“Clara,” said her mother, in the same calm, quiet voice, “I have made you my friend and my confidante at an age when any other had treated you with strict discipline and reserve. You have been taught to see life—as my sad experience revealed it to me, too—too late.”
“And for me, too—too soon!” burst in the child, passionately.
“Here 's poor Clara breaking her heart over her exercise,” burst in Sir William, as he came forward, and, stooping over the child, kissed her twice on the forehead. “Do let me have a favor to-day, and let this be a holiday.”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” cried she, eagerly, clapping her hands.
“The lizard can lie in the sun, and bask
'Mid the odor of fragrant herbs;
Little knows he of a wearisome task,
Or the French irregular verbs.
“The cicala, too, in the long deep grass,
All day sings happily,
And I'd venture to swear
He has never a care For the odious rule of three.
“And as for the bee,
And his industry—”
“Oh, what a rhyme” laughed in Mrs. Morris.
“Oh, let her go on,” cried Sir William. “Go on, Clara.”
“And as for the bee,
And his industry,
I distrust his toilsome hours,
For he roves up and down,
Like a 'man upon town,'
With a natural taste for flowers.
There, mamma, no more,—not another the whole day long, I promise you,” cried she, as she threw her arms around her neck and kissed her affectionately.
“Oh, these doggerel rhymes
Are like nursery chimes,
That sang us to sleep long ago.