The Indian And The Basket.[7]

Among Rhode Island’s early sons, Was one whose orchards fair, By plenteous and well-flavored fruit, Rewarded all his care.

For household use they stored the best, And all the rest conveyed To neighboring mill, were ground and press’d, And into cider made.

The wandering Indian oft partook The generous farmer’s cheer; He liked his food, but better still His cider fine and clear.

And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught, The kitchen fire before, He longed for some to carry home, And asked for more and more.

The farmer saw a basket new Beside the Indian bold, And smiling said, “I’ll give to you As much as that will hold.”

Both laughed, for how could liquid thing Within a basket stay; But yet the jest unanswering, The Indian went his way,

When next from rest the farmer sprung, So very cold the morn, The icicles like diamonds hung On every spray and thorn.

The brook that babbled by his door Was deep, and clear, and strong, And yet unfettered by the frost, Leaped merrily along.

The self-same Indian by this brook. The astonished farmer sees; He laid his basket in the stream, Then hung it up to freeze.

And by this process oft renewed, The basket soon became A well-glazed vessel, tight and good, Of most capacious frame.

The door he entered speedily, And claim’d the promis’d boon, The farmer, laughing heartily, Fulfilled his promise soon.

Up to the basket’s brim he saw The sparkling cider rise, And to rejoice his absent squaw, He bore away the prize.

Long lived the good man at the farm,-- The house is standing still, And still leaps merrily along, The much diminished rill.

And his descendants still remain, And tell to those who ask it, The story they have often heard About the INDIAN’S BASKET.

Oh, tell some tales of ancient times, Dear grandmamma, again; When you was young as we are now, Said little Mary Jane.

She raised her mild blue eyes, and said, I have a tale to tell, Which once I read, when I was young, And now remember well.

My mother bought the book for me, And brought it home one day, When I had been a naughty girl, And passionate at play.

Although the tale was very sad, I tell it now, that you May see what very wicked things, An angry child may do.

GRANDMAMMA’S STORY OF THE BLIND CHILD.

Some ladies once agreed with me, To give our little ones a sail; The day was fine, the summer wind Just blew a soft and pleasant gale.

We stepped on board a pleasure boat, With gayest colors painted o’er, And in the bosom of the stream, We sweetly sailed along the shore.

Our children could not keep their seats, But every sportive girl and boy, With hearts as cheerful as the day, Did skip about the deck for joy;

Except one pretty little girl, Who sat alone with downcast eye, And now and then I saw a tear, And thought I heard a broken sigh.

I wondered much that one so young, Should seem so pensively inclined, And asked her mother what it meant; “Alas!” said she, “the child is blind.

“One day, I never shall forget, She and her brother were at play; Something she said offended him, And so they had a childish fray.

“She turned her head and gave a look, ’T was half a smile and half grimace; His temper rose,--he caught a fork And threw it in his sister’s face.

“It struck her eye, the blood gushed out, He screamed, and turn’d as pale as death; Oh, never shall my memory lose That dreadful scene while I have breath.

“For three long, melancholy months, We kept her in a darkened room, With a close bandage round her eyes, Where not a ray of light could come.

“The doctors tried their utmost skill To keep her sight, but all in vain; At length the wounded eyes were healed, But she will never see again.

“Her brother’s heart is almost broke; ‘Oh, Harriet,’ he often cries, ‘If I was owner of the world, I’d give it to restore your eyes.

“‘But you will laugh and play no more, Nor your dear parents’ faces see, Nor trees, nor fields, nor blooming flowers, And never will you look on me.

“‘Oh, wrretched, miserable boy! What has my wicked temper done; I’ve shut my dear, dear sister’s eyes Forever from the cheerful sun!’”

This story, children, made me feel How very wicked I had been; To lose my temper when at play, I felt to be a grievous sin.

And now, my dears, said grandmamma, May this sad tale I’ve told to-day Lead you to guard your hearts with care, And ne’er be angry when at play.

BLACKBERRY GIRL.

PART II.

Part I. in “Songs for Little Ones at Home.”

“What have you in that basket, child?” “They are blackberries, Miss, all picked to-day; They’re very nice, and fully ripe;--Do look at them, and taste them, pray.”

“Oh, yes, they are very nice indeed! Here’s four-pence, that will buy a few, Not quite so many as I could eat; However, I must make them do.”

“No, Miss; but you must take the whole.” “I can’t, indeed, my money’s spent; I should be glad to buy them all, But I have not another cent.

“And if you had a thousand, Miss, I’d not accept of one from you; Pray take them! they are all your own, And take the little basket, too.

“Have you forgot that little girl You last year gave a bonnet to? You may, perhaps, but ever will That little girl remember you.

“For ever since I’ve been to church,-- And much do I delight to go,-- For there I learned the way to heaven, Which I so long had wished to know.

“One day I thought within myself, That pretty basket Billy wove I’ll fill with fruit for that dear Miss, For sure ’t will be a work of love.

“And so, this morning, up I rose, While yet the fields were wet with dew, And picked the nicest I could find, And brought them fresh and sweet to you.

“I know the gift is small, indeed, For such a lady to receive; But yet, I hope you’ll not refuse All that poor Phebe has to give.”

SUPPER FOR THE ROBINS.

These dear little birdies Will not fly away; They come for their breakfast And supper each day.

They come in the morning, At noon, and at night, And always are welcomed With greatest delight.

And crumbs in abundance They always have found Just under the window, Spread out on the ground.

Now Minnie and Ella Are watching to see Their dear little robins Come down from the tree,

Where they have been warbling A beautiful lay, To charm the dear children At close of the day.