THE STOLEN PENKNIFE.

“Harry, darling, what’s the matter; Have you hurt yourself, my boy? When I went away, this morning, That bright face was full of joy.” “Oh, papa,” said Harry, sobbing, “I do think it is a shame, My new knife is gone—he stole it, And I do not know his name.” “Your new knife! Who stole it, Harry?” “That big boy, papa, who brought Shavings here to sell, this morning; Oh I wish he could be caught. “I was standing on the sidewalk, Whittling with my knife to-day, When he came, and asked to see it, Then he turned and ran away.” “Wicked boy! I think I know him; ’Twas a naughty thing to do; I will bring you home another, Like the one he stole from you. “That poor boy has no kind parents, Nor a bright and happy home; Wicked children are his playmates, Through the streets he loves to roam. “There he learns to be so sinful, Lying, stealing, every day; He has no kind friends to teach him, Morn and evening, how to pray. “Should you not be thankful, darling, God has been so good to you; Given you friends so kind and loving, Taught you what you ought to do? “Learn, my son, a useful lesson From this wretched boy to-day,— Never choose a bad companion When you’re in the streets at play.