But Fido ran in, who loved little Frank,
      And the shoes were remembered no more;
    They began to cut capers, but at the first prank
      Down tumbled poor Frank on the floor.

    He was a brave boy, he thought not of crying,
      He said, “Never mind,” though in pain;
    He whistled to Fido, but there is no denying
      He fell down again and again.

    He went to his bed with his heart full of sorrow;
      He said to the nurse,—­“I should choose,
    If you please, when I’m dressed, my good Betsey, to-morrow,
      To put on my easy old shoes.

    “See how red my toes are, and I’m all black and blue;
      I don’t like my new shoes at all.” 
    “Ah! you see,” answered Betsey, “what I told you was true;
      Your shoes, Master Frank, are too small.”

    His old shoes he was glad in the morning to see,
      And, forgetting his trouble and pain,
    “How happy,” said he, “my poor toes will be
      To get into the old shoes again.”

    The voice of the old shoe now once more was heard:—­
      “Master Frank, will you please to attend? 
    I wish, with your leave, to say just a word,—­
      ’Tis a word of advice from a friend.

    “Never part with old shoes till they part from you;
      Let your new ones be always well tried;
    Old shoes and old friends are far better than new,
      And, trust me, more worthy of pride.

    “Our strings and our toes are bad, we must own,
      But they can be easily mended. 
    I have done,” said the shoe, in a kind, easy tone,
      And it gaped as the lecture was ended.

    New toes and new heels now the old shoes have got,
      New strings, too, their beauty renew;
    Frank wears them in peace, and has never forgot
      The words of the friendly old shoe.

THE MONKEYS AND THE BEARS.

Translated from the German of GELLART.

    The monkeys, ’tis said, once asked of the bears,
    How it was that their nation so much surpassed theirs,
    And begged that the means they would graciously tell
    By which the young bears were kept hearty and well. 
    “Perhaps it may be,” said one of the mothers,
    Who seemed more considerate and wise than the others,
    “Perhaps,” said she, trembling at even the thought,
    “We give our dear young ones less food than we ought;
    We may be impatient; I have really some fears
    That we rock them too little, the poor little dears;
    Our milk may cause fever, and their stomachs not suit,
    Or perhaps they are weakened and injured by fruit. 
    Perhaps the whole mischief is caused by the air,
    And who ’gainst this evil can ever prepare? 
    In their earliest years, it may poison instil,