The Keepsake | Page 4

ill in bed is laid.
Her little brother by her side?Will watch whilst Anne's away,?And gladly, for his mother's sake,?He leaves each favourite play.
But see how quickly Anne returns,?A cheerful look she wears,?And softly, underneath her cloak,?Med'cine and food she bears.
These to her mother, day by day,?With duteous love she gives,?Whilst little Edward's cheerful smile,?Her anxious care relieves.
[Illustration: _to follow pa. 30_
_Anne and Edward_
Part I.]
[Illustration: _to follow pa. 30_
_Anne and Edward_
Part II.]
ANNE AND EDWARD.
PART II.
Bright shines the sun, the gentle breeze?In soften'd murmurs blows,?And softly through the verdant mead,?The little streamlet flows.
Close by yon fragrant violet bank,?Beneath the spreading thorn,?His mother's stool and cushion'd chair?Are by young Edward borne.
And from the lowly cottage door,?With feeble steps and slow,?Anna supports her mother's frame,?As to the bank they go.
There, seated on her pillow'd chair,?She breathes the balmy breeze,?Whilst Anne and Edward quietly?Are seated at her knees.
With merry hearts they now can meet?Her kind approving eye,?And to her various questions give?A cheerful, quick reply.
They have not now her death to fear,?But know, that time and care,?Will soon restore their mother dear,?To their most ardent prayer.
GEORGE AND EDMUND.
"Come hither, George," young Edmund cried,?"Come quickly here to me,?For yonder floats the little boat,?Upon the swelling sea.
"'Tis fasten'd by a single rope,?And there is each an oar,?And were we once but safely in,?We soon could push from shore."
"Oh! go not, Edmund," George replied,?"The storm is rising fast,?The forest bends, the sea-spray flies,?Before the howling blast."
"The wind may howl--perhaps it does,?But not so loud as you,?Who always scold and cry out 'Don't',?When pleasure is in view."
In anger Edmund spoke, and turn'd?In pride and scorn away,?To where the boat so temptingly,?Toss'd in the little bay.
He loos'd the rope, he seized the oar,?And vaulted o'er the side,?And rapidly his little boat?Flies through the stormy tide.
The wind is loud, the waves are strong,?And vainly Edmund strives?To guide his boat, which furiously?The tempest onward drives.
His passion gone, his fears increase,?And loud to George he cries;?He looks--he listens--calls again,?But still no George replies.
In terror now and wild affright,?All prudence he forgets,?And springing quick from side to side,?The boat he oversets.
His father saw the dreadful plunge,?His father heard his shriek;?For George, when Edmund would not stay,?Some aid had flown to seek.
With desperate haste he forward springs,?And throwing off his coat,?Plunges amid the foaming waves,?To gain the struggling boat.
He reach'd its side, and diving down,?Seiz'd on poor Edmund's hand,?And senseless through the beating surge,?He bore him back to land.
'Twas long ere signs of life return'd,?Or he unclos'd his eyes,?And longer far it was, ere he?From his sick bed could rise.
What anguish and remorse he felt,?What tears of sorrow shed:?How good, how mild he vow'd to be,?When he should leave his bed.
And let us hope his vow he'll keep,?Become a steady boy,?No more his friends or parents grieve,?But prove their pride and joy.
[Illustration: _to face pa. 36_
_George and Edmund_]
[Illustration: _to face pa. 37_
_Fanny_]
FANNY.
"O look!" the little Fanny cried,?As wandering by her mother's side,?They pass'd a cottage neat tho' poor,?With woodbines clustering round the door,?"Oh look, mamma, what lovely flowers!?I here could stand and gaze for hours.?That beauteous rose, those lilies fair,?And that gay bed of tulips there!?Oh! how I wish they all were mine,?They'd make my empty garden shine."?"Your empty garden, Fanny! pray?Have all your flowers been stol'n away??Or do you for your neighbour's sigh,?Because your own you leave to die??The little girl whose flowers these are,?Watches and prunes them all with care;?She rises early, labours hard,?And does not toil nor care regard,?But thinks her trouble well repaid,?If she her parents thus can aid.?These flowers to market off she takes,?And many pence by them she makes;?You surely, therefore, would not strive?Of this advantage to deprive?The grateful child, who takes such pains,?To help her parents' scanty gains.?But come, my love, we must not stay,?That show'r will reach us on our way;?Come, Fanny, come,"--"Mamma, I will,"?But Fanny staid and linger'd still;?Each plant and flower at length being view'd,?Her way she thoughtfully pursu'd.?A week had pass'd, when Fanny ran?To her mamma, and thus began:?"Mamma, when you have time, I pray,?That you would kindly walk this way,?And let me show you what, last night,?I finish'd ready for your sight."?Mamma complies, and Fanny bounds?Delighted, through the verdant grounds;?With sparkling eye and step elate,?Open she throws the garden gate,?"And look!" she cries, in joyful tone,?"What play-hours in one week have done;?No weeds do now my garden spoil,?The stones I clear'd, and turn'd the soil,?The trees I prun'd, I planted flowers,?And water'd them with plenteous showers:?Perhaps, mamma, with time and care,?Some nosegays I may hence prepare?For that good girl, who takes such pains?To help her parents' scanty gains."
ALFRED.
"How can I the south from the north ever know,?When there is no S in the sky;?Oh! how can I tell the east from the west,?When not the least mark I can spy?"
His mother, who sat