Chapter II: Part II

Bright shines the sun, the gentle breeze
In soften'd murmurs blows,
And softly through the verdant mead,
The little streamlet flows.

Close by yon fragrant violet bank,
Beneath the spreading thorn,
His mother's stool and cushion'd chair
Are by young Edward borne.

And from the lowly cottage door,
With feeble steps and slow,
Anna supports her mother's frame,
As to the bank they go.

There, seated on her pillow'd chair,
She breathes the balmy breeze,
Whilst Anne and Edward quietly
Are seated at her knees.

With merry hearts they now can meet
Her kind approving eye,
And to her various questions give
A cheerful, quick reply.

They have not now her death to fear,
But know, that time and care,
Will soon restore their mother dear,
To their most ardent prayer.

GEORGE AND EDMUND.

"Come hither, George," young Edmund cried,
"Come quickly here to me,
For yonder floats the little boat,
Upon the swelling sea.

"'Tis fasten'd by a single rope,
And there is each an oar,
And were we once but safely in,
We soon could push from shore."

"Oh! go not, Edmund," George replied,
"The storm is rising fast,
The forest bends, the sea-spray flies,
Before the howling blast."

"The wind may howl--perhaps it does,
But not so loud as you,
Who always scold and cry out 'Don't',
When pleasure is in view."

In anger Edmund spoke, and turn'd
In pride and scorn away,
To where the boat so temptingly,
Toss'd in the little bay.

He loos'd the rope, he seized the oar,
And vaulted o'er the side,
And rapidly his little boat
Flies through the stormy tide.

The wind is loud, the waves are strong,
And vainly Edmund strives
To guide his boat, which furiously
The tempest onward drives.

His passion gone, his fears increase,
And loud to George he cries;
He looks--he listens--calls again,
But still no George replies.

In terror now and wild affright,
All prudence he forgets,
And springing quick from side to side,
The boat he oversets.

His father saw the dreadful plunge,
His father heard his shriek;
For George, when Edmund would not stay,
Some aid had flown to seek.

With desperate haste he forward springs,
And throwing off his coat,
Plunges amid the foaming waves,
To gain the struggling boat.

He reach'd its side, and diving down,
Seiz'd on poor Edmund's hand,
And senseless through the beating surge,
He bore him back to land.

'Twas long ere signs of life return'd,
Or he unclos'd his eyes,
And longer far it was, ere he
From his sick bed could rise.

What anguish and remorse he felt,
What tears of sorrow shed:
How good, how mild he vow'd to be,
When he should leave his bed.

And let us hope his vow he'll keep,
Become a steady boy,
No more his friends or parents grieve,
But prove their pride and joy.

_George and Edmund_]

_Fanny_]

FANNY.

"O look!" the little Fanny cried,
As wandering by her mother's side,
They pass'd a cottage neat tho' poor,
With woodbines clustering round the door,
"Oh look, mamma, what lovely flowers!
I here could stand and gaze for hours.
That beauteous rose, those lilies fair,
And that gay bed of tulips there!
Oh! how I wish they all were mine,
They'd make my empty garden shine."
"Your empty garden, Fanny! pray
Have all your flowers been stol'n away?
Or do you for your neighbour's sigh,
Because your own you leave to die?
The little girl whose flowers these are,
Watches and prunes them all with care;
She rises early, labours hard,
And does not toil nor care regard,
But thinks her trouble well repaid,
If she her parents thus can aid.
These flowers to market off she takes,
And many pence by them she makes;
You surely, therefore, would not strive
Of this advantage to deprive
The grateful child, who takes such pains,
To help her parents' scanty gains.
But come, my love, we must not stay,
That show'r will reach us on our way;
Come, Fanny, come,"--"Mamma, I will,"
But Fanny staid and linger'd still;
Each plant and flower at length being view'd,
Her way she thoughtfully pursu'd.
A week had pass'd, when Fanny ran
To her mamma, and thus began:
"Mamma, when you have time, I pray,
That you would kindly walk this way,
And let me show you what, last night,
I finish'd ready for your sight."
Mamma complies, and Fanny bounds
Delighted, through the verdant grounds;
With sparkling eye and step elate,
Open she throws the garden gate,
"And look!" she cries, in joyful tone,
"What play-hours in one week have done;
No weeds do now my garden spoil,
The stones I clear'd, and turn'd the soil,
The trees I prun'd, I planted flowers,
And water'd them with plenteous showers:
Perhaps, mamma, with time and care,
Some nosegays I may hence prepare
For that good girl, who takes such pains
To help her parents' scanty gains."

ALFRED.

"How can I the south from the north ever know,
When there is no S in the sky;
Oh! how can I tell the east from the west,
When not the least mark I can spy?"

His mother, who sat at her work by the fire,
To Alfred's request thus replied:
"Come, listen to me, and I'll soon tell you how,
The difficult point to decide.

"Wherever the sun rises, there is the east,
Now that is both easy and clear;
Wherever at ev'ning he sets from your view,
The west, my beloved, is there.

_Alfred_]

"Now you know where to find both the west and the east,
We soon shall discover the rest:
To the left is the south, to the right is the north,
When your face is turn'd full to the west."

_William_]

WILLIAM.

"My dear," cried his mother to William one day,
As glowing and panting with heat,
The parlour he enter'd in haste and alarm,
And threw himself down on a seat:

"My dear, what misfortune has hurried you now,
And brought you so soon from your play?
Have you lost your new ball in the field or the pond?
Or has your kite flown far away?"

"My ball, my dear mother, is safe in my desk,
My kite rides secure in the air;
But I brought a poor boy, whom I left in the hall,
And who claims your attention and care.

"I found him just now, as returning from play,
I passed by the side of the wood;
He was stretched on the ground, and senseless and pale,
And his face was all covered with blood."

"Oh! quick let us go; sure we linger too long,"
Cried his mother; "my love, lead the way."
William bounded, all eager, and soon reached the place,
Where reviving, but weak, his friend lay.

His bruises and wounds were examin'd with care,
And happy was William to hear,
That patience and time would restore him to health,
For his life he had nothing to fear.

With unwearied attention he sat by his side,
And anxiously waited to know,
If in climbing he fell, or in mischief was hurt,
Or another had given the blow.

And as eagerly too did his invalid friend,
To his mother and William relate,
The cause of his suff'rings, and how he was found
In so sad and so helpless a state.

He had hasten'd, he said, in his play-hour at noon,
To the strawberry bank in the wood,
For some ripe ones to take to his sister at home,
Who was ill, and they might do her good.

As he climb'd some high rocks in his search for the fruit,
And held by the trees that hung o'er,
He slipp'd, the branch broke, and he fell to the ground,
But he knew and remember'd no more.

His name too he told, and the place where he liv'd,
And quickly young William ran there,
To tell his good mother her son was now safe,
And from them would receive ev'ry care.

Delighted to hear of her Jemmy again,
She gratefully thank'd his kind friend,
Who promis'd to bring him himself to his home,
As he knew he would speedily mend.

THE END.

Darton, Harvey, and Co. Printers, Gracechurch-street.