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It makes its nest of soft dry moss,
In a hole so deep and strong;
And there it sleeps | secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.

And though it keeps' no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing;
And waketh to its summer life,
When nightingales' are singing.

Upon the boughs' the squirrel sits,
The Wood-mouse plays below;
And plenty of food | it finds itself
Where the beech'' and chestnut grow.

In the hedge-sparrow's nest he sits,
When its summer brood' is fled,
And picks the berries' from the bough
Of the hawthorn' over-head.

I saw a little Wood-mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,

With the green, green moss' beneath his feet,
Sit under a mushroom tall.

I saw him sit' and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree;

His dinner of chestnut ' ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.

I wish you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,

To see the small thing' God had made |
Thus eating in the wood.

I saw that He regarded them-
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread
By Him who cares for all!

VI-The Squirrel.

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The pretty red Squirrel | lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be ; [broods,
He dwells in the boughs | where the stock-dove
Far in the shades of the green summer woods;
His food is the young juicy cones' of the pine,
And the milky beech-nut is his bread and his wine.
In the joy of his nature | he frisks with a bound |
To the topmost twigs, and then down to the
Then up again, like a winged thing, [ground;
And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
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Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, "Ay, follow me here!
And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot;
And then independently | cracks his nut;
And thus he lives' the long summer thorough,
Without a care | or a thought of sorrow.

But small as he is, he knows he may want |
In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant,
So he finds a hole' in an old tree's core,

And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;
Then when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air,
He heeds it not, as he sits by himself,

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf. O, wise little Squirrel! no wonder that he,

In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be!

VII.-The Monkey.

Monkey, little merry fellow,
Thou art nature's punchinello!
Full of fun as Puck could be;
Harlequin' might learn of thee!

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Look now at his odd grimaces!
Saw you e'er such comic faces ?
Now like learn'ed judge sedate;
Now with nonsense in his pate!

How you leaped' and frisked about |
When your life you first found out;
How you threw, in roguish mirth,
Cocoa nuts on mother earth;

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How you sate and made a din |
Louder than had ever been,
Till the parrots, all a-riot,
Chattered too' to keep you quiet;

Look now at him! Slyly peep,
He pretends he is asleep;
Fast asleep upon his bed,
With his arm beneath his head.

Now that posture is not right,
And he is not settled quite-
There! that's better than before,
And the knave' pretends to snore!

Ha! he is not half asleep!
See, he slyly takes a peep!

Monkey, though your eyes were shut,
You could see this little nut.

You shall have it, pigmy brother!
What, another? and another?
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack,-
Sit down and begin to crack.

There, the little ancient man Cracks as fast as crack he can ! Now good bye, you merry fellow, Nature's primest punchinello!

THE END.

ANDREW JACK, PRINTER,

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