THE LITTLE PATIENT.
Five of us farmer's children, and one from a city street
Who never in all his lifetime knew that the roses were sweet;
And he's come to us pale and frightened, but he'll soon grow plump and strong,
So, Rover, old fellow, you hear me: just gallop and gallop along,
And carry this poor little patient—for that's what he is, they say—
Down where the willows are gazing into the brook all day.
And go like the wind, dear Rover, you shall rest when the work is done
And we'll give you part of our dinner, and more than half of the fun.
Mother was ever so happy when father came up the road
Bringing this boy for a visit; he wasn't much of a load.
And we'll feed him on cream and biscuits, and give him the best of care,
A bed that is soft as clover, and the very freshest of air.
But, Rover, all that would be nothing—I see that you're looking wise,
And shaking your shaggy coat, dear, and laughing out of your eyes—
Nothing, unless we loved him, and gave him plenty of play
So hurrah for our little patient, and, Rover, scamper away.
[A FOURTH-OF-JULY WARNING.]
BY AN OLD BOY.
I remember the accident well enough, though it happened nearly forty years ago.
There is no doubt about it, every genuine school-boy takes a keen delight in the Fourth of July. There is an inherent love of squibs and crackers, wheels and blue-lights, among lads, while a good flare-up of a bonfire is looked upon as almost indispensable.