ot slight
Those kindly words we use "Good night,"
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow,"
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finish'd, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the vent'rous fly,
Where the sugar's piled high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

WEEDING

As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play,
Was lab'ring industriously hard
To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away,
Which grew in her father's court-yard;

In her juvenile anger, wherever she found,
She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore;
The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground;
Not a weed of them all she forbore.

At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light
(Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd);
The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite;
In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,

"Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those
Their great sprawling leaves thus presume
To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose,
And take up a flower's sweet room?"

On the odious offenders enraged she flew;
But she presently found to her cost
A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new,
And rage was in agony lost.

To her father she hastily fled for relief,
And told him her pain and her smart;
With kindly caresses he soothed her grief,
Then smiling he took the weed's part.

"The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours
Resembles: too apt we're to deem
In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs,
And the poor but as weeds to esteem.

"But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel,
Though some will be passive enough,
From others who're more independent 'tis well
If we meet not a _stinging rebuff_."

PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS

A child's a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space;
Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one, that to itself