In Aesop, we are told, a boy,
Who was his mother's pride and joy,
At school a primer stole one day,
And homeward then did wend his way.
He told his mother of the theft,
While she, of principle bereft,
Patted him on the head and smil'd.
And said, "You are my own dear child."
She praised him for the cunning feat,
And gave him a nice apple sweet.
In course of years the boy grew fast,
Till he became a man at last;
But all the time he slyly stole--
Sometimes a piece--sometimes the whole,
Till, finally, he grew so bold,
He kill'd a man and took his gold.
The day on which he had to swing
Did a large crowd together bring.
Among the rest his mother came,
And called him fondly by his name.
The sheriff gave him leave to tell
The broken-hearted dame farewell!
About his neck her arms she flung,
And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"
He answered, "Call me not your dear."
And by one stroke bit off her ear;
While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!
Not satisfied to blast her name.
You add this violence to one
Whose happiness you have undone!"
"Good people," he replied, "I'll vow
I would not be a felon now.
If my mother had only tried
To win me to the better side.
But when in infancy I took
What was not mine, a small torn book,
Instead of punishing the feat
She gave to me an apple sweet;
She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,
And said, 'You are my own dear child!'
I tell you here, both foe and friend,
This is the cause of my sad end."
[Illustration: Australian Blacks Stealing.]
[Page 72--Stealing Land]
[Illustration: Naughty Boys Stealing.]