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• Thanks to the use of keys and locks,
• They're all now-snug within my box:
• The mischief is, by hoarding long,
• They're grown so mouldy and so strong,
• I find they wo’n't be fit to eat,
" And I have lost my Father's treat.'

• Well, Tom,' the anxious Parent cries,
“How did you manage ? Tom replies,
• I shunn'd each wide extreme to take,
• To glut my maw, or hoard my Cake;
• I thought each day its wants would havė,
And appetite again might crave;

Twelve school-days still my notches counted, "To twelve my Father's cakes amounted; som • So ev'ry day I took but one, • But never ate my Cake alone; • With ev'ry needy boy I shar'd, • And more than half. I always spar'd. * One ev'ry day, 'twixt self and friend, • Has brought my dozen to an end : • My last-remaining Cake, to-day; 'I would not touch, but gave away; . . "A boy was sick, and scarce could eat, • To him it prov'd a welcome treat:: • Jack call’d me spendthrift not to save; ? Will dubb’d me fool because I gave; • But, when our last day came, I smild ; • For Will's were gone, and Jack's were spoil'd : • Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,

I serv'd a needy friend at last.'

- These tales the Father's thoughts employ, . By these,' said he, ' I know each boy; • Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had, • The world will call a frugal lad ; * And selfish, gormandising Will • Will meet with friends and fav’rers still: . • While moderate Tom, so wise and cool, • The mad and vain will deem a fool : * But I, his sober plan approve, • And Tom has gain'd his Father's love.'

So, when our day of life is past, And all are fairly judg'd at last, . The miser and the sensual find How each misus'd the gifts assign'd:. While he, who wisely spends and gives, '. To the true ends of living lives; 'Tis self-denying moderation Gains the GREAT FATHER's approbation.

FABLE LXI.

THE TWO WEAVERS ;

OR, TURN THE CARPET.,

By Mrs. Hannah More.

As at their work two Weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat;
They touch'd upon the price of meat,
So high, a Weaver scarce could eat:

What with my brats and sickly wife,'
Quoth Dick, I'm almost tir'd of life;
. So hard my work, so poor my fare,
« 'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

How glorious is the rich man's state! • His house so fine! his wealth so great! • Heav'n is unjust you must agree, • Why all to him? why none to me? • In spite of all the Scripture teaches, • In spite of all the Parson preaches, * This world (indeed I've thought so long) • Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong. • Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange; • The good are troubled and oppress’d, And all the wicked are the blessd.'

Quoth John: 'Our ignorance is the cause «Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;

* Parts of his ways alone we know,
« 'Tis all that man can see below.

Seest thou that Carpet, not half done,
"Which thou, Dear Dick, hast well begun?
• Behold the wild confusion there,
So rude the mass it makes one stare !

A stranger, ign'rant of the trade,
• Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ;
• For where's the middle, where's the border?
• Thy Carpet now is all disorder.'

Quoth Dick, · My work is yet in bits,
* But still in ev'ry part it fits;
. Besides, you reason like a lout,
• Why, man, that Carpet's inside out.'

Says John, Thou say'st the thing I mean,
.. And now I hope to cure thy spleen ;
• This world which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a Carpet inside out.
*As, when we view those shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends ;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
« They're working still some scheme of God.
No plan, no pattern can we trace,
All wants proportion, truth and grace;.
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

But, when we reach that world of light,
* And view those works of God aright,
· Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the workman is divine.

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• What now seem random 'strokes, will there

All order and design appear; . . in • Then shall we praise what here we spurnd, • For then the Carpet shall be turn'd. : . " 'Thou’rt right,' quoth Dick, ( no more PlI

grumble, .' That this sad world's so strange a jumble ; • My impious doubts are put to flight, * For my own Carpet sets me right.'

FABLE LXII.

• THE PLAGUE AMONG THE BEASTS ;

OR, THE FOX MADE JUDGE.

· By Charles Dibdin, the Younger*..
I mention just at our outsetting,
Alfred invented juries; not forgetting
That, were the judgment rested in one breast,
Some prejudice might start, and justice wrest
From her pure course; for artful mind
On reasoning oft has much refin'd;
For propositions found pretence
Built on sophisticated sense ;

• Prom his Beautiful Metrical Romance of Young Arthur.

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