e poor things alone,
If not, I go on with my lesson."
"I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.

But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,
The wounded bird flutters and dies;
Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies?

Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept when they want it--but who
Would sweep them for pleasure alone?

If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain.

The Worm

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm
The frame thy wayward looks decide
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of His boundless love
On that poor worm bestow'd.

The sun, the moon, the stars He made
To all the creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade
For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh, do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

Gisborne

Story Of Cruel Frederick

Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he:
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And tore off their tiny wings;

He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And Oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.

The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,
And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,
And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.

At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growl'd and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!

So Frederick had to go to bed,
His leg was very sore and red!
The doctor came and shook his head
And made a very great to-do,
And gave him nasty physic too.

Don't Throw Stones

Boys, don't throw stones!
That kitten on the wall,
Sporting with leaves that fall,
Now jumping to and fro,
Now crouching soft and low,
Then grasps them with a spring,
As if some living thing.
As happy as can be,
Why cause her misery?
It is foolish stones