And how the infant Moses, too,
Floated the Nile along;
And how his mother made for him
The basket cradle strong.
Please tell these Bible-stories then,
And take me on your knee,
And I’ll sit still, my dear mamma,
And listen quietly.
[Illustration: Letter I.]
I love to see the sun go down
Behind the western hill;
I love to see the night come on,
When everything is still.
I love to see the moon and stars
Shine brightly in the sky;
I love to see the rolling clouds
Above my head so high.
I love to see the little flowers
That grow up from the ground;
To hear the wind blow through the trees,
And make a rustling sound.
I love to see the sheep and lambs
So happy in their play;
I love to hear the small birds sing
Sweetly, at close of day.
I love to see them all, because
They are so bright and fair;
And He who made this pleasant world
Will listen to my prayer.
In Bible times so long ago,
And in a far-off city, too,
A mother watched her only child
As he in strength and beauty grew.
And when his little tottering feet
Had scarcely learned to go alone,—
Before his baby voice could speak
Her name, with a sweet, joyous tone,—
She took her boy and travelled on,
Away from home, for many a mile,
That with a good and holy man
Her darling son might live a while;
That he might learn about the God
Who made the earth and sea and sky;
And then she left him there and turned
Back to her home, with many a sigh.
She could not place him on her knee
And tell him he was very dear;
And so she made a little coat
And brought it to him every year.
But you, my little girl, can learn,
While you are sitting close by me,
Of heaven, and that kind God above,
Who made in love each thing we see.
And you should thank Him every day,
That you can here His goodness know;
And from your pleasant, happy home,
And your dear parents, need not go.
What is Harry thinking of,
Sitting on that mossy stone?
All his brothers are at play;
Why is he so still and lone?
He is musing earnestly;
And the flutterings of the bird
And its pleading, feeble chirp
Fall upon his ear unheard.
Well may little Harry think!
From the pear-tree’s withered bough
He has brought the pretty nest,
Placed within his hat-crown now.