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Where have you been? What have you seen?

And why do you limp so, Dog-gie

Says Dog-gie True, "I'll tell to you
Why my walk is rather lame;
Don't scold me much, my sor-row is such
As your Dog-gie can scarce-ly name.
Just like a fool I barked at the Bull,
And he tossed me up so high
A-bove the ground that the hills ran

I was near-ly touch-ing the sky. Down with a thump, all in a lump, Fell at last your Dog-gie True: The Bull did bel-low, the ter-ri-ble fel-low, And I ran off at once to you." "The cows and the sheep I told you to keep

From the corn and hay-fields out, Where are they now? Stray-ing, I vow, While you go id-ling a-bout.

Off to the hill ran an-gry Will (Dog-gie was left be-hind),

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How the cows and the sheep did run and leap

When his horn they heard him wind!


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One fine spring day, when frost which had fro-zen up the pools was gone, and the fresh wind blew, Flo-ra and her dog Flash went down to the riv-er. Her doll was in her arms, dressed in a pink frock with a pret-ty frill. Flash fret-ted at being kept back from the flocks of sheep that fled from him; but when Flo-ra frowned at his freaks, he trot-ted on qui-et-ly. Flo-ra nev-er need-ed to flog Flash.

When Flash got free, how he frisked, full of frol-ic, over the flat where the riv-er flows and froths a-mong the big stones. Flo-ra dipped a flask in the stream; and, when she had gath-ered some peb-bles and flow-ers, turned homewards, look-ing hap-py and flushed after her run with Flash.

There was an old wo-man tossed up in a blan-ket,

Nine-teen times as high as the moon; Where she was go-ing no mor-tal could tell, But un-der each arm she car-ried a broom.

"Old wo-man, old wo-man, old wo-man," said I, "Whith-er, ah! whith-er, whith-er so high ?" "I'm go-ing, I'm go-ing, I'll bid you good-bye! For I'm go-ing to sweep cob-webs out of the sky."

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IN Jan-u-ar-y, the ska-ters go

Mer-ri-ly 'mid the frost and snow;
In Feb-ru-ary, the snow and the rain
Fall on the field, and fall on the lane;
In March, the rough winds blus-ter and blow,
Melt-ing the ice, and melt-ing the snow;
In A-pril, fall the glad-some show-ers,
Dear to the green fields, dear to the flow-ers;
In May, the calves and lamb-kins pass
Frisk-ing over the waving grass;

In June, the sweet birds sing all the long day,
Roses and tu-lips are bright and gay;

In Ju-ly, the hay-ma-kers work in the sun,
Build-ing the hay-cocks one by one;

In Aug-ust, the reap-ers are reap-ing the grain,
Wav-ing in yel-low all over the plain;

In Sep-tem-ber, the farm-er is build-ing his stacks,

Wheat for the hop-per, meal for the sacks;
In Oc-to-ber, the pears and the ap-ples, all
Rud-dy and ripe, with the brown leaves fall;
In No-vem-ber, the mists are dis-mal and

Fall then the rain-drops nev-er a-wear-y;

In De-cem-ber, the long nights wind up the year, Pile up the logs high-Christ-mas is near!







gen-tle-man weath-er feath-ers friends vis-it flown brought al-though through

Who does not love Rob-in Red-breast, with his scar-let waist-coat and his bright black eyes? When all other birds are flown, he pays us a visit, grate-ful if we only throw him a few crumbs. Al-though not very bold at

first, he, as soon as the weath-er gets cold-er, hops from the win-dow-sill on to the ta-ble, and makes friends of both

old and young. In the spring, the

Rob-ins some-times build their nests in strange places. A gen-tle-man in Yorkshire once found a Rob-in's nest in an old ket-tle, and in it four young ones were brought up by the pa-rents. Anoth-er pair chose an old wa-ter-ingpot as a snug re-treat for their lit-tle fam-i-ly. But a third pair chose a stran-ger spot still, for they built a nest on a small shelf at the back of an or-gan in a church; and when the young ones got their feath-ers, they flew a-way through a bro-ken pane of glass in the church win-dow.


Come here, lit-tle Rob-in, and don't be a-fraid, I would not hurt e-ven a feath-er;

Come here, lit-tle Rob-in, and pick up some bread

To feed you this ver-y cold weath-er.

I don't mean to hurt you, poor lit-tle thing,
And puss-y-cat is not be-hind me;

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