Page 469 - 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. 469

Was fastened  tight  with  an  iron  hook,
                               And father  was  down  in  ihc fields  by the brook,
                               Hoeing  and  weeding  his  rows  of  corn,
                               And  here  was  his  Dolly,  so  scared  and  forlorn.
                               But  T  called  him,  artel  called him,  as  loud as  I  could,
                               I  knew  he would  hear  me— he  must and  he should—
                             " O  father !  O  father !  (Get  out,  you  old  pig-)
                               O  father !  oh !  oh ! ”  for  their  months  were so big.
                               Then  I  waited  a  minute and  called  him  again,
                             u O father!  O  father !  I  am  in  the  pig-pen !  ”
                               And father  did  hear,  and  he  threw down  his  hoe,
                               And  scampered  as  last  as  a  father  could go*
                               The pigs  had  pushed  me  close  to  the  wall,
                               And  munched  my  basket,  eggs  and  all,
                               And  chewed  my  sun-bonnet, into  a  bail.
                               And  one  had  rubbed  his  muddy nose
                                 A ll  over  my  apron,  clean  and white;
                               And  they  sniffed  at  me,  and  stepped  on  my toes,
                                 But hadn't taken  the smallest, bite,
                               When  father  opened  the  door at  last,
                               And  o h !  in  his  arms  he  held  me  fast.
                                                                             E.  W.  D en iso n.

                                            NO  STOCKlNCiS  TO  WEAR.

                       A      L IT T L E  boy  in  our  street,  I  will not tell  his  name,
                               Goes barefoot, though a rich man's son— now isn’t that, a shame?
                               He says  he  hasn't  got  a  single  stocking  left to  wear,
                              And,  yet, last week  his  mamma  bought  him  half  a  dozen  pair.
                       And  the  silk  ones  grandma  sent  him  for  his  best— that  makes  two
                               m ore;
                       And  there  were  five  or  six,  at  least,  that  he  had  long  before,
                       Then  why  does  he  go  barefoot  ?■— you'll  laugh,  I  know you  will—-
                       He has  hung  up  all  his  stocking.?  for  Santa  Claus  to  fill.
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