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النشر الإلكتروني

The first pond they came nigh,

The ducks waddled in, While poor Biddy did cry,

And make a loud din.

But the ducks did not know

What frightened their mother, Or what made her scream so,

And make such a pother.

For they liked it right well

To splash in the waters, While the hen could not tell

What on earth ailed her daughters.

So she spread out her wings,

And went screaming about, Till the fat little things

Had all paddled out.

The poor hen did not know,

For nobody taught her, That young ducks always go

Right into the water.

And she never understood

That farmer's play tricks;
So she thought her little brood

Were all honest chicks.

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When she saw they could not dive,

She made a great ado,
For she thought she ought to drive

Her little chickens through.

The poor little timid things,

They were afraid to go;
But she beat them with her wings;

She thought she must do so.

They knew not what she meant;

She drove them round and round,
Till into the pond they went,

And there her chickens drowned.

Poor little Biddy could n't think

What made her first brood thrive,
And all the others sink

Before they learnt to dive.

It was a pity she did n't know

It could not bring good luck,
To train a little chicken up

As if it were a duck.



“What is that, Mother!” “The lark, my child !
The morn has just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out on his Maker's ear.



Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, liked the lark's, to thy Maker's praise."
“ What is that, Mother?” “The Dove, my son !
And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love." “What is that, Mother ?” “The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy; Firm, on his mountain vigor relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,

Onward, and upward, and true to the line.”
“ What is that, Mother?” “The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.”



As I walked over the hills one day,
I listened, and heard a mother-sheep say,
“In all the green world there is nothing so sweet,
As my little lammie, with his nimble feet,

With his eye so bright,

And his wool so white;
Oh, he is my darling, my heart's delight.

The robin, he

That sings on the tree,
Dearly may dote on his darlings four;
But I love my one little lambkin more."
So the mother-sheep, and the little one,
Side by side, lay down in the sun,
And they went to sleep on the hill-side warm,


little lammie lies here on my arm.

I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old gray cat, with her kittens three;
I heard her whispering soft. Said she,
“My kittens, with tails all so cunningly curled,
Are the prettiest things there can be in the world.

The bird in the tree,

And the old ewe, she,
May love their babies exceedingly ;
But I love my kittens from morn to night;

Which is the prettiest, I cannot tell,

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