SULKING.
Why is Mary standing idle,
Leaning down upon the table,
With pouting lip, and frowning brow?
I wonder what’s the matter now!
Come here, my dear, and tell me true,
Is it because I scolded you
For doing work so bad and slow,
That you are standing sulking so?
Why then, indeed, I’m griev’d to see,
That you can so ill-temper’d be;
You make your faults a great deal worse,
By being angry and perverse.
O, how much better it appears,
To see you melting into tears,
And then to hear you humbly say,
I’ll not do so another day.
But when you stand and sulk about,
And look so cross, and cry and pout,
Why that, my little girl, you know,
Is worse than working bad and slow.