He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the race was done,

He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices!

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

And does what Simon cannot do;

For she, not over stout of limb,

Is stouter of the two.

And though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them,

Alas! 'tis very little, all

Which they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;

But what avails the land to them,

Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life has he in store,

As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

His

poor old ancles swell.

My gentle reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect

Some tale will be related.

O reader I had you in your mind
Such stores as silent, thought can bring,

O gentle reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

I hope you'll kindly take it;

It is no tale; but should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
About the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock totter'd in his hand;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have worked for ever.

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool" to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffer'd aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I sever'd,

At which the poor old man so long
And vainly had endeavour'd.

The tears into his eyes were brought,

And thanks and praises seemed to run

So fast out of his heart, I thought

They never would have done.

-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning.

Alas! the gratitude of men

Has oftner left me mourning.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS,

SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE

TAUGHT.

1

I have a boy of five years old,

His face is fair and fresh to see}

His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,

Our quiet house all full in view,

And held such intermitted talk

As we are wont to do.