Part 2 — V THE QUEEN-MOTHER'S COUNSEL

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't"; Never "shan't," Never "won't."

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."

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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."

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.