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The Boy, delighted with his game,
A few days after did the same,
And once again the people came.
The trick was many times repeated,
At last they found that they were cheated.
One day the Wolf appeared in sight,
The Boy was in a real fright,
He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"-the neighbors heard,
But not a single creature stirred.
“We need not go from our employ,-
'Tis nothing but that idle boy."
The little Boy cried out again,
“Help, help! the Wolf!” he cried in vain.
At last his master came to beat him.
He came too late, the Wolf had eat him.

This shows the bad effect of lying,
And likewise of continual crying.
If I had heard you scream and roar,
For nothing, twenty times before,
Although you might have broke your arın,
Or met with any serious harm,
Your cries could give me no alarm;
They would not make me move the faster,
Nor apprehend the least disaster;
I should be sorry when I came,
But you yourself would be to blame.

John Hookham Frere (1769-1846)



AUGUSTUS was a chubby lad;
Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had;
And everybody saw with joy
The plump and hearty, healthy boy.
He ate and drank as he was told,
And never let his soup get cold.

The Story of Little Suck-a-thumb 115

But one day, one cold winter's day,
He screamed out— “Take the soup away!
O take the nasty soup away!
I won't have any soup to-day.”

Next day begins his tale of woes;
Quite lank and lean Augustus grows.
Yet, though he feels so weak and ill,
The naughty fellow cries out still
“Not any soup for me, I say:
O take the nasty soup away!
I won't have any soup to-day.”

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Look at him, now the fourth day's come!
He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum;
He's like a little bit of thread,
And on the fifth day, he was-dead!
From the German of Heinrich Hoffman (1798-1874)



One day, mamma said: “Conrad dear,
I must go out and leave


But mind now, Conrad, what I say,
Don't suck your thumb while I'm away.
The great tall tailor always comes
To little boys that suck their thumbs;
And ere they dream what he's about,
He takes his great sharp scissors out
And cuts their thumbs clean off, -and then,
You know, they never grow again."

Mamma had scarcely turned her back,
The thumb was in, alack! alack!
The door flew open, in he ran,
The great, long, red-legged scissots-man.
Oh, children, see! the tailor's come
And caught our little Suck-a-Thumb.
Snip! snap! snip! the scissors go;
And Conrad cries out-"Oh! oh! oh!"

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Snip! snap! snip! They go so fast,
That both his thumbs are oti at last.
Namma comes home; there Conrad stands,
And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;-
“Ah!” said mamma, “I knew he'd come
To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb.”

From the German of Heinrich Iloffman (1798-1874)



HEARTS good and true

Have wishes few
In narrow circles bounded,

And hope that lives

On what God gives
Is Christian hope well founded.

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Small things are best;

Grief and unrest
To rank and wealth are given;

But little things

On little wings
Bear little souls to heaven.

Frederick William Faber (1814-1863]

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind,
Went round about the house to find

A chink to set her foot in;
She tried the keyhole in the door,
She tried the crevice in the foot,

And drove the chimney soot in.

A Farewell



And then one night when it dark
She blew up such a tiny spark

That all the town was bothered;
From it she raised such flame and smoke
That many in great terror woke,

And many more were smothered.

And thus when once, my little dears,
A whisper reaches itching ears-

The same will come, you 'll find:
Take my advice, restrain the tongue,
Remember what old nurse has sung

Of busy Lady Wind.



My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you

For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol

Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down;
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel

Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever
One grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley (1819–1875)

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And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake (1757-1827]


GREAT, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
World, you are beautifully dressed.

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