THREE little bugs in a basket,
And hardly room for two!
And one was yellow, and one was black,
And one like me, or you.
The space was small, no doubt, for all;
But what would three bugs do?
Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly crumbs for two;
And all were selfish in their hearts,
The same as I or you;
So the strong ones said, "We will eat the bread, And that is what we'll do."
Three little bugs in a basket,
And the beds that two would hold;
So they all three fell to quarrelling-
The white, and the black, and the gold.
And two of the bugs got under the rugs,
And one was out in the cold!
So he that was left in the basket,
Without a crumb to chew,
Or a thread to wrap himself withal,
When the wind across him blew,
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,
And so the quarrel grew!
And so there was war in the basket,
Ah, pity 'tis, 'tis true!
But when he that was frozen and starved at last,
A strength from his weakness drew,
And pulled the rugs from both of the bugs,
And killed and ate them, too!
Now when bugs live in a basket,
Though more than it well can hold,
It seems to me they had better agree-
The white, and the black, and the gold-
And share what comes of the beds and the crumbs,
And leave no bug out in the cold!
WHAT THE BURDOCK WAS GOOD FOR
LOOD for nothing," the farmer said,
As he made a sweep at the burdock's head; "But then, it is best, no doubt,
To come some day and root her out."
So he lowered his scythe, and went his way,
To see his corn or gather his hay;
And the weed grew safe and strong and tall,
Close by the side of the garden wall.
"Good for home," cried the little toad,
As he hopped up out of the dusty road.
He had just been having a dreadful fright,—
The boy who gave it was yet in sight.
Here it was cool, and dark and green,
The safest kind of a leafy screen.
The toad was happy, " For," said he,
"The burdock was plainly meant for me."
"Good for a prop," the spider thought,
And to and fro with care he wrought,
Till he fastened it well to an evergreen,
And spun his cables fine between.
'Twas a beautiful bridge,-a triumph of skill,-
The flies came round, as idlers will;
The spider lurked in his corner dim;
The more that came the better for him.
"Good for play," said the child perplext
To know what frolic was coming next;
So she gathered the burrs, that all despised,
And her city playmates were quite surprised
To see what a beautiful basket or chair
Could be made, with a little time and care.
They ranged their treasures about with pride,
And played all day by the burdock's side.
Nothing is lost in this world of ours;
Honey comes from the idle flowers;
The weed which we pass in utter scorn,
May save a life by another morn;
Wonder awaits us at every turn.
We must be silent and gladly learn,
No room for recklessness or abuse,
Since even a burdock has its use.
ING-TING! I wish I were a primrose,
A bright yellow primrose, blowing in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wand'ring bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the elm-tree for our king!
Nay stay! I wish I were an elm-tree,
A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing.
Oh no! I wish I were a robin,
A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
Ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!
Well-tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For mother's kiss-sweeter this
Than any other thing.
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