When Harry and Dick
Had been striving to please,
Their father (to whom it was known)
Made two little gardens,
And stocked them with trees,
And gave one to each for his own.
Harry thank'd his papa,
And with rake, hoe, and spade,
Directly began his employ;
And soon such a neat
Little garden was made,
That he panted with labour and joy.
There was always some bed
Or some border to mend,
Or something to tie or stick:
And Harry rose early
His garden to tend,
While snoring lay indolent Dick.
The tulip, the rose,
And the lily so white,
United their beautiful bloom!
And often the honey-bee
Stoop'd from his flight,
To sip the delicious perfume.
A neat row of peas
In full blossom was seen,
French beans were beginning to shoot!
And his gooseb'ries and currents,
Tho' yet they were green,
Foretold of plenty of fruit.
But Richard loved better
In bed to repose,
And snug as he curl'd himself round,
Forgot that not tulip,
Nor lily, nor rose,
Nor plant in his garden was found.
Rank weeds and tall nettles
Disfigur'd his beds,
Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,
The slug and the snail
Show'd their mischievous heads,
And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.
Thus Richard the idle,
Who shrank from the cold,
Beheld his trees naked and bare;
Whilst Harry the active
Was charmed to behold
The fruit of his patience and care.
Ann Taylor.