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ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS,
shewing how the art of lying may be
I have a boy of five years old,
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
A day it was when I could bear
My boy was by my side, so slim
The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, "And so is Liswyn farm.
"My little boy, which like you more,"
"And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said and held him by the arm,
"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, "Or here at Liswyn farm?
In careless mood he looked at me,
"Now, little Edward, say why so ; My little Edward, tell me why;"
"I cannot tell, I do not know."
Why this is strange," said I.
"For, here are woods and green-hills warm ; "There surely must some reason be "Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm "For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy, so fair and slim,
His head he raised—there was in sight,
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock,