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"Father, when people die,

Will they come back in May?" Tears were in Charley's eye,— "Will they, dear father, say?"

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know the little Wood-mouse,
That pretty little thing,

That sits among the forest leaves,
Beside the forest spring?

Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim,

It leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.

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'Tis a timid, gentle creature, And seldom comes in sight; It has a long and wiry tail,

And eyes both black and bright.

It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,

In a hole so deep and strong;
And there it sleeps secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.

And though it keeps no calendar,

It knows when flowers are springing; And waketh to its summer life,

When Nightingales are singing. Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits,

The Wood-Mouse plays below; And plenty of food it finds itself

Where the beech and chestnut grow.

In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits,
When its summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the hawthorn over-head.

I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,

With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a mushroom tall.

I saw him sit and his dinner eat,

All under the forest tree;

His dinner of chestnut ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.

I wish you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,

To see the small thing God had made
Thus eating in the wood.

I saw that He regardeth them-
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread
By Him who cares for all!


Do you see that old beggar that stands at the door?
Do not send him away-we must pity the poor.
Oh, see how he shivers! he's hungry and cold!
For people can't work when they grow very old.

Go set near the fire a table and seat:

And Betty shall bring him some bread and some meat. I hope my dear children will always be kind, Whenever they meet with the aged and blind.


WHO would fancy this December,
Now the sun is shining bright,
For last year I well remember
How the snow lay cold and white;
All around 'twas lying coldly,

And so silently it fell,
That poor robin ventured boldly
On the sill, his wants to tell.
Now I hear him in the laurels

Chant his morning hymn so sweet, Whilst the holly shows its corals

For his promised Christmas treat. Now I see him slyly peeping

With his quick and glancing eye; Still his cheerful carol keeping

Christmas by its minstrelsy.

Look now! he is venturing nearer-
Half afraid he starts away—
As if to make his visits dearer,
Like a little child at play.
I am sure he still remembers
All the crumbs we gave last year,
And will many more Decembers

Ask from us his Christmas cheer.

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