d gun and all.
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!

Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,--and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;--
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!

Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went--a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.

Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,--
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.

So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke--
It was blown to pieces!

Tray came crouching round, and growled,--
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was _sick of gunning_!

While his mother bent to mourn
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
Harry's pain must be endured,--
And the wound--it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!

=The Pebble and the Acorn=

"I am a Pebble! I yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone,
"Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the dew has tenderly sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none to tell you about my birth,
For I am as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like blades of grass;
And many foot that on me has trod
Is gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art _thou_,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute:
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphe