So tripping on to giddy play, She left the pin behind, For Betty's broom to whisk away, Or some one else to find; She never gave a thought, indeed, To what she might to-morrow need. Next day a party was to ride, To see an air-balloon! And all the company beside Were dress'd and ready soon: But she, poor girl, she could not stir, For just a pin to finish her. 'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand, She did to search begin; There was not one--not one, the band Of her pelisse to pin! She cut her pincushion in two, But not a pin had slidden through! At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away. Poor Emily! she was not in, For want of just--a single pin! There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen: And those who venture wilful waste, May woful want expect to taste. THE COW. Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat; They perhaps will make it sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine. [Illustration] COME AND PLAY IN THE GARDEN. Little sister, come away, And let us in the garden play, For it is a pleasant day. On the grass-plat let us sit, Or, if you please, we'll play a bit, And run about all over it. But the fruit we will not pick, For that would be a naughty trick, And very likely make us sick. Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers That grow about the beds and bowers, Because you know they are not ours. [Illustration] We'll take the daisies, white and red, Because mamma has often said That we may gather them instead. And much I hope we always may Our very dear mamma obey, And mind whatever she may say. [Illustration] [Illustration] LITTLE GIRLS MUST NOT FRET. What is it that makes little Emily cry? Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye: There--lay down your head on my bosom--that's right, And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night. What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play? Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away; But do not be fretful, my darling; you know Mamma cannot love little girls that are so. She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there-- Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare: That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before. Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more. [Illustration] THE FIELD DAISY.