MARY.
A ball! I never went to one;
I do not care for scenes so gay;
But with the birds and trees and flowers,
I can be happy any day.
When dear papa comes home at night,
I’m joyous as a little bird,
For, after tea, he always tells
Something amusing he has heard.
You ought to see our pleasant home,
Dear Jennie, then you would not say,
That I, from this dear, happy group,
Could often wish to be away.
Sometimes, he brings us home a book,
Then, after supper, down we sit,
He reads to us, while dear mamma
Takes out her work to sew or knit.
Then he will read some wondrous tale,
How mighty nations rose and fell,
And sometimes lay aside the book,
And some amusing story tell.
How some have climbed the highest hill,
And yet have murmur’d all the way,
While others walk along the vale,
As pleasant as a summer’s day.
“My children,” he will often say,
“You know I cannot give you wealth;
But you have riches dearer far,
And these are innocence and health.
“While thus you live in peace and love,
Contented with the blessings given,
And grateful to your God, I trust
He’ll fit you for the joys of heaven.”