GEORGE L. CATLIN.
Mister," the little fellow said, "Please give me a dime to buy some bread."
I turned to look at the ragged form, That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched, and haggard, and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old; He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His eyes were red—with weeping, I fear— And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then.
We should make the same use of books that the
bee does of a flower: he gathers sweets from it, but
does not injure it.