Mr. Finney had a turnip,
And it grew, and it grew;
It grew behind the barn,
And the turnip did no harm.
And it grew, and it grew,
Till it could grow no taller;
Then Mr. Finney took it up,
And put it in the cellar.
There it lay, there it lay,
Till it began to rot;
Then Susie Finney washed it
And put it in a pot.
She boiled it, and boiled it,
As long as she was able;
Then Mrs. Finney took it,
And put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wife
Both sat down to sup;
And they ate, and they ate,
They ate the turnip up.
All the school children in our country have heard of Henry W.
Longfellow. He was the best loved of all our poets. He wrote "The
Village Blacksmith," "The Children's Hour," and many other beautiful
pieces which you will like to read and remember.
THE WHISTLE
Two hundred years ago there lived in Boston a little boy whose name was Benjamin Franklin.
On the day that he was seven years old, his mother gave him a few pennies.
He looked at the bright, yellow pieces and said, "What shall I do with these coppers, mother?"