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The lark sings high up in the air,

The linnet on the tree;
The swan he has a bosom fair,

And who so proud as he.
O yes, the peacock is more proud,

He'll spread his tail and strut;
The owl, at night, will hoot aloud ;

The buzzard's eyes are shut. The raven's coat is shining black,

Or rather raven-grey; The gobbling duck in mud doth quack;

The lapwing screams by day.
The pelican, she loves her young;

The stork his father loves ;
The woodcock's bill is very long,

And innocent are doves.
The blackbird's song, tho' loud, is sweet ;

The hen guards well her brood; The goose, the nice fresh grass will eat,

And peas are pigeons' food. The little wren is very small;

The humming-bird is less ; The lady-bird is least of all

And beautiful in dress.

THE BUTTERFLY. The pretty little butterfly

We know by God was made ; With many pretty colours, too,

Some white, some black, some red God gave it wings, and it can fly

Much higher than my head ; How very wise that God must be,

By whom all things were made. Not all the men that's in the world

Can make one, if they try; The power belongs to God alone

To make a butterfly.

Then surely I should never dare

To be unkind at all;
Nor hurt whatever God has made,

Altho' it be but small.

A little black ant found a large grain of wheat

Too heavy to lift or to roll;
So he begg'd of a neighbour he happen'd to meet

To help it down into his hole. “ I've got my own work to see after,” said he,

“ You must shift for yourself, if you please ;' So he crawld off, as selfish and cross as could be,

And lay down to sleep at his ease.
Just then a black brother was passing the road,
· And seemg his neighbour in want,
Came up, and assisted him in with his load,

For he was a good-natured ant.
Let all, whom this story may happen to hear,

Endeavour to profit by it;
For often it happens that children appear

As cross as the ant every bit.
And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother,

May teach those who choose to be taught, That if little insects are kind to each other,

All children most certainly ought.

'Twas God who made that little fly,
And if I pinch it, it will die;
And Teacher tells me, God hath said,
I must not hurt what God hath made.
For God is very kind and good,
Gives even little fies their food ;
And he loves every little child
Who's kind in heart, and meek, and mild.

In yonder glass behold a drowning fly;
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries we hear not-yet, it loudly cries,
And gentle hearts can feel its agonies.
Poor helpless insect! And will no one save ?
Will no one snatch thee from the watery grave ?
My finger's top shall prove a friendly shore:
There, trembler-all thy dangers now are o'er;
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go-join thy num’rous kindred in the air.
Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed,
An act of kindness well becomes our creed.

There is an insect with eight eyes,

Two legs, two arms, two claws;
It poisons pretty little flies,

Which in its web it draws.
Out of itself its web it spins,

With industry and skill;
Then, quickly, on its prey it springs,

And with its venom kills.
So, snares are laid in many ways

For little girls and boys;
But God will keep him safe who prays,

And bless with inward joys.

Come, and I'll tell you what is wonderful !

The silk-worm is wonderful;
For all the silk in the world is made
By that little creature! Breaking from
Her little egg—first, as a caterpillar;

Then, with her curious mouth,
Weaving her golden shroud;

Enclos'd in three hundred yards of yellow silk,
There she lies and lives without air or food,
"Till, bursting from her narrow sepulchre,
She springs forth a little butterfly,

Lays her eggs, and dies.

The work and changes of the silk-worm are wonderful;

But He that made the silk-worm
Is far more wonderful than all his works;

He maketh darkness his pavilion,
And rideth upon the wings of the wind ;

His way is in the sea,
His paths in the great waters,
And his footsteps are not known.


Q. That cloth from wool is made we know,

Which on the harmless sheep doth grow;
But tell us, if you can, we pray,
How silk is grown, so bright and gay ?

A. A little Worm the raw silk weaves,

Which feeds upon the mulberry leaves ;
She gives the gauze so soft and bright,
Spinning it both by day and night.
The dyer next, to nature true,
Gives it ev'ry tint and hue ;
For first 'tis of a colour light,
And soft as down, and almost white.

The winder, sitting by her wheel,
Then coils the threads, with rock and reel,
That the weaver may not find
A check to his inventive mind;

Who soon, with industry and art,
And shuttle swift performs his part;
And from his humble chamber brings
What oft adorns both queens and kings.

Q. But last of all, we pray you, tell,

What places in this art excel;
That all we children here may know,

And tell our friends when home we go?
A. Coventry has the ribbon trade;

Stockings at Nottingham are made ;
And every place in England yields
For webs of silk to Spitalfields.

The adder's eighteen inches long,
With fiery eyes and cloven tongue;
Beneath its hollow teeth is found
Poison to cast into the wound.
It's scales appear like polish'd steel;
It lurks to bite the horse's heel
Whilst sprightly on the road he trots :
It's back is mark'd with square dark spots.
An adder once, out of some sticks,
On an Apostle's hand did fix,
But off the reptile quick he shook,
And from its bite no harm he took.

The monstrous whale, pierc'd with harpoon,

With danger, care, and toil,
Is haul'd to land, when cut up soon,

The blubber's boild for oil.
The turtle is a grandee's dish,

A coat of mail he wears ;
The shark eats up the little fish,

And often man he tears.
The lobster's black-when boil'd, he's red;

The plaice is orange-speck'd ;
The cod-fish has a clumsy head;

The mack'rel's richly deck’d.

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