the shore. 
And when my sand-boots came home, and I’d got a better net than hers,
she went donkey-riding, and I knew it was to tease me,
But Nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat
to the moon for what I wanted that nothing would please me. 
So I said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and I wished I
hadn’t come,
And I told Mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take
us all home. 
But now we’ve got home, it’s very hot, and I’m afraid of the wasps;
and I’m sure it was cooler at the sea,
And the Smiths won’t be back for a fortnight, so I can’t even have
Matilda to tea. 
I don’t care much for my new doll—­I think I’m too old for dolls now;
I like books better, though I didn’t like the last,
And I’ve read all I have:  I always skip the dull parts, and when you
skip a good deal you get through them so fast. 
I like toys if they’re the best kind, with works; though when I’ve had
one good game with them, I don’t much care to play with
them again. 
I feel as if I wanted something new to amuse me, and Mamma says it’s
because I’ve got such an active brain. 
Nurse says I don’t know what I want, and I know I don’t, and that’s
just what it is. 
It seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not
know what’s amiss;
But Nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse
in the story about the little girl who was so good,
And if I die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry I’ve
been misunderstood. 
I shouldn’t like to die early, but I should like people to be sorry
for me, and to praise me when I was dead: 
If I could only come to life again when they had missed me very much,
and I’d heard what they said—­
Of course that’s impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to
do instead! 
It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should
ever be sad. 
And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me
everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes
every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day,
and worries about me all night, till she’s nearly mad;
And if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy
we shall both of us be glad.

BLUE AND RED: 
OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER.

Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
And allow
Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies
The hero of these simple verses. 
By domicile, of the British Nation;
By birth and family, a Crustacean. 
One’s hero should have a name that rare is;
And his was Homarus, but—­Vulgaris!
A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,—­
His sisters and brothers,—­
In a secluded but happy home,
Under the salt sea’s foam. 
It lay
At the outermost point of a rocky bay. 
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove,