HARRY.--Oh no, ’tis the other foot--that I tore with a bramble; And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble! We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill, To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still; And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding, nor a pie, If he don’t bring it home--every one says he’s shamefully idle, and so do I. Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve done; And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it fun; It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day, I shall be famously glad when it’s done! KITTY.--But are you quite ready for play? I’ve but a little bit to do--I shall have done in half a quarter of an hour; And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in flower-- There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you; You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe. HARRY.--I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come back: KITTY.--To be sure I shall!--I wish you would not waste so much time with your clack! HARRY.--Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s feather, KITTY.--Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll both go together; For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree, Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it can be; And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there twice:-- There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice! HARRY.--Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for play; I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working all day! THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW. There was a man and his name was Jack, Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black-- His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad; His heart was hard when he was a lad. And now he followed a dismal trade, Old horses he bought and killed and flayed, Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat; You would not have liked this man to meet. He lived in a low mud-house on a moor, Without any garden before the door. There was one little hovel behind, that stood, Where he used to do his work of blood; I never could bear to see the place, It was stained and darkened with many a trace; A trace of what I will not tell-- And then there was such an unchristian smell!