THE STORY OF LITTLE HENRY.[AN INCIDENT FROM THE NEWSPAPER.]
Yes, brown and rosy, perhaps, like you,
Was the little child they have not found;
Or perhaps his eyes, like yours, were blue,
And his poor sweet head faint-golden too—
The little child who was drowned.
Was the little child they have not found;
Or perhaps his eyes, like yours, were blue,
And his poor sweet head faint-golden too—
The little child who was drowned.
I hardly think his mother was right—
Did she have it?—not to give him the bread;
But he shut the door, and then—"Good night;"
(Yes, he went alone and without any light)—
"I'll never come home," he said.
Did she have it?—not to give him the bread;
But he shut the door, and then—"Good night;"
(Yes, he went alone and without any light)—
"I'll never come home," he said.
Poor little child, he was seven years old.
Why, the bird's wild nest was new in the tree;
There were roses enough for him to hold
In his two small hands. ———But the river is cold
In the summer, even, you see.
Why, the bird's wild nest was new in the tree;
There were roses enough for him to hold
In his two small hands. ———But the river is cold
In the summer, even, you see.
From the trouble of tears where did he go?—
Where did he go with his two bare feet?
That life was bitter he seemed to know,
(What manner of bread did he think to eat?)—
Did he know that death was sweet?
Where did he go with his two bare feet?
That life was bitter he seemed to know,
(What manner of bread did he think to eat?)—
Did he know that death was sweet?