Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

Instead of nouns, the Pronoun stand
John's head, _his_ face, _my_ arm, _your_ hand.

Verbs tell us of something being done,
To _read_, _write_, _count_, _sing_, _jump_, or _run_.

How things are done, the Adverbs tell,
As _slowly_, _quickly_, _ill_, or _well_.

A Preposition stands before
A noun, as _in_ or _through_ a door.

Conjunctions join the nouns together
as men _and_ children, wind _and_ weather.

The Interjection shows surprise,
As _Oh_, how pretty! _Ah_, how wise!

The whole are called nine parts of speech,
Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

Value of Reading

The poor wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs so that others may be fed,--
Feels less fatigue, than that decreed
To him that cannot think or read!

Hannah More

[Page 91--Reading Land]

[Page 92--Writing Land]

Little Flo's Letter

A sweet little baby brother
Had come to live with Flo,
And she wanted it brought to the table,
That it might eat and grow.
"It must wait a while," said grandma,
In answer to her plea,
"For a little thing that hasn't teeth
Can't eat like you and me."

"Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?"
Asked Flo in great surprise,
"O my, but isn't it funny?--
No teeth, but nose and eyes.
"I guess," after thinking gravely,
They must have been forgot.
Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?
I'd like to know why not."

That afternoon, to the corner,
With paper, and pen, and ink,
Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me;
If you do, it'll 'sturb my think.
I'm writing a letter, grandma,
To send away to-night,
An' 'cause it's very 'portant,
I want to get it right."

At last the letter was finished,
A wonderful thing to see,
And directed to "God, in Heaven."
Please read it over to me,"
Said little Flo to her grandma,
"To see if it's right, you know."
And here is the letter written
To God by little Flo:--

"Dear God: The baby you brought us
Is awful nice and sweet,
But 'cause you forgot his tooffies
The poor little thing can't eat.
That's why I'm writing this letter,
A purpose to let you know.
Please come and finish the baby,
That's all--From Little Flo."

Eben. E. Rexford

Exercise Makes Perfect

True ease in writing
Comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest
Who have learned to dance.

Pope

Hurrah for the Postman

Hurrah for the postman
Who brings us the news!
What a lot it must take
To pay for his shoes.

For he walks many miles
Each day of the week,
And though he would like to,
Must not stay to speak.

Red stripes round his blue cap,
With clothing to match it;
If he lost any letters,
Oh, wouldn't he catch it!

Two Letters

FIRST

Dear Grandmamma--I write to say
(And you'll be glad, I know,)
That I am coming, Saturday,
To spend a week or so.

I'm coming, too, without mamma,
You know I'm eight years old!
And you shall see how good I'll be,
To do as I am told.

I'll help you lots about your word--
There's so much I can do--
I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs,
And feed the chickens, too.

And maybe I will be so good
You'll keep me there till fall;
Or, better still, perhaps you'll say
I can't go home at all!

Now grandmamma, please don't forget
To meet me at the train,
For I'll be sure to come--unless
It should cloud up and rain!

SECOND

Dear Mamma--Please put on your things,
And take the next express;
I want to go back home again--
I'm very sick, I guess!

My grandma's very good to me,
But grandma isn't you;
And I forgot, when I came here,
I'd got to sleep here, too!

Last night I cried myself to sleep,
I wanted you so bad!
To day, I cannot play or eat,
I feel so very sad.

Please, mamma, come, for I don't see
How I can bear to wait!
You'll find me, with my hat and sack
Out by the garden gate.

And grandma will not care a bit
If you should come, I know;
Because I am your own little girl,
And I do love you so.

Nell's Letter

Dear Grandmamma, I will try to write
A very little letter;
If I don't spell the words all right,
Why next time I'll do better.

My little rabbit is alive,
And likes his milk and clover,
He likes to se me very much,
But is afraid of Rover.

I have a dove as white as snow,
I hall her "Polly Feather";
She flies and hops about the yard,
In every kind of weather.

The hens are picking off the grass,
And singing very loudly;
While our old peacock struts about,
And shows his feathers proudly.

I think I'll close my letter now,
I've nothing more to tell;
Please answer soon, and come to see
Your loving, little Nell.

Baby's Letter to Uncle

Dear Old Uncle--I dot oor letter;
My dear mamma, she ditten better;
She every day a little bit stronger,
Don't mean to be sick very much longer.

Dear little baby had a bad colic;
Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic.
Toot a dose of tatnip--felt worse as ever;
Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!

Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad;
Worse fit of sickness ever I had!
Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill?
Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.

I used to sleep all day, and cry all night;
Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite.
Got a head of hair jess as black as night
And big boo eyes, yat look very bright.

My mamma say, never did see
Any ozzer baby half as sweet as me.
Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too;
Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.

Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all,
Aunties and cousins, big folks and small.
Can't say any more, so dood by--
Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!

The First Letter

"Did you ever get a letter?
I did the other day.
It was in a real envelope,
And it came a long, long way.

A stamp was in the corner
And some printing when it came,
And the one that wrote the letter
Had put 'Miss' before my name.

Then there came a lot more written,
I forget now what it read,
But it told the office people
Where I lived, mamma said.

Don't you s'pose those letter-persons,
If they hadn't just been told,
Would have thought 'twas for a lady
Who was awful, awful old?

For it looked real big and heavy,
The outside was stuck with glue,
So they couldn't know I'm little,
I don't think they could. Do you?"

Youth's Companion

[Page 93--Writing Land]

I'm Going to Write to Papa

I'm going to write to papa,
I guess he'd like to hear
What his little girl is doing,
The same as when he is near;

I'll tell him how I miss him,
And how I'd wish he'd come,
And never, never, leave us,
But always stay at home.

I'll tell him 'bout my dolly,
She's sleeping on the floor,
I fear that noise will wake her,
Oh! please don't slam the door.

For I must not be bothered,
That's just what ma would say,
When she begins a letter,
And sends me off to play.

I'll send him lots of kisses,
And one bright shining curl,
I'll ask him to remember
His lonely little girl;

I want so much to see him,
But I won't cry a wink,
Cause when I write my letter,
The tears would blot my ink.

I'm going to write to papa,
And oh! how glad he'll be.
To get a little letter
That was written all by me.

Old Letters

I gaze upon ye, once again,
Old records of the past,
And o'er the dim and faded lines
My tears are falling fast;

I deem'd not there was a power yet,
In these few simple words,
To stir within my quiet heart
Such old familiar chords.

Ye bring me back mine early dreams--
Oh, but to dream them now,
With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,
And pure unsadden'd brow!

The loved--the lost--the changed--
The dead--all these we conjure up,
And mingled in the draught
That lies in memory's magic cup.

Old letters--sad mementoes ye,
Of friendship's shatter'd chain,
Oh! that the hand these pages traced,
My own might clasp again.

They tell me yet of early love,
Of feelings glad and gay,
Of childhood's April hopes and fears--
The writers, where are they?

Time's changes are for deeper things
Than folly's vain pursuit,
Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place
For autumn's ripen'd fruit.

Look back upon the buried past,
But not with vain regret,
Be grateful for the many joys
That bloom around thee yet.

Bend heavenward thine onward course,
That years of coming age
May leave an impress in life's book,
Pure as its opening page!

Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard:
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
That you mustn't be disturbed.

But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer thing to do.
Writing letters is 'ou mamma?
Tan't I write a letter, too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty now."
"No--no mamma; me wite letter,
Ten you will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait,
As his sweet eyes searched my face--
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said: "I'll make a letter,
Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted,
'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said: "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news,"
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee:
"Mamma's witting lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary, see."

No one heard the little prattler,
As once more he climbed the stair.
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the table there.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
On the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened,
Till he reached the office door:
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,
Is there room for any more?

'Cause this letter's going to papa;
Papa lives with God, 'ou know:
Mamma sent me for a letter;
Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not to-day, my little man;"
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening,
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At that moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure,
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late: a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there:
Then the little face lay lifeless
Covered o'er with golden hair.

Rev'rently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark left the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended--
"Papa's letter" was with God.

Bessie's Letter

I have got a letter,
A letter of my own,
It has my name upon it,
Miss Bessie L. Stone.

My papa sent it to me,
He's away from home--you see
I guess the postman wondered
Who Bessie Stone could be.

I'd like to send an answer,
But I don't know how to spell;
I'll get mamma to do it,
And that will do as well.

A Little Boy's Valentine

Little girl across the way,
You are so very sweet,
I shouldn't be a bit surprised
If you were good to eat.

Now what I'd like if you would too,
Would be to go and play--
Well, all the time, and all my life,
On your side of the way.

I don't know anybody yet
On your side of the street,
But often I look over there
And watch you--you're so sweet.

When I am big, I tell you what,
I don't care what they say,
I'll go across--and stay there, too,
On your side of the way.

Letter Writing

Heaven first taught letters
For some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover,
Or some captive maid.

They live, they speak,
They breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul,
And faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wish
Without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush,
And pour out all the heart--

Speed the soft intercourse
From soul to soul,
And waft a sigh
From Indus to the pole.

Boil it Down

Whatever you have to say my friend,
Whether witty, grave, or gay,
Condense as much as ever you can,
And that is the readiest way;
And whether you write of rural affairs,
Or particular things in town,
Just take a word of friendly advice--
"Boil it down."

Letters from Home

Letters from home! How musical to the ear
Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main,
When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,
Across the billow floats the gentle strain,
The words the tear-drops of his memory move;
They tell a mother's or a sister's love;
And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come
Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home.
How warmly there the tender home-light shines!
What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

[Page 94--Writing Land]

Polly's Letter to Brother Ben

Dear Brother Ben,
I take my pen
To tell you where,
And how, and when,
I found the nest
Of our speckled hen.
She would never lay,
In a sensible way,
Like other hens,
In the barn or the hay;

But here and there
And everywhere,
On the stable floor,
And the wood-house stair,
And once on the ground
Her eggs I found.
But yesterday
I ran away,
With mother's leave,
In the barn to play.

The sun shone bright
On the seedy floor,
And the doves so white
Were a pretty sight
As they walked in and out
Of the open door,
With their little red feet
And their features neat,
Cooing and cooing
More and more.

Well, I went out
To look about
On the platform wide,
Where side by side
I could see the pig-pens
In their pride;
And beyond them both,
On a narrow shelf,
I saw the speckled hen
Hide herself

Behind a pile
Of hoes and rakes
And pieces of boards
And broken stakes.
"Ah! ha! old hen,
I have found you now,
But to reach your nest
I don't know how,
Unless I could creep
Or climb or crawl
Along the edge
Of the pig-pen wall."

And while I stood
In a thoughtful meed,
The speckled hen cackled
As loud as she could,
And flew away,
As much as to say,
"For once my treasure
Is out of your way."
I did not wait
A moment then:
I couldn't be conquered
By that old hen!

But along the edge
Of the slippery ledge
I carefully crept,
For the great pigs slept,
And I dared not
even look to see
If they were thinking
Of eating me
But all at once,
Oh, what a dunce!

I dropped my basket
Into the pen,
The one you gave me,
Brother Ben;
There were two eggs in it,
By the way,
That I found in the manger
Under the hay.
Then the pigs got up
And ran about
With a noise between
A grunt and a shout.

And when I saw them,
Rooting, rooting,
Of course I slipped
And lost my footing,
And tripped,
And jumped,
And finally fell
Right down among
The pigs pell-mell.
For once in my life
I was afraid;
For the door that led
Out to the shed

Was fastened tight
With and iron hook,
And father was down
In the fields by the brook,
Hoeing and weeding
His rows of corn,
And here was his Polly
So scared and forlorn,
But I called him, and called him,
As loud as I could.
I knew he would hear me--
He must and he should.

"O father! O father!
(Get out, you old pig).
O father! oh! oh!"
For their mouths are so big.
Then I waited a minute
And called him again,
"O father! O father!
I am in the pig pen!"
And father did hear,
And he threw down his hoe,
And scampered as fast
As a father could go.

The pigs had pushed me
Close to the wall,
And munched my basket,
Eggs and all,
And chewed my sun-bonnet
Into a ball.
And one had rubbed
His muddy nose
All over my apron,
Clean and white;

And they sniffed at me,
And stepped on my toes,
But hadn't taken
The smallest bite,
When father opened
The door at last,
And oh! in his arms
He held me fast.

E. W. Denison

Writing

Little pens of metal,
Little drops of ink,
Make the wicked tremble,
And the people think.

Value of Writing

Blest be that gracious power
Who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image
On the mind:

Beasts may convey,
And tuneful birds may sing
Their mutual feelings
In the opening spring;

But man alone has skill
And power to send
The heart's warm dictates
To the distant friend:

Tis his also to please,
Instruct, advise,
Ages remote,
And nations yet to rise.

Crabbe

Use the Pen

Use the pen! there's magic in it,
Never let it lag behind;
Write thy thought, the pen can win it
From the chaos of the mind.

Many a gem is lost forever
By the careless passer-by,
But the gems of thought should never
On the mental pathway lie.

Use the pen! reck not that others
Take a higher flight than thine.
Many an ocean cave still smothers
Pearls of price beneath the brine.

So thy words and thoughts securing
Honest praise from wisdom's tongue,
May, in time, be as enduring
As the strains which Homer sung.

J. E. Carpenter

Power of the Pen

Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
The pen is mightier than the sword.

Lord Lytton

Letters

Such a little thing--a letter,
Yet so much it may contain:
Written thoughts and mute expressions
Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.

When our hearts are sad at parting,
Comes a gleam of comfort bright,
In the mutual promise given:
"We will not forget to write."

Plans and doings of the absent;
Scraps of news we like to hear,
All remind us, e'en though distant,
Kind remembrance keeps us near.

Yet sometimes a single letter
Turns the sunshine into shade;
Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,
Blights our hopes and makes them fade.

Messengers of joy or sorrow,
Life or death, success, despair,
Bearers of affection's wishes,
Greetings kind or loving prayer.

Prayer or greeting, were we present,
Would be felt, but half unsaid;
We can write--because our letters--
Not our faces--will be read?

Who has not some treasured letters,
Fragments choice of other's lives;
Relics, some, of friends departed,
Friends whose memory still survives?

Touched by neither time nor distance,
Will their words unspoken last?
Voiceless whispers of the present,
Silent echoes of the past!

The Right Method of Composition

Never be in haste in writing:
Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,
Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But once
Begun, work thou all things into thy work:
And set thyself about it, as the sea
About the earth, lashing it day and night:
And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it
As thorough as the fossil flower in clay:
The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,
Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,
Rending the stones, and crying--Resurrection.

P. J. Bailey

[Page 95--Drawing Land]

[Page 96--Drawing Land]

Just cast your beautiful, your sparkling,
your penetrating, your discriminating

Over this page, and read, mark, learn,
and inwardly digest its Contents.

THE two greatest educating powers in the ancient world were Pictures and Poetry--the two greatest educating powers are pictures and poetry still, and pictures and poetry blended in an interesting manner is the intended educating feature of this PLEASANT-LEARNING-LAND, but my object in this place is to speak of pictures only, as perhaps the greatest of all educating powers, and to demonstrate that they are not sufficiently used for educational purposes. Firstly: pictures are in a universal language--when they are true to nature every person on the earth can understand them. Show a picture of a person or a bird, a horse or a house, a ship, a tree, or a landscape, and everyone knows what is meant, and this is why most of the peoples of the ancient world conveyed their ideas in picture language. FLETCHER, in his _Cyclopedia of Education_, says:-- "It has long been accepted as an axiom that the best explanation of a thing is the sight and study of the thing itself, and the next best a true picture of the thing." DRYDEN, speaking of poetry and painting says:--

"The poets are confined to narrow space,
To speak the language of their native place;
The painter widely stretches his command,
_His pencil speaks the tongue of every land_."

Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:--A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:--"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:--"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:--"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:--"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:--

"His pictured morals mend the mind,
And through the eye improve the heart."

But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:--"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:-- "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:--"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:--"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:-- "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:--Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."

Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:--

"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view,
Reflects the image, and retains it too!
Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face,
Revives each look, and rivals every grace:
In thee the banished lover finds relief,
His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief:
Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power,
The father feels thee in affliction's hour;
When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies.
To take its angel station in the skies,
The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair,
And sheds a comfort, even in despair."
Or--
"The widow'd husband sees his sainted wife
In pictures warm, and smiling as in life,--
And--
While he gazes with convulsive thrill,
And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still,
_He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid,_
_That half restores the substance in the shade_."

But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish--pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.

There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings--outside and inside if you like --but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive--so it would if they were costly pictures--but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:--"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:--"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."

I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:--

Every cottage,
Two-roomed cottage,
Should contain full
Twenty PICTURES.

Every cottage,
Four-roomed cottage,
Should contain full
Forty PICTURES.

Every cottage,
Six-roomed cottage,
Should contain full
Sixty PICTURES.

Every villa,
Eight-roomed villa,
Should contain full
Eighty PICTURES.

Every mansion,
Ten-roomed mansion,
Should contain a
Hundred PICTURES.

Every large school
For instruction
Should contain a
THOUSAND PICTURES.

Walls are made to
Keep out weather
And also to
Display PICTURES.

Count your PICTURES
All your walls on.
See if you have
Quite the number,
You will want more
You will wish more,
You will get more
Shouldn't wonder.

PICTURES they are
Made to please you--
First to please you
When you buy them;
Next to please your
Own dear children,
Pictures please and
Teach them too.
Next to please your
Friends and neighbours
When they kindly
Call on you.

They'll admire them,
Then they'll praise them.
Then that pleases
You again.
PICTURES please and
Teach for ever,
All the Children,
Women, Men.

Even in the poorest houses pictures must always be a blessing. Many a poor man's cheerless home would be made much more comfortable and endurable if a few shilling's worth of good pictures were posted or hung round its bare walls. If houses were universally decorated with true speaking pictures what an immense influence for good it would bring them. What intellectual and refined tastes it would create and nurture. One most important thing in selecting pictures to cover the walls it to always choose good subjects. A poor picture takes up as much room as a good one, and generally costs as much. Always choose live speaking pictures that will interest and instruct. There is an immense multitude of poor, tame, an uninteresting pictures produced in the world, and which in millions of instances keep out the good ones. If these poor ones could be kept back or destroyed, and the best ones only take their place, the world would be better for it. In choosing materials to build up a bright, happy home, always select the best--the best books--the best music--the best pictures. In conclusion, there is one more suggestion I would make on the picture question, and I think it is the most important of all; it is that a good clear map of the world should be hung in every house in the world, to give every person an idea of the world they live in. For it is a most deplorable fact that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the inhabitants, even of the civilized world, have a very poor conception of the geography and ethnology of the world. And this should not be, for every person ought to have a clear idea of their world-fatherland, and of their fellow creatures, and a knowledge of the map of the world is the first lesson to be learned in that most desirable direction.

E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.

[Page 97--Drawing Land]

The New Slate

See my slate. I dot it new
Cos I b'oke the other,
Put my 'ittle foot right froo,
Runnin' after modder.

I tan make you lots of sings,
Fass as you tan tell 'em,
T's and B's and O rings,
Only I tan't spell 'em

I tan make an elephant,
Wid his trunk a hangin';
An' a boy--who says I tan't?
Wid his dun a bangin'

An' the smoke a tummin' out;
(Wid my t'umb I do it,
Rubbin' all the white about,)
Sparks a flying froo it.

I tan make a pretty house,
Wid a tree behind it,
And a 'ittle mousey-mouse
Runnin' round to find it.

I tan put my hand out flat
On the slate and draw it;
(Ticklin' is the worst of that!)
Did you ever saw it?

Now, then, s'all I make a tree
Wid a birdie on it?
All my pictures you s'all see
If you'll wait a minute.

No, I dess I'll make a man
Juss like Uncle Rolly,
See it tummin', fass it tan!
Bet my slate is jolly!

[Page 98--Drawing Land]

Learning to Draw

Come, here is a slate,
And a pencil, and string.
And now sit you down, dear,
And draw pretty thing;
A man and a cow,
And a horse and a tree,
And when you have finished
Pray show them to me.

What! cannot you do it?
Shall I show you how?
Come, give me your pencil;
I'll draw you a cow.
You've made the poor creature
Look very forlorn!
She has but three legs, dear,
And only one horn.

Now look, I have drawn you
A beautiful cow;
And see, here's a dicky-bird,
Perched on a bough,
And there are some more
Flying down from above;
There now, is not that
Very pretty, my love?

Oh, yes, very pretty!
Now make me some more--
A house with a gate,
And a window, and a door,
And a little boy flying
His kite with a string;
Oh, thank you, mamma,
Now I'll draw pretty thing.

[Page 99--Drawing Land]

A Lesson in Drawing