A little Monkey chanced to find A walnut in its outward rind; He snatched the prize with eager haste, And bit it, but its bitter taste Soon made him throw the fruit away. "I've heard," he cried, "my mother say (But she was wrong), the fruit was good; Preserve me from such bitter food!" A monkey by experience taught, The falling prize with pleasure caught; Took off the husk and broke the shell, The kernel peeled, and liked it well. "Walnuts," said he, "are good and sweet, But must be opened ere you eat." And thus in life you'll always find Labor comes first,--reward behind. [Illustration] DON'T YOU LIKE MY CAT? I like my cat, I like him well, As all the house may see I like him for himself, and not Because the cat likes me. He counts his only work in life, To flourish and be fat; And this he does with all his might;-- Of course, I like my cat. His eyes shine out beneath his brows, As eyes have rarely shone; His beauty is the grandest thing That ever cat put on. He wears a paw of wondrous bulk, With secret claws to match, And puts a charm in all its play, The pat, the box, the scratch. I have not heard how cats are made Within their furry veil, But rather fancy Tippo's thoughts Lie chiefly in his tail. For while in every other part His portly person sleeps, That bushy tail, with steady wave, A ceaseless vigil keeps. [Illustration] A LARK IN A CRICKET-GROUND. A few days ago I was passing through Sonning, an old English village on the Thames, when I was attracted to a field near the road by hearing the merry sounds of the village school at a game of cricket. I could not resist the pleasure of pausing to watch the boys at play. Before long my curiosity was aroused by shouts of "Look out!" "Take care!" "Mind where you're going!" whenever any boy approached a certain spot, which seemed to be within a few yards of one of the wickets. I asked one of the party what such outcries meant. He replied--"Oh, that's our lark, sir!" On inquiry I found that some weeks before, the boys discovered a titlark's nest in the ground close to their cricket-piece. One of the boys seems to have made the suggestion that the school should take the lark under their special patronage. The proposal was adopted, and it became a daily business to see, before settling to their play, that all was right with the lark. [Illustration] HELPING MOTHER. I shall help mother when I am grown big; When I am old enough, oh! wont I dig, Plough with the horses, and call out "Gee-ho!" Plant the potatoes, fell timber, and mow? Then I shall fetch the cows home to the byre, Carry such fagots to make mother's fire, Reap and make hay--Hush! who calls? I shant go! Its only to play with the baby, I know. A boy who is seven is too big to do that, Can't mother nurse her, or give her the cat? Oh, what a bother! She's calling me still-- "Come and take the baby off my hands, Bill."