GRANDMOTHER’S SCHOLAR.
Grandmother.
Come hither, my poor orphan boy!
Come to your granny’s knee;
’Tis time that you should learn to read,
And tell your A, B, C.
It is not fit that all the day
Should pass in idleness away.
Boy.
Oh, grandmother! the sun shines bright,
The bird sings in the tree,
The bees are out—they never go
To say their A, B, C.
I wish I were a bird to play
Among the leaves, and sing all day.
Grandmother.
My foolish child! the sun shines bright,
To ripen corn and fruit;
The bird has fled full many a mile,
Upon her fond pursuit;
And, for the little bees, there’s not
A flower in their search forgot.
Boy.
But, grandmother, they do not learn
In little books to read,
They tell no crooked letters’ names,
And they’re well off, indeed.
I too would fly about all day,
And glad, so I might be as gay.
Grandmother.
Poor boy! they cannot think or speak,
But what they have been taught,
With industry and studious care
They practise as they ought;
Do you remember, last July,
The nest in the hawthorn hard by?
Boy.
Yes, grandmother, so soft and warm,
All twigs and moss without,
With quilted wool and slender straws
Plaited and twined about,
And then inside so smoothly spread,
Oh, ’twas a tempting little bed.
Grandmother.
Aye, child, and all that moss and down
Was brought by many a wing,
Twigs from the distant upland wood,
Moss from beside the spring;
Remember, time, and pains, and care,
Brought all those things together there.
For do you think that in the tree
Itself the nest would grow,
So firmly built, and nicely wove,
And lined?—“Oh, granny, no!”—
Then think, how every bird that flies
Must labor ere his roof can rise.
Boy.
But, grandmother—the humming bees,—
Well—on a summer’s day,
What can you see, from morn to eve,
So busy as are they?
Into each flower their trunks they dive,
And laden cluster round the hive.
Grandmother.
Learning A B is not so hard
As flying all the day;
And to a bee’s industrious life
Your book is only play;
Beside, God gave you speech and thought,
To be improved, and ruled, and taught.
Boy.
Ah, granny, this is very true,
But I should like to know,
If it is good to speak and think,
Why don’t the birds do so?
And why did God make them to fly,
And us to walk through wet and dry?
Grandmother.
My child, why did he make the sun
Above our heads to glow?
Why did he bend upon the cloud
His bright and glorious bow?
Why did he make the thunder sound,
And draw the solemn night around?
Why, but because he saw ’twas best?—
He gave to flower and tree
The power to blossom, bud, and fruit,
And for man’s good to be.
But man, he made to praise him still,
And humbly do his Maker’s will.
And we do not his laws obey
In wasting time that flies,
Or being idle all day long
Instead of being wise.
Then come, my child, begin, and we
Shall soon outgrow our A B C.