"My dearest boy," the mother said,
"This rose grew on a tree:
But now its leaves begin to fade,
And all fall off, you see.
"Before, when growing on the bough,
So beautiful and red,
We say it liv'd; but, with'ring now,
We say the rose is dead."
XXIX.
Poisonous Fruit.
As Tommy and his sister Jane
Were walking down a shady lane,
They saw some berries, bright and red,
That hung around and over head;
And soon the bough they bended down,
To make the scarlet fruit their own;
And part they ate, and part, in play,
They threw about, and flung away.