The little Fish that would not do as it was bid.

Dear mother, said a little fish,

Pray is not that a fly?

I’m very hungry, and I wish

You’d let me go and try.

Sweet innocent, the mother cried,

And started from her nook,

That horrid fly is put to hide

The sharpness of the hook.

Now, as I’ve heard, this little trout

Was young and foolish too,

And so he thought he’d venture out,

To see if it were true.

And round about the hook he play’d,

With many a longing look,

And—“Dear me,” to himself he said,

“I’m sure that’s not a hook.

“I can but give one little pluck:

Let’s see, and so I will.”

So on he went, and lo! it stuck

Quite through his little gill.

And as he faint and fainter grew,

With hollow voice he cried,

“Dear mother, had I minded you,

I need not now have died.”