Part 7 (1/2)

WILLIAM M. THAYER.

THE STORY OF JOHNNY DAWDLE.

Here, little folks, listen; I'll tell you a tale, Though to shock and surprise you I fear it won't fail; Of Master John Dawdle my story must be, Who, I'm sorry to say, is related to me.

And yet, after all, he's a nice little fellow: His eyes are dark brown and his hair is pale yellow; And though not very clever or tall, it is true He is better than many, if worse than a few.

But he dawdles at breakfast, he dawdles at tea-- He's the greatest small dawdle that ever could be; And when in his bedroom, it is his delight To dawdle in dressing at morning and night.

And oh! if you saw him sit over a sum, You'd much wish to pinch him with finger and thumb; And then, if you scold him, he looks up so meek; Dear me! one would think that he hardly could speak.

Each morning the same he comes tumbling down, And often enough is received with a frown, And a terrible warning of something severe Unless on the morrow he sooner appear.

But where does he live? That I'd rather not say, Though, if truth must be told, I have met him to-day; I meant just to pa.s.s him with merely a bow, But he stopped and conversed for a minute or so.

”Well, where are you going?” politely said I; To which he replied, with a groan and a sigh, ”I've been doing my Latin from breakfast till dinner, And pretty hard work that is for a beginner.”

”But now I suppose you are going to play And have pleasure and fun for the rest of the day?”

”Indeed, but I'm not--there's that bothering sum; And then there's a tiresome old copy to come.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOHNNY DAWDLE.]

”Dear me!” I replied, and I thought it quite sad There should be such hard work for one poor little lad; But just at that moment a lady pa.s.sed by, And her words soon made clear that mistaken was I:

”Now, then, Mr. Dawdle, get out of my way!

I suppose you intended to stop here all day; The bell has done ringing, and yet, I declare, Your hands are not washed, nor yet brushed is your hair.”

”Ho, ho!” I exclaimed; ”Mr. Dawdle, indeed!”

And I took myself off with all possible speed, Quite distressed that I should for a moment be seen With one who so lazy and careless had been.

So now, if you please, we will wish him good-bye; And if you should meet him by chance, as did I, Just bid him good-morning, and say that a friend (Only don't mention names) hopes he soon may amend.

THE MOTHERLESS BOY.

One day, about a year ago, the door of my sitting-room was thrown suddenly open, and the confident voice of Harvey thus introduced a stranger:

”Here's Jim Peters, mother.”

I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight of a ragged, barefoot child.

Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:

”He lives round in Blake's Court and hasn't any mother. I found him on a doorstep feeding birds.”

My eyes rested on the child's face while my boy said this. It was a very sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but timid and having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly by the hand with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.