My friend Washington.
When I was a very little girl, one of my best friends was Washington Henry. He was one of our servants, who made himself useful inside of the house, and was as black as night, as you may see by the picture. He liked nothing better than to meet me outside the house and have a romp, and he would take me all round the barn and show me the ducks, and hens, and the nice little chickens, and wheel me round in the baby-carriage, while he capered and danced about like a high-mettled steed. I can tell you we had plenty of fun, and father often used to wonder how it was I liked Washington so much, but it was only because he was more kind and considerate than any of the other servants. His old mother lived in a little cottage with his younger brother and sister, and he used to take me round there sometimes, and they had always something new to show me.
The young monkey.
A little Monkey chanced to find
A walnut in its outward rind;
He snatched the prize with eager haste,
And bit it, but its bitter taste
Soon made him throw the fruit away.
“I’ve heard,” he cried, “my mother say
(But she was wrong), the fruit was good;
Preserve me from such bitter food!”
A monkey by experience taught,
The falling prize with pleasure caught;
Took off the husk and broke the shell,
The kernel peeled, and liked it well.
“Walnuts,” said he, “are good and sweet,
But must be opened ere you eat.”
And thus in life you’ll always find
Labor comes first,—reward behind.
Don’t you like my cat?
I like my cat, I like him well,
As all the house may see
I like him for himself, and not
Because the cat likes me.
He counts his only work in life,
To flourish and be fat;
And this he does with all his might;—
Of course, I like my cat.
His eyes shine out beneath his brows,
As eyes have rarely shone;
His beauty is the grandest thing
That ever cat put on.
He wears a paw of wondrous bulk,
With secret claws to match,
And puts a charm in all its play,
The pat, the box, the scratch.
I have not heard how cats are made
Within their furry veil,
But rather fancy Tippo’s thoughts
Lie chiefly in his tail.
For while in every other part
His portly person sleeps,
That bushy tail, with steady wave,
A ceaseless vigil keeps.
A lark in A cricket-ground.