V The Queen-Mother’s Counsel7
A Thought
It is very nice to think
The world is full of meat and drink,
With little children saying grace
In every Christian kind of place.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Inscription for My Little Son’s Silver Plate8
When thou dost eat from off this plate,
I charge thee be thou temperate;
Unto thine elders at the board
Do thou sweet reverence accord;
And, though to dignity inclined,
Unto the serving-folk be kind;
Be ever mindful of the poor,
Nor turn them hungry from the door;
And unto God, for health and food
And all that in thy life is good,
Give thou thy heart in gratitude.
Eugene Field.
Praise God
Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet.
Of which to make our bread!
Praise God for yellow corn, with which
His waiting world is fed!
Praise God for fish and flesh and fowl
He gave to men for food!
Praise God for every creature which
He made and called it good!
Praise God for winter’s store of ice,
Praise God for summer’s heat!
Praise God for fruit trees bearing seed,
“To you it is for meat!”
Praise God for all the bounty
By which the world is fed!
Praise God, ye children all, to whom
He gives your daily bread!
Unknown.
The Eyes of God
God watches o’er us all the day,
At home, at school, and at our play;
And when the sun has left the skies
He watches with a million eyes.
Gabriel Setoun.
Kindness to Animals
Little children, never give
Pain to things that feel and live:
Let the gentle robin come
For the crumbs you save at home,—
As his meat you throw along
He’ll repay you with a song;
Never hurt the timid hare
Peeping from her green grass lair,
Let her come and sport and play
On the lawn at close of day;
The little lark goes soaring high
To the bright windows of the sky,
Singing as if ’twere always spring,
And fluttering on an untired wing,—
Oh! let him sing his happy song,
Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.
Unknown.
How Doth the Little Busy Bee
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flow’r!
How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour 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 past,
That I may give for ev’ry day
Some good account at last.
Isaac Watts.
Deeds of Kindness
Suppose the little cowslip
Should hang its golden cup,
And say, “I’m such a tiny flower,
I’d better not grow up.”
How many a weary traveller
Would miss its fragrant smell!
How many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell!
Suppose the glistening dewdrop
Upon the grass should say,
“What can a little dewdrop do?
I’d better roll away.”
The blade on which it rested,
Before the day was done,
Without a drop to moisten it,
Would wither in the sun.
Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer’s day,
Should think themselves too small to cool
The traveller on his way:
Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,
And think they made a great mistake,
If they were talking so?
How many deeds of kindness
A little child may do,
Although it has so little strength,
And little wisdom too!
It wants a loving spirit,
Much more than strength, to prove
How many things a child may do
For others by its love.
F. P.
Good Advice
Seldom “can’t,”
Seldom “don’t”;
Never “shan’t,”
Never “won’t.”
Christina G. Rossetti.
I’ll Try
Two Robin Redbreasts built their nest
Within a hollow tree;
The hen sat quietly at home,
The cock sang merrily;
And all the little robins said:
“Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.”
One day the sun was warm and bright,
And shining in the sky,
Cock Robin said: “My little dears,
’Tis time you learned to fly”;
And all the little young ones said:
“I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try.”
I know a child, and who she is
I’ll tell you by and by,
When mother says “Do this,” or “that,”
She says “What for?” and “Why?”
She’d be a better child by far
If she would say “I’ll try.”
Unknown.
Clothes
Although my clothes are fine and gay
They should not make me vain,
For Nurse can take them all away,
And put them on again.
Each flower grows her pretty gown,
So does each little weed,
Their dresses are their very own,
They may be proud indeed!
Abbie Farwell Brown.
A Music Box
I am a little Music Box
Wound up and made to go,
And play my little living-tune
The best way that I know.
If I am naughty, cross, or rude
The music will go wrong,
My little works be tangled up,
And spoil the pretty song.
I must be very sweet and good
And happy all the day,
And then the little Music Box
In tune will always play.
Abbie Farwell Brown.
If Ever I See
If ever I see,
On bush or tree,
Young birds in their pretty nest,
I must not in play,
Steal the birds away,
To grieve their mother’s breast.
My mother, I know,
Would sorrow so,
Should I be stolen away;
So I’ll speak to the birds
In my softest words,
Nor hurt them in my play.
And when they can fly
In the bright blue sky,
They’ll warble a song to me;
And then if I’m sad
It will make me glad
To think they are happy and free.
Lydia Maria Child.
Employment
Who’ll come and play with me here under the tree,
My sisters have left me alone;
My sweet little Sparrow, come hither to me,
And play with me while they are gone.
O no, little lady, I can’t come, indeed,
I’ve no time to idle away,
I’ve got all my dear little children to feed,
And my nest to new cover with hay.
Pretty Bee, do not buzz about over the flower,
But come here and play with me, do:
The Sparrow won’t come and stay with me an hour
But stay, pretty Bee—will not you?
O no, little lady, for do not you see,
Those must work who would prosper and thrive,
If I play, they would call me a sad idle bee,
And perhaps turn me out of the hive.
Stop! stop! little Ant—do not run off so fast,
Wait with me a little and play:
I hope I shall find a companion at last,
You are not so busy as they.
O no, little lady, I can’t stay with you,
We’re not made to play, but to labor:
I always have something or other to do,
If not for myself, for a neighbor.
What then, have they all some employment but me,
Who lie lounging here like a dunce?
O then, like the Ant, and the Sparrow, and Bee,
I’ll go to my lesson at once.
Jane Taylor.
Stitching
A pocket handkerchief to hem—
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
How many stitches it will take
Before it’s done, I fear.
Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
And stitch and stitch away,
Till stitch by stitch the hem is done—
And after work is play!
Christina G. Rossetti.
Learning to Play
Upon a tall piano stool
I have to sit and play
A stupid finger exercise
For half an hour a day.
They call it “playing,” but to me
It’s not a bit of fun.
I play when I am out of doors,
Where I can jump and run.
But Mother says the little birds
Who sing so nicely now,
Had first to learn, and practice too,
All sitting on a bough.
And maybe if I practice hard,
Like them, I too, some day,
Shall make the pretty music sound;
Then I shall call it “play.”
Abbie Farwell Brown.
In Trust9
It’s coming, boys,
It’s almost here;
It’s coming, girls,
The grand New Year!
A year to be glad in,
Not to be bad in;
A year to live in,
To gain and give in;
A year for trying,
And not for sighing;
A year for striving
And hearty thriving;
A bright new year.
Oh! hold it dear;
For God who sendeth
He only lendeth.
Mary Mapes Dodge.
Notes
7 From “Poems and Ballads,” copyright, 1895, 1896, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons.
8 From “The Book of Joyous Children,” copyright, 1902, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons.
9 From “Rhymes and Jingles,” copyright, 1874, 1904, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons.