And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, "Give a flower to me,
And I'll go off contented."
But "No," the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
"Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I'll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!"
So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
"Alas!" the selfish owner said,
"My Glories----oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I've abused them.
They'll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;--that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!"
=The Old Cotter and his Cow=
My good old Cow,
I scarce know how
Again we've wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare--
No dainty dish, nor clover!
We both were old,
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
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