Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

A fever follow'd from the fright,
And from sleeping in the dew;
He many a day and many a night
Suffer'd ere he better grew.

His aching limbs while sick he lay
Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain;
Oft would he to his mother say,
"I ne'er will kill a bee again."

THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

O what a joyous joyous day
Is that on which we come
At the recess from school away,
Each lad to his own home!

What though the coach is crammed full,
The weather very warm;
Think you a boy of us is dull,
Or feels the slightest harm?

The dust and sun is life and fun;
The hot and sultry weather
A higher zest gives every breast,
Thus jumbled all together.

Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud,
Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.
Who is so buoyant, free, and proud,
As we home-travellers are?

But sad, but sad is every lad
That day on which we come,
That last last day on which away
We all come from our home.

The coach too full is found to be:
Why is it crammed thus?
Now every one can plainly see
There's not half room for us.

Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
This hot and sultry weather,
Who but our master is to blame,
Who pack'd us thus together!

Now dust and sun does every one
Most terribly annoy;
Complaints begun, soon every one
Elbows his neighbour boy.

Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
We shout not now huzzah;
A sadder group may not be found
Than we returning are.

THE ORANGE

The month was June, the day was hot,
And Philip had an orange got.
The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
Refreshing to the smell and sight;
Not of that puny size which calls
Poor customers to common stalls,
But large and massy, full of juice,
As any Lima can produce.
The liquor would, if squeezed out,
Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--

The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
He turns it round, and longs to drain,
And with the juice his lips to stain.
His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_.
He from his pocket draws a knife--
When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
Which folks experience when they wish,
Yet scruple to begin a dish,
And by their hesitation own
It is too good to eat alone.
But appetite o'er indecision