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.
