No, naughty Growler, get away,
You shall not have a bit;
Now when I speak, how dare you stay!
I can't spare any, sir, I say
And so you need not sit.
Poor Growler! do not make him go
But recollect, before,
That he has never serv'd you so,
For you have given him many a blow
That patiently he bore.
Poor Growler! if he could speak,
He'd tell, (as well he might,)
How he would bear with many a freak,
And wag his tail and look so meek,
And neither bark nor bite.
Clever Little Thomas.
When Thomas Poole first went to school,
He was but scarcely seven;
Yet knew as well to read and spell,
As most boys of eleven.
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He took his seat, and wrote quite neat,
And never idly acted;
And then, beside, he multiplied,
Divided and subtracted.
His master said, (and strok'd his head),
"If thus you persevere,
"My little friend you may depend
"Upon a Prize next year."
[Illustration]