There are hundreds and hundreds, and he wouldn’t miss
So paltry a little red apple as this.”
He stretched forth his hand, but a low mournful strain
Came wandering dreamily over his brain;
In his bosom a beautiful harp had long laid,
Which the angel of conscience quite frequently played:—
And he sang, “Little Willie, beware, O beware!
Your father is gone, but your Maker is there.
How sad you would feel, if you heard the Lord say,
‘This dear little boy stole an apple to-day.’”