Page 22—Girl Land

Tangle Pate
There was a girl, named tanglepate,
She lived—I won't say where—
Who was not willing any one
Should comb or curl her hair.
She cried and made a dreadful fuss,
At morning, noon, or night,
And did not seem at all ashamed
Of looking like a fright.
Her hair stood out around her head
Just like a lion's mane,
And she was scolded, coaxed, and teased
About it—but in vain.
It caught on buttons, hooks, and boughs
As here and there she rushed,
And yet she would not consent
To have it combed or brushed.
And so she fell asleep one day
Within the woods, and there
Two birdies came and built a nest
Amid her tangled hair.
A Careless Girl
I know a very careless girl,
Her hair is always out of curl,
In rags and tatters are her clothes,
And she's a fright, you may suppose.
Her skirts she catches on a nail,
And leaves behind and ugly trail;
Her sashes always are untied,
Her dresses always gaping wide.
'Tis her delight to tear and rend,
She does not like to patch or mend,
And 'tis no wonder that she goes
So out at elbows and at toes.
Naughty Girl
The naughty girl
Never minds mamma,
Always says, "I won't!"
To dear papa!
Makes a great deal of noise
About the house.
When her mother wants her
As still as a mouse.
She pinches the cat,
She pulls her tail;
And takes the bird-cage
Down from the nail;
Teases her brothers,
And spoils her hair,
And reproved says,
"I don't care!"
She worries poor grandma,
Makes baby cry;
She cannot please him,
And I know why:—
She lets him lie
In the crib and moan,
While she is amusing
Herself alone.
At school she forgets
What the teacher said,
Sits idly leaning her hands
On her head;
She never learns
The task that's given,
And cannot tell even
Seven times seven.
At table she's careless,
And spills her drink,
Can never be taught
To "stop and think;"
Gets down from the table
And goes to play,
To do the same over
Another day.
Mopy Maria
Mopy Maria
Would sit by the fire,
It seemed to be
Her greatest desire;
Bent and bowed
As if wrapped in a shroud,
And her face as black
As a thunder-cloud.
She filled the room
So full of gloom,
The place was as
Dismal as a tomb;
And few would admire
Her, or desire
To spend much time
With Mopy Maria,
She moped and pined
Yet no-one could find
That any trouble
Disturbed her mind;
Nor reasons good
Why she should brood
An such a
Ridiculous attitude.
It wasn't her style
To laugh and smile
She didn't think
It was worth her while;
So dull and flat
She daily sat
Like a Chinese idol,
Or worse than that,
If the children came
To propose a game
Of any sort,
It was all the same;
She wouldn't play,
She wouldn't be gay,
But sat and pouted
The livelong day.
Her face grew thin;
And at length her chin
Grew long and sharp;
Oh! as sharp as a pin!
And one windy day
She blew away
Like a great big kite
That had gone astray.
The winds were high,
And she had to fly
Away at their bidding;
It made her cry;
But she couldn't get higher
Than the tall church spire,
So there she stuck—
Poor Mopy Maria!
Disobedient May
Naughty May will not obey,
But will always have her way
Every moment of the day.
If you say do this, or that,
She will be amazed thereat,
Show her claws like any cat.
O she is a naughty child!
Very fond of running wild,
Never gentle, meek, or mild.
Some fine day, I don't know when—
She'll be popp'd in piggy's pen,
And be most unhappy then.
Pigs are stubborn things indeed,
Will not go as you would lead,
Never words of counsel heed.
And pig-headed folks are they
Who will always have their way,
Spite of anything you say.
Sluttishness
Oh! Mary, my mary,
Why, where is your dolly?
Look here, I protest, on the floor:
To leave her about
In the dirt so is folly,
You ought to be trusted no more.
I thought you were pleas'd.
And receiv'd her quite gladly,
When on your birthday she came home;
Did I ever suppose
You would use her so sadly,
And strew her things over the room?
Her bonnet of straw
You once thought a great matter,
And tied it so pretty and neat;
Now see how 'tis crumpled,
No trencher is flatter,
It grieves your mamma thus to see't.
Suppose (you're my Dolly,
You know, little daughter,
Whom I love to dress neat, and see good),
Suppose in my care of you,
I were to falter,
And let you get dirty and rude!
But Dolly's mere wood,
You are flesh and bone living,
And deserves better treatment and care;
That is true, my sweet girl,
'Tis the reason I'm giving
This lesson so sharp and severe.
'Tis not for the Dolly
I'm anxious and fearful,
Tho' she cost too much to be spoil'd;
I'm afraid lest yourself
Should get sluttish, not careful,
And that were a sad thing, my child.
Jane, who Bit her Nails
When I was living down in Wales,
I knew a girl who bit her nails;
Her finger-ends became so sore,
The blood flowed from them to the floor.
The more she bit the more they bled,
Until upon herself she fed;
And as she nibbled day by day,
The fingers slowly wore away.
See, here she is: she sadly stands
With only stumps instead of hands;
The silly girl can never play,
Yet she was cautioned every day.
Her father said, "You naughty thing,
Some wooden fingers I must bring,
And try to get them fastened to
Your hands with little bits of glue."
Poking Fun
When little Lizzie came across
A birdie, or a chick,
A duckling, or a gosling,
she would poke it with a stick.
She chased the dog, she chased the cat,
But when she saw a mouse
She gave a scream so very loud
It echoed through the house.
She poked the turtles and the frogs
And thought it was fine fun,
But when the geese poked out their necks
At her, she had to run.
One day she chanced to find a hive
With not a bee about,
And said, "Is any one at home?
"I'll very soon find out!"
And so she did. As soon as she
Had poked her stick inside,
The bees flew out and stung her so
She very nearly died.

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