But did not take your nest away. I would n't be so mean, I trow. I gave the hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take.

I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa-aa," said the sheep ; " oh, no! I would n't treat a poor bird so. Why, I have n't a chick That would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I 'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood! We '11 make a great stir. Let us find out his name, And all cry, For shame! AS I walked over the hill one day, I listened and heard a mother-sheep say, " In all the green world there is nothing so sweet As my little lammie, with his nimble feet ; With his eye so bright, And his wool so white, Oh, he is my darling, my heart's delight!

I went to the kitchen, and what did I see But the old gray cat with her kittens three! I heard her whispering soft: The bird on the tree, And the old ewe she, May love their babies exceedingly ; But I love my kittens there, Under the rocking-chair. I love my kittens with all my might, I love them at morning, noon, and night. Now I '11 take up my kitties, the kitties I love, And we '11 lie down together beneath the warm stove. Let the kittens sleep under the stove so warm, While my little darling lies here on my arm.

I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen Go clucking about with her chickens ten ; She clucked and she scratched and she bustled away, And what do you think I heard the hen say? I heard her say, " The sun never did shine On anything like to these chickens of mine. You may hunt the full moon and the stars, if you please, But you never will find ten such chickens as these. My dear downy darlings, my sweet little things, Come, nestle now cosily under my wings. And there let them sleep, in their feathers so warm, While my little chick lies here on my arm.

Carter, Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path ; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff. The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do, without a thought of fame. How glad they all are when they see me come home! And each of them chirps, ' Give me some! I am safe enough from cold At her side within the fold.

I take it to the hive with care, And give it to my brothers there, That when the winter-time comes on, And all the flowers are dead and gone, And the wild wind is cold and rough, The busy bees may have enough. I go where I like, and I stay where I please, In the heat of the sun or the shade of the trees, On the window-pane or the cupboard shelf, And I care for nothing except myself. I cannot tell, it is very true, When the winter comes what I mean to do ; And I very much fear, when I 'm getting old, I shall starve with hunger or die with cold. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

THE skylark's nest among the grass And waving corn is found ; The robin's on a shady bank, With oak-leaves strewed around. The wren builds in an ivied thorn Or old and ruined wall ; The mossy nest, so covered in, You scarce can see at all. The martins build their nests of clay In rows beneath the eaves ; The silvery lichens, moss, and hair The chaffinch interweaves. The cuckoo makes no nest at all, But through the wood she strays Until she finds one snug and warm, And there her eggs she lays.

The sparrow has a nest of hay, With feathers warmly lined ; The ring-dove's careless nest of sticks On lofty trees we find. The owl will build inside a barn Or in a hollow tree. The blackbird's nest of grass and mud In bush and bank is found ; The lapwing's darkly spotted eggs Are laid upon the ground. The magpie's nest is made with thorns In leafless tree or hedge ; The wild-duck and the water-hen Build by the water's edge.

Birds build their nests from year to year According to their kind — Some very neat and beautiful ; Some simpler ones we find. This is the song of the bee ; His legs are of yellow, A jolly good fellow, And yet a great worker is he. The sweet smelling clover He, humming, hangs over ; The scent of the roses Makes fragrant his wings ; He never gets lazy: From thistle and daisy, And weeds of the meadow, Some treasure he brings.

From morning's first gray light, Till fading of daylight, He 's singing and toiling The summer day through. Marian Douglas, Honest labor bears a lovely face. LET us all be birds! We are tired of our other plays, and this is the prettiest one. Oh, that will be nicer than a song: First girl, — I '11 be a little wren, and sing all day till the sun goes down. Fourth girl — I '11 be a hawk, and frighten the lark away. Sorrows humanize our race ; Tears are the showers that fertilize this world.

WHAT a curious thing is the little brown toad ; Do come and look at it, pray! It sits in the grass, and, when we come near, Just hops along out of our way. It does not know how to sing, like a bird, Nor honey to make, like a bee ; 'T is not joyous and bright, like a butterfly. But since God made it, and placed it here, He must have meant it to stay ; So we will be kind to you, little brown toad, And you need not hop out of our way.

Take care how you tread ; I 'm just getting out of my snug little bed. I have been sleeping soundly the whole winter through ; Now, this that I tell you is every word true. You 've had some cold days since I left you last fall ; But I have not felt the cold weather at all. I dug me a little hole under the ground, And there I slept sweetly till spring-time came round. And here I am out again, fresh as a lark.

How everything blinds one, just out from the dark! The sun is so bright that it dazzles my eyes ; And that 's why I wink so while catching the flies. Now and then come the boys, with a merry " Ho, ho! To pelt me with stones — just for mischief, you know. Then I run to my hole to get out of their sight ; And I hardly can stir, I am in such a fright. To pelt me with stones is both foolish and wrong, Since I am so weak, while the boys are so strong ; I eat up the bugs that such mischief would do: Now, pray, treat me well, for I never harmed you.

I lie in my bed, and the children say, " The fellow is dead — we '11 throw him away! At last I awake, and the children try To make me stay, as I rise and fly.

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As step by step the hill we mount ; As one by one we learn to count ; So word by word we learn to spell, And line by line to read quite well. I do n't want to cry ; But I 'm afraid I 'm going to. What am I to do. Here 's a dreadful thing! I do n't know what to do ; I do n't know what to say. I can't see the reason Such monsters should be loose ; I 'm trembling all over, But that is of no use. I must go to school! The bell is going to stop! That terrible old toad! I hope that dreadful boy Will not give me a poke. A hop and a start, A flutter and a rush, — Bobby is at school, And the toad in his bush.

A LITTLE gray fox had a home in the rocks, And most of his naps and leisure took there ; But, one frosty eve, he decided to leave, And for a short absence began to prepare. A letter he wrote, and he brushed up his coat ; And he shook out his tail, which was plumy and fine At first break of day he galloped away, At some distant farm-house intending to dine.

How gay he did look as he frisked to the brook, And gazed at himself in the water so clear! He looked with delight at the beautiful sight ; For all was so perfect, from tail-tip to ear! That noon our gray fox called on good farmer Knox, Where some of the fattest of poultry was kept ; And, sly as a mouse, lay in wait by the house: Or, peeping and watching, he stealthily crept. II9 He felt very sure he would soon secure A fat little chicken, or turkey, or goose ; And his eyes were as bright as the stars are at night, As he tried to decide which one he should choose.

From his sharp-pointed nose to the tip of his toes He was all expectation! And now that gray fox does not live in the rocks ; And just what his fate was I never have learned ; This only I know — that a long time ago He left there one morning, and never returned. What 's the matter?

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Bun sits on a limb. Little Rover, in the clover, Barks and frightens him. Oh, you funny Little Bunny! Do n't so frightened be! Little Rover, in the clover, Cannot climb a tree. Little frog can sing a tune. He is proud of his voice, I think ; He sits and sings while his dull eyes blink, As he serenades the moon.

He likes tender things to eat, Quick little ants and butterflies. He sports all the summer through. Do n't you think Froggie's life is play? How will he live on a winter day? He has no idea. Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things. My sweet little sparrow, come hither to me, And play with me while they are gone. I 've no time to idle away ; I have all my dear little birdies to feed, And nest to new-cover with hay.

The sparrow won't come and stay with me an hour, But say, pretty bee, will not you? If I play, they will call me a sad idle bee, And perhaps turn me out of the hive. I hope I shall find a companion at last ; — You are not so busy as they. We are not to play, but to labor. I always have something or other to do — If not for myself, for my neighbor. Oh, then, like the ant and the sparrow and bee, I 'U go to my lessons at once. ONCE a trap was baited with a piece of cheese ; It tickled so a little mouse, it almost made him sneeze.

An old rat said, " There 's danger ; be careful where you go! Phoebe Carey Keep busy! In life's earnest battle, they only prevail Who daily march onward and never say fail. Life is but a summer day, if we choose to make it. Sunshine has been freely given ; freely let us take it. Why sit moody in the shade? Sorrow is but fleeting: Take immortal life and joy while thy pulse is beating. SAID one little mouse to another little mouse, "Just trip across the hall to my little house; The maid has left some bread on the shelf, And I 'm sure there is more than I want myself.

So you walk right in And we will begin. Get out of my house, You greedy little mouse! Ill-nature, like a spider, sucks poison from the jweetest flowers. N 'OW, hear me, my child, While a story I tell Of two snow-white pussies That lived in a tree And knew, without hearing a clock or a bell, The right time to come For their breakfast and tea, They would run bright and early Across the wet grass, And stand on their hind feet, And scratch with their fore, And tap with their little white paws on the glass, Or come and cry " mew, mew!

In the room that they tried so to enter, There sat a good little girl, — But her name I '11 not tell. When she saw looking at her Each poor little cat, Though she could n't help laughing, She treated them well. First, a saucer of milk she set down on the mat. But soon a loud purr both together began, As she stroked their white fur With a hand soft as silk. And now, my dear child, All my story is told Of the two snow-white pussies That lived in a tree, And knew when to come, Through the frost and the cold.

To beg at the door For their breakfast and tea. UITE three weeks, and not a shower! Parched the garden, hot and dry ; Drooping low was every flower. Little Mable, passing by, Heard them whisper, " We shall die. You 're a sad naughty cat, To sit on my bonnet And squeeze it so fiat. But I am to blame, I suppose you will say, For not having put it, Puss, out of your way. And so, pretty pussy, Your fault I '11 forgive ; And think of this lesson, As long as I live, — Of my bonnet and clothes To take better care ; And not leave them out On a table or chair.

Little drops of water brighten the fields Little deeds of love brighten the world. T WO laughing eyes! Beautiful things that call forth glee. H Two dancing feet! Run little errands for me and for you. To help mamma in many a way. ARRY has a little dog, — such a cunning fellow! With a very shaggy coat, streaked with white and yellow. Harry's dog has shining eyes, and a nose so funny! Harry would n't sell his dog for a mint of money. Harry's dog will never bark, never bite a stranger, So he 'd be of no account where there 's any danger.

Harry has a little dog, — such a cunning fellow, But his dog is made of wood, painted white and yellow. Oh, you cunning little pet! Dear grandpa cannot tell Who crushed his bed of mignonette, Or how the cactus fell. Nursie says, " You careless girl, To break the china vase! You left my work-box in a whirl, And tore my pretty lace. I paid her for the loss. Oh, you fatty, puffy ball! I have to bear the blame ; They do n't suspect you, you 're so small, — Now, is it not a shame?

The music that reaches farthest into heaven is that of a loving heart. The logs rolled over, the dogs rolled in ; And they got very wet, for their clothes were thin. Jippy and Jimmy crept out again ; They said: On the river no more we '11 roam ; And we won 't go to sail until we learn how! Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow! THE ivory for our combs From elephant's tusks is made ; The handles, too, for many a knife, And for paper-knives the blade. The elephant knows a friend, And well remembers, too, A kindly act, but ne'er forgets The teasing of a foe.

I looked around in wonderment ; No mothers were at hand To gather 'neath their outstretched wings The doleful little band. And, as I gazed, a small wee voice From one chick seemed to say: Perhaps you think we like it — This fine new-fangled way. But it 's very disagreeable, For, strange as it may seem, We never had a mother ; — They hatched us out by steam.

And they call us " Happy Orphans," When we 're ready all to weep For no answering cluck comes back to us Though we peep, and peep, and peep. They say it 's scientific, And I 've no doubt 't is true ; — But I would rather have a mother; Now, really, would n't you? Do n't tell me! For did n't I break an egg to see? There was nothing inside but a yellow ball, With a bit of mucilage round it all — Neither beak nor bill, Nor toe nor quill ; Not even a feather To hold it together ; Not a sign of life could any one see.

An egg a chicken? Let me try as I please, With squeeze upon squeeze, There is scarce space to meet His head and his feet, No room for any of the rest of him — so That egg never held that chicken, I know. Sharp and quick, Like a prisoner's pick. Mamma smiled and said, " All 's well that ends well ; Be patient awhile yet, my boy. And out popped the bill of a dear little chick. No room had it lacked, Though snug it was packed ; There it was all complete, From its head to its feet. The softest of down, and the brightest of eyes, And so big — why, the shell was n't half its size. Tom gave a long whistle.

An egg is n't a. Nobody can tell How it came in that shell ; Once out, all in vain Would I pack it again. I think 'tis a miracle, mamma mine, As much as that of the water and wine. But from the flower to the seed, from the seed to the flower, 'T is a world of miracles every hour. J- Why, all the day long you have hardly been seen; The sunlight was charming — then, where did you hide? I 've looked for your pretty wings both far and wide. From flowers in your garden, both red, white, and blue. At last it was tiring, this game at bo-beep ; So I crept in a blossom and fell fast asleep.

He who conquers self is the greatest victor. Silence sometimes speaks more than words. YOU little bee, Come play with me, The sunshine 's warm and clear. You need not fear The cold severe ; The winter is not near. My little maid, I can't be stayed! I must not lose to-day, For time, you see, Won't wait for me, But sweeps the flowers away. ONCE a little turkey, fond of her own way, Would n't ask the old ones where to go or stay. Once there was a robin, lived outside the door, Who wanted to go inside and hop upon the floor.

Little birds are safest sitting in a tree! Can't you take a warning from their dreadful fate, Who began their thinking when it was too late? Do n't think there 's always safety, do n't suppose you know more Than anybody knows who has gone before. But when you 're warned of ruin, pause upon the brink, And do n't go under headlong, 'Cause you did n't think.

Build a little fence of trust Around to-day ; Fill the space with loving works, And therein stay. Look not through the sheltering bars Upon to-morrow ; God will help thee bear whate'er may come, If joy or sorrow. Who never tries can never win. E are builders, and each one Should cut and carve the best he can. Every life is but a stone, Every one shall hew his own. Make or mar shall every man. We '11 wear our bibs and hold our things As you have shown us how, — Spoons in right paws, cups in left, — And make a pretty bow ; We '11 always say, ' Yes, if you please!

The seven little pussy-cats went on that night to tea ; Their heads were smooth and glossy, Their tails were swinging free ; They held their things as they had learned, And tried to be polite. But, alas for manners beautiful, And coats as soft as silk! The moment that the little kits Were asked to take some milk, They dropped their spoons, forgot to bow, And, oh!

They put their noses in the cups and all began to drink! Yes, every naughty little kit set up a " meouw " for more, Then knocked the tea-cup over, and scampered through the door. By and by it 's true, but strange , O'er them comes a wondrous change ; Here you have them on a log, Each a most decided frog. Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow ; He who would seek for pearls must dive below. THE camels live in desert lands ; Their feet are made to walk on sands ; They carry burdens far and near, Where neither grass nor trees appear ; Where there 's no rain, no rivers, brooks, No water anywhere for folks ; But God has made in camel's chest, Peculiar sacs, for He knew best What they must do, and that they 'd die, If He did not their drink supply.

Before they start they drink and drink, Till every sac is full, I think ; And at the mouth of every sac, A muscle strong, but loose and slack, Will tighten up when it is filled, So that no drink can e'er be spilled. And when on journey, last or first, The camel wants to slake his thirst, A bag-string loosens, and outpours Enough to satisfy for hours. Sometimes they 're buried deep, and find When they dig out they 're almost blind And cannot tell which way to go, And thus are lost — a serious woe!

Sometimes when lost, the drink for men Gets short — is gone ; they thirst, and then They kill a camel just for lack Of what he carries in his sac. In deserts bare and bleak and drear, The sun shines hot through all the year ; But many an oasis is found, Or spot where grass and trees abound. And here is drink, and here they rest, And take their fill of what is best ; Then travel on in thankful mood, With song and shout: No matter how tall You build up your wall, He '11 find a way over in spite of it all.

On the glass of the window his pictures you '11 see, A grand exhibition admission is free ; He works hard at night While the stars glitter bright ; But when the sun rises he keeps out of sight. He '11 sketch you a snow-covered mountain or tree, A torrent all frozen, a ship out at sea. He draws very fast, But his work does not last ; It fades when the chill of the night-time is past. Before the sun rises, while hardly 't is light, He feels of the fruit, and takes a sly bite ; He has a fine taste, Though a great deal he '11 waste, Then off he will go in very great haste.

Now, who do you think this old fellow may be, The bright sparkling work of whose fingers we see? All winter he '11 stay, What more shall I say? Only this, that his first name begins with a J. We '11 build a fort ; Oh, boys, what sport! So pile the snow-walls high! We '11 have a fight With bullets white — Ah, won 7 the snowballs fly! The snow-storm comes, Ah, now 's the time for fun! The flakes fall fast, It snows at last, The winter is begun. Oh, oh, oh, oh! Just see the snow, The ground is almost white!

To-morrow, boys, For fun and noise! I hope 't will snow all night. OLD Winter is coming; alack! How icy and cold is he! He 's wrapped to his heels in a snowy white sack ; The trees he has laden till ready to crack ; He whistles his trills with wonderful knack, For he comes from a cold countree. A funny old fellow is Winter, I trow, A merry old fellow for glee ; He paints all the noses a beautiful hue ; He counts all our fingers and pinches them too ; Our toes he gets hold of through stocking and shoe, For a funny old fellow is he.

Old Winter's a rough old chap to some, As rough as ever you '11 see. When the wintry winds begin to bellow, He flies like a little bird through the air, And steals through the little cracks everywhere. He nips little children on the nose, He pinches little children on the toes, He pulls little children by the ears, He draws from their eyes the big round tears. He makes little girls cry oh, oh, oh! He makes little boys say ho, ho, ho! But when we kindle up a good fire, Then Jack Frost is compelled to retire ; So up the chimney skips the roguish boy, And all the little children jump for joy.

Brightest ornament of youth! Seek to wear it in thy crown ; Then, if all the world should frown, Thou hast won a glorious prize, That will guide thee to the skies. Beleive not each accusing tongue, As most weak people do ; But still believe that story wrong Which ought not to be true. OLD Winter is a sturdy one, And lasting stuff he 's made of ; His flesh is firm as iron stone, — There 's nothing he 's afraid of. He spreads his coat upon the heath, Nor to warm it lingers ; He scouts the thought of aching teeth Or chilblains on his fingers ; Of flowers that bloom or birds that sing Full little cares or knows he ; He hates the fire and hates the spring, And all that's warm and cosey.

But where the foxes bark aloud On frozen lake or river ; When round the fire the people crowd And rub their hands and shiver ; When frost is splitting stone and wall And trees come crashing after, That hates he not ; he loves it all, Then bursts he out in laughter. Work makes us cheerful and happy, Makes us both active and strong ; Play we enjoy all the better When we have labored so long. Jack Frost plays a rough sort of game With the children wherever he goes ; He pinches their cheeks ; Their noses he tweaks ; And he treads on their ten little toes.

Jack Frost makes the ground rather hard, But with thick boots we clatter about ; And we run till our breath Puffs away like a wreath Of white steam from the teakettle's spout. Jack Frost lays his hand on the pond, And turns it to glittering ice ; Then the skaters they glide, And the sliders they slide ; Think of that, Charley, is n't it nice? Jack Frost, he is sure to be found Where the sleigh-bells are tinkling clear ; As the horses, so strong, Canter gayly along, While the lads give a shout and a cheer.

Jack Frost, then, you 're welcome again ; Of pleasures you bring us a store ; — But be mild as you can, Oh, you fierce little man! When you visit the feeble and poor. Its flakes abound, and all around They float upon the breeze. Oh, see it blow, the falling snow, In shadows far away. Jack Frost is here! We feel him near ; He 's on his icy sled. And covered deep the flowers sleep, Beneath their snowy bed. Come out and play this wintry day, Amidst the falling snow! Come young and old! THE sky is speckled with the snow, Keep the ball a-rolling! Up and down the hill we go, — Keep the ball a-rolling!

Small at first ; but how it grows! What care we for purple nose, Ruby fingers, tingling toes! Keep the ball a-rolling! Trees are in their downy beds, — Keep the ball a-rolling! Blankets wrapped around their heads, — Keep the ball a-rolling! All together, with a will, Up the lane, and down the hill ; We are merry snow-birds still ; — Keep the ball a-rolling! Giants make these, one by one, — Keep the ball a-rolling! Where they snow-ball just for fun, — Keep the ball a-rolling! From a single flake it grew ; Hour by hour, so fair and true, Grow the good deeds that we do, — Keep the ball a-rolling!

And then he filled the stockings up Before the mouse could wink ; — From toe to top, from top to toe, There was n't left a chink. A twinkle came in mousie's eyes, But humbly he replied: I49 " Oh, ho! By filling stockings all these years I should have learned the knack. And then he gayly spoke, " Well!

Who do you think was here last night, Bundled in furs from top to toe? I won't tell, for I think you know. Who was it came from cold Snowland, Driving gayly his eight in hand, Sleigh piled up with wonderful toys? Who was it down the chimney crept While everybody soundly slept, Filled the stockings, and tapped them all With " Merry Christmas, one and all. I won't tell, for it 's very clear, If you are good, he '11 come next year. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind. Nicholas, lean your ear this way, Don't you tell a single soul what I 'm going to say.

Christmas eve is coming soon. Now, you dear old man, Whisper what you '11 bring to me ; tell me, if you can. When the clock is striking twelve, when I 'm fast asleep, Down the chimney, broad and black, with your pack you '11 creep ; All the stockings you will find hanging in a row ; — Mine will be the shortest one, — you '11 be sure to know.

Johnny wants a pair of skates, Susie wants a dolly, Nelly wants a story-book, — she thinks dolls are folly ; As for me, my little brain is n't very bright ; — Choose for me, dear Santa Claus, what you think is right. Old Santa Claus will soon be here, And then, oh, my! A pretty Christmas tree he '11 bring, — Around its sparkling light we '11 sing, — And on its branches he will place A toy to gladden each young face. Tops and marbles, books and balls, Cradles, dishes, chairs and dolls, — Everything you 'd wish to see. Down the chimney he will slide, And to each stocking softly glide, And stuff it full from toe to heel, Oh, my!

But if we should not shut our eyes, Should stay awake with pouts and cries, He 'd run away as quick, — as quick, — And we might cry till we were sick ; — Though if we promised to be good, And not to quarrel nor be rude, Why, then we know that he will bring To each of us some pretty thing. And when to say our prayers we kneel, We '11 ask that Santa Claus may feel Sorry for little girls and boys To whom he 's never taken toys ; That he '11 remember not to pass By any little lad or lass ; But if he should forget the poor, Then we must think of them the more.

Speak clearly, if you speak at all ; Carve every word before you let it fall. How do you manage to carry such loads? How do you manage to keep the right roads? How do you know all the good girls and boys? Why do n't we wake with your clatter and noise? How can you guess what we would all like best? How can you please all the birds in the nest? What are you doing the rest of the year? Sleeping, I s'pose, with your little reindeer. Oh, how I 'd like to know true if you look Jolly and fat like the one in the book.

I 'd keep awake, but I know that you stay, When children are watching, quite out of the way. Kriss, when to-night you come round with a whirl, Do n't forget Bessie, the washwoman's girl ; Bring something pretty, for last year, you know, — That was a chimney where Kriss did n't go.

How does it happen you like the rich best, Giving them much and forgetting the rest? Kriss, that's all wrong, and it isn't the way; All should be equal on Santa Glaus' day. Kriss, good old Kriss, Pm afraid you '11 be mad ; I was just joking. Do n't put me down bad. If Bessie's ma's chimney is crooked and small, Never mind going to Bessie's at all.

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