The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 25 : I like little p.u.s.s.y, her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her she'll

I like little p.u.s.s.y, her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm.

So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But p.u.s.s.y and I very gently will play.

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good.

I'll pat little p.u.s.s.y and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

I'll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, nor make her displeased, For p.u.s.s.y can't bear to be worried or teased.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land.

So the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.

So our little errors Lead the soul away From the path of virtue, Far in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happy Like the heaven above.

Julia Fletcher Carney [1823-1908]

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN From "Little Derwent's Breakfast"

Take your meals, my little man, Always like a gentleman; Wash your face and hands with care, Change your shoes, and brush your hair; Then so fresh, and clean, and neat, Come and take your proper seat: Do not loiter and be late, Making other people wait; Do not rudely point or touch: Do not eat and drink too much: Finish what you have, before You even ask, or send for more: Never crumble or destroy Food that others might enjoy; They who idly crumbs will waste Often want a loaf to taste!

Never spill your milk or tea, Never rude or noisy be; Never choose the daintiest food, Be content with what is good: Seek in all things that you can To be a little gentleman.

THE CRUST OF BREAD

I must not throw upon the floor The crust I cannot eat; For many little hungry ones Would think it quite a treat.

My parents labor very hard To get me wholesome food; Then I must never waste a bit That would do others good.

For wilful waste makes woeful want, And I may live to say, Oh! how I wish I had the bread That once I threw away!

"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE"

How doth the little busy bee Improve each s.h.i.+ning hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!

How neat she spreads the wax!

And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be pa.s.sed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last.

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

THE BROWN THRUSH

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

"He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you hear? Don't you see?

Hus.h.!.+ Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?

Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!

And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!

But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see?

Unless we're as good as can be."

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SLUGGARD

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.

I pa.s.sed by his garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking.

But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."