Page 70—Cruelty Land

The Tables turned—Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.

The Cruel Boy Tom sat at the kitchen window
Watching the folks go by,
But what he was really doing
Was pulling the legs from a fly.
Yes, there he sat in the twilight,
Tormenting the tiny things;
First pulling their legs from their sockets,
And afterwards pulling their wings.
He knew not that his father
Was standing behind his back;
And very much wished to be giving
His cruel young fingers a crack.
But he waited till after dinner,
When Tommy was having a game;
Then he thought he would give him a lesson,
And treat him a little the same.
So catching his son of a sudden,
And giving his elbow a twist;
He pulled his two ears till he shouted,
Then hit him quite hard with his fist.
And did he not roll on the carpet?
And did he not cry out in pain?
But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"
His father would hit him again.
"Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,
You don't seem to like it, my boy;
And yet, when you try it on others,
You always are singing with joy;
"It seems very strange," said his father,
And this time his nose had a pull;
But Tommy could stand it no longer;
He bellowed and roared like a bull.
"Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,
And scrape off the flesh from your shin;
What you often yourself do to others,
Sure you do not think harm or a sin.
"Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,
"You'll leave these poor things alone,
If not, I go on with my lesson."
"I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.
But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,
The wounded bird flutters and dies;
Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies?
Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept when they want it—but who
Would sweep them for pleasure alone?
If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain.
The Worm
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm
The frame thy wayward looks decide
Required a God to form.
The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of His boundless love
On that poor worm bestow'd.
The sun, the moon, the stars He made
To all the creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade
For worms as well as thee.
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh, do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.
Gisborne
Story Of Cruel Frederick
Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he:
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And tore off their tiny wings;
He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And Oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.
The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,
And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,
And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.
At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growl'd and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!
So Frederick had to go to bed,
His leg was very sore and red!
The doctor came and shook his head
And made a very great to-do,
And gave him nasty physic too.
Don't Throw Stones
Boys, don't throw stones!
That kitten on the wall,
Sporting with leaves that fall,
Now jumping to and fro,
Now crouching soft and low,
Then grasps them with a spring,
As if some living thing.
As happy as can be,
Why cause her misery?
It is foolish stones to fling
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That squirrel in the tree,
Frisking in fun and glee,
Is busy in his way,
Although it looks all play,
Picking up nuts—a store
Against the winter hour
Frisking from tree to tree,
So blithe and merrily,
It is cruel stones to fling,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That bird upon the wing,
How sweet its song this Spring,
Perchance it seeks the food,
To feed its infant brood,
Whose beaks are open wide,
Until they are supplied;
To and fro to and fro,
The parent bird must go.
It is sinful stones to throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
That stray dog in the street,
Should with your pity meet,
And not with shout and cry,
And brick-bat whirling by:
The dog's a friend to man,
Outvie him if you can:
So faithful, trusty, true,
A pattern unto you;
It is wicked stones to throw,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Boys, don't throw stones!
It can no pleasure give
To injure things that live;
That beauteous butterfly,
The bird that soars on high,
The creatures every day
That round our pathway play;
If you thought of your cruelty;
You wouldn't wish even one to die.
Only cowards stones will throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.
Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating the poor Boy.

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