Tiny Story Book


One pleasant summer morning
A little boy was seen
Beneath a spreading oak tree
Upon a village green.
And to a merry squirrel
The child was heard to say—
"How is it, Mr. Muncher,
You always are at play?"
"I laid up nuts, last autumn,
So I can frolic now,"
Replied the merry squirrel,
And frisked along the bough.

"And you, my little school-boy,
Must study all you can,
And lay up stores of knowledge,
To use when you're a man."
Near by a bird was stopping
To rest its pretty wing—
"Pray, tell me," said the youngster,
"Who taught you how to sing?"
"I never had a master,"
The little bird replied;
"But when my mate was sitting,
To comfort her I tried;
"And if you like my singing,
Its secret I will tell—
All that we do for love, sir,
We surely shall do well."
And now, dear little children,
If you open wide your eyes,
You will see the pretty lessons
In creatures, birds, and skies.

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.

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