THE tide is low, the sands are dry,
And not a cloud is in the sky;
Come, let us stroll along the beach,
And learn what cliffs and shells can teach.
And you, too, Rover, must not stay
Within-doors, such a pleasant day;
So come and frisk upon the strand,
And shower, on all around, the sand.
Or if, as, Rover, you're so brave,
You choose to breast the swelling wave,
I beg you'll not too boisterous be,
Nor shake your dripping coat on me.
Look here, Mamma, what pretty shells,
Fossils and ores, this poor lad sells :
Well, I should like a shell or two,
And this strange sea-egg, Jane, for you.
Here, my poor friend-nay, yours it is-
For these and those, and this, and this:
They'll be memorials of this day,
When Jane and I are far away.
And they will be memorials, too,
Of what my conscience bade me do
To help the mean and aid the poor,
From out my small though larger store.
Good bye. Now, Rover, for a run :
I knew, my boy, you loved the fun.
And now afar I'll fling my stick:
Go, fetch it, Rover; bring it quick.
I SAW a little girl
With half uncovered form,
And wondered why she wandered thus,
Amid the winter storm.
They said her mother drank
What took her sense away, And so she let her children go
Hungry and cold all day.
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