Page 458 - The model orator, or, Young folks' speaker : containing the choicest recitations and readings from the best authors for schools, public entertainments, social gatherings, Sunday schools, etc. : including recitals in prose and verse ...
P. 458

And  now  comes  the very  worst  of it, though—
                                     To  be  eaten— with  sugar  and  cream I "

                                   The  Potatoes  and Onions,  the Turnips  and Squash
                                     Got into  a  regular  flutter,
                                   When  the farmer’s  wife  gave each  a  taste
                                     Of the very same  kind  of butter.
                                   IIow can  I  stand  it,”  Sir  Table  said;
                                     And  he groaned  as  if in  pain.
                                   “ Oil,  dear,  I  would  be really  glad
                                     If Thanksgiving ne'er came  again.
                                   “ 0hT  me!  oh,  me! '*  and  he  groaned the  more
                                     A s  the  children  took  their places;
                                   But smilingly  his  load  he  bore
                                     When he saw their happy faces.
                                                                             L bsbia  B ryant.


                                                        MR.  NOBODY.
                                        I   K N O W   a  funny  little  man.
                                             A s quiet as  a  mouse,
                                          WTho  does  the  mischief  that is done
                                             In  everybody’s  house.
                                       There’s  no  one  ever  sees  his  face,
                                          And yet  we  all  agree,
                                       That  every  plate  we  break  was  cracked
                                          By  Mr.  Nobody.

                                       JTis  he who  always  tears  our books
                                          Who  leaves  the  door ajar;
                                        He pulls  the  buttons  from  our  shirts,
                                          And scatters  pins  afar.
                                       That squeaking door will always squeeJc,
                                          For,  prithee,  don’t  you  see,
                                       W e  leave  the  oiling to  be done
                                          By  Mr. Nobody ?
   453   454   455   456   457   458   459   460   461   462   463