The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume III Part 39

Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage To whisk this little bag into a cage; And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it, Another change I'll shew you in a minute."

"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?

There never was so mischievous a son.

You've put the cat among my work, and torn A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK

My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me.

My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow s.p.a.ce can hardly be confin'd.

Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!

The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.

And every day I will set down in order due, How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pa.s.s'd aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.

MEMORY

"For gold could Memory be bought, What treasures would she not be worth!

If from afar she could be brought, I'd travel for her through the earth!"

This exclamation once was made By one who had obtain'd the name Of young forgetful Adelaide: And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.

If Memory indeed it were, Or such it only feign'd to be-- A female figure came to her, Who said, "My name is Memory:

"Gold purchases in me no share, Nor do I dwell in distant land; Study, and thought, and watchful care, In every place may me command.

"I am not lightly to be won; A visit only now I make: And much must by yourself be done, Ere me you for an inmate take.

"The only subst.i.tute for me Was ever found, is call'd a pen: The frequent use of that will be The way to make me come again."

THE REPROOF

Mamma heard me with scorn and pride A wretched beggar boy deride.

"Do you not know," said I, "how mean It is to be thus begging seen?

If for a week I were not fed, I'm sure I would not beg my bread."

And then away she saw me stalk With a most self-important walk.

But meeting her upon the stairs, All these my consequential airs Were chang'd to an entreating look.

"Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book, Mamma, you promis'd I should have."

The Pocket Book to me she gave; After reproof and counsel sage, She bade me write in the first page This naughty action all in rhyme; No food to have until the time, In writing fair and neatly worded, The unfeeling fact I had recorded.

Slow I compose, and slow I write; And now I feel keen hunger bite.

My mother's pardon I entreat, And beg she'll give me food to eat.

Dry bread would be received with joy By her repentant Beggar Boy.

THE TWO BEES

But a few words could William say, And those few could not speak plain.

Yet thought he was a man one day; Never saw I a boy so vain.

From what could vanity proceed In such a little lisping lad?

Or was it vanity indeed?

Or was he only very glad?

For he without his maid may go To the heath with elder boys, And pluck ripe berries where they grow: Well may William then rejoice.

Be careful of your little charge; Elder boys, let him not rove; The heath is wide, the heath is large, From your sight he must not move.

But rove he did: they had not been One short hour the heath upon, When he was no where to be seen; "Where," said they, "is William gone?"

Mind not the elder boys' distress; Let them run, and let them fly.

Their own neglect and giddiness They are justly suffering by.

William his little basket fill'd With his berries ripe and red; Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd, Under foot he stamp'd them dead.

William had cours'd them o'er the heath, After them his steps did wander; When he was nearly out of breath, The last bee his foot was under.

A cruel triumph, which did not Last but for a moment's s.p.a.ce, For now he finds that he has got Out of sight of every face.

What are the berries now to him?

What the bees which he hath slain?

Fear now possesses every limb, He cannot trace his steps again.

The poor bees William had affrighted In more terror did not haste, Than he from bush to bush, benighted And alone amid the waste.

Late in the night the child was found: He who these two bees had crush'd Was lying on the cold damp ground, Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

A fever follow'd from the fright, And from sleeping in the dew; He many a day and many a night Suffer'd ere he better grew.

His aching limbs while sick he lay Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain; Oft would he to his mother say, "I ne'er will kill a bee again."

THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

O what a joyous joyous day Is that on which we come At the recess from school away, Each lad to his own home!

What though the coach is crammed full, The weather very warm; Think you a boy of us is dull, Or feels the slightest harm?

The dust and sun is life and fun; The hot and sultry weather A higher zest gives every breast, Thus jumbled all together.

Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud, Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.

Who is so buoyant, free, and proud, As we home-travellers are?

But sad, but sad is every lad That day on which we come, That last last day on which away We all come from our home.

The coach too full is found to be: Why is it crammed thus?

Now every one can plainly see There's not half room for us.

Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame, This hot and sultry weather, Who but our master is to blame, Who pack'd us thus together!