THE BOY WHO WOULD SIT UP.
Where clusters of buttercups gild the scene, Like showers of gold-dust thrown over the green,
And the wind's flying footsteps are traced, as Oh, come! oh, come! or we shall be late, And Autumn will fasten the golden gate,
"MY LESSONS ARE WRITTEN IN CLOUDS AND TREES."
My lessons are written in clouds and trees,
And no one whispers, except the breeze,
Who sometimes blows, from a secret place,
A stray, sweet blossom against my face.
My school-bell rings in the rippling stream
Which hides itself, like a school-boy's dream,
Under the shadow and out of sight,
But laughing still for its own delight.
My school-mates there are the birds and bees
And the saucy squirrel, less wise than these,
For he only learns, in all the weeks,
How many chestnuts will fill his cheeks.
My teacher is patient, and never yet
A lesson of hers did I once forget,
THE BOY WHO WOULD SIT UP.
He would sit up, he would sit up,
No matter what any one said;
This sad little, bad little, mad little boy
Objected to go to bed.
Crows might wing their latest flight,
Sparrows cheep the world "Good-night,"
And the sun in western skies,
Hide 'neath quilts of gorgeous dyes,
Yet the son of whom we tell,
At hint of bed-time, would rebel,
For he would sit up, he would sit up,
No matter what any one said;
This sad little, bad little, mad little boy
Objected to go to bed.
Tick! tock! the kitchen clock
Is busy counting nine.
The sand-man says: "Were all like you, My job I would resign."
The crickets chirp, and seem to say: "This sitting up is jolly-hey?" The fire is fading by degrees,
The moon peeps in, and hints: "You'll freeze,
You silly boy. What pranks are these?
It's cold enough to make me sneeze."
Mice are scampering up and down.
The pantry shelves, no puss to frown.
And, looking round, he spies an ow!
Perched at his elbow.
Such a fowl
Proceeding drives his wits away.
He doesn't have a word to say;
But his companion, wise, says he :
I'm glad I've such good company.
Inquisitiveness, though, I hate,
Pray what has kept you up so late?"
"What, never shall again? Good-night!"
The trembling boy yells with affright,
And, scampering to his cosy bed,
In muffled tones- quilts round his head
"No more late hours for me!" he said.
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