ust! dust! dust! dust!
Carpet, curtain, window, floor;
Right, left, thrust, thrust—
Clouds are rising more and more!
Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep—
Kitchen, parlour, passage, stair;
Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep—
That's what I'm obliged to bear!
Dust, dust, dust, dust,
In the lofty attic found;
Dust, dust, dust, dust,
In the cellar underground.
Cobwebs, spiders, beetles, flies,
Nooks and corners dark and drear,
That is where my pathway lies,
Month by month and year by year;
Buckets, boxes, brushes, boots,
Near to me for ever dwell;
No one lets me share the fruits
Of the work I do so well;
Boys and girls will often play
In some clean and pleasant room,
Making litter all the day,
For the poor unhappy broom.
No one shows me gratitude;
No one cares a jot for me,
For when work is done I'm stood
In some gloomy scullery.
But no matter! time will come—
When my hair is worn away,
I shall rest, while some new broom
Does what I must do to-day.
ONE MORE CHANCE.
'I want you to look after the new boy, Angus,' said Mrs. Macdonald, the wife of the head master, to her son.
'Oh, Mother, I know that means he is either a molly-coddle or a black sheep. I remember the time I had when you set me on to look after young Smith.'
'My boy, I want your help. I am sure you will not refuse it.'
'Well, fire away, Mother. Let me know the worst,' and Angus put on a resigned look.
'It is Andrews, the boy who has been sent home from India,' Mrs. Macdonald explained. 'He has been brought up so badly. His mother died when he was a baby, and he has been quite neglected, and left to native servants. His father writes that he hopes English school-life will break him of the bad habits he has formed, but I am afraid it will be no easy matter. Of course, I am telling you this in confidence, Angus, but I cannot help thinking of the fight the poor boy has before him, and I want you to understand it and to befriend him.'