WILLY AND THE BEGGAR GIRL.
"An apple, dear mother!"
Cried Willy one day,
Coming in, with his cheeks
Glowing bright, from his play.
"I want a nice apple,
A large one, and red."
"For whom do you want it?"
His kind mother said.
"You know a big apple
I gave you at noon;
And now for another,
My boy, it's too soon."
"There's a poor little girl
At the door, mother dear,"
Said Will, while within
His mild eye shone a tear.
"She says, since last evening
She's eaten no bread;
Her feet are all naked
And bare is her head.
Like me, she's no mother
To love her, I'm sure,
Or she'd not look so hungry,
And ragged, and poor.
"Let me give her an apple;
She wants one, I know;
A nice, large, red apple—
O! do not say no."
First a kiss to the lips
Of her generous boy,
Mamma gave with a feeling
Of exquisite joy—
For goodness, whene'er
In a child it is seen,
Gives joy to the heart
Of a mother, I ween—
And then led her out, where,
Still stood by the door,
A poor little beggar-girl,
Ragged all o'er.
"Please ma'am, I am hungry,"
The little thing said,
"Will you give me to eat
A small piece of bread?"
"Yes, child, you shall have it;
But who sends you out
From dwelling to dwelling
To wander about?"
A pair of mild eyes
To the lady were raised;
"My mother's been sick
For a great many days
So sick she don't know me."
Sobs stifled the rest
And heaved with young sorrow
That innocent breast.
Just then from the store-room—
Where wee Willy run,
As his mother to question
The poor child begun—
Came forth the sweet boy,
With a large loaf of bread,
Held tight in his tiny hands
High o'er his head.
"Here's bread, and a plenty!
Eat, little girl, eat!"
He cried, as he laid
The great loaf at her feet.
The mother smiled gently,
Then, quick through the door
Drew the sad little stranger,
So hungry and poor.
With words kindly spoken
She gave her nice food,
And clothed her with garments
All clean, warm and good.
This done, she was leading
Her out, when she heard
Willy coming down stairs,
Like a fluttering bird.
A newly bought leghorn,
With green bow and band.
And an old, worn out beaver
He held in his hand.
"Here! give her my new hat,"
He cried; "I can wear
My black one all summer—
It's good—you won't care—
"Say! will you, dear mother?"
First out through the door,
She passed the girl kindly;
Then quick from the floor
Caught up the dear fellow,
Kissed and kissed him again,
While her glad tears fell freely
O'er his sweet face like rain.