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The Little Pilgrim.

In a large old house with two kind aunts,
The little Marian dwelt,

And a happy child she was I ween,
For though at times she felt
That playmates would be better far,
Than either birds or flowers,

Yet her kind aunts and story books
Soothed many lonely hours.

Her favourite haunt in the summer time,
Was a large old Apple tree,
And oft amid its boughs she sat,

With her pet book on her knee.
The Pilgrim's Progress" was its name,
And Marian loved it much;
It is indeed a precious book,

There are not many such.
She read it in her little bed,-
And by the winter fire,
And in summer in her Apple-tree,
As though she ne'er could tire.
But unexplained, 'tis just the book

To puzzle a young brain,

And the poor child had no kind friend,

The meaning to explain.

For though her aunts were very kind,

They were not very wise,

They only said, "dont read so child,

For sure you'll hurt your eyes!" But Marian still went reading on,

And visions strange and wild, Began to fill the little head,

Of the lonely dreaming child.

THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

For she thought that Christian and his wife,

And all his children too,

Had left behind their pleasant home

And done what she must do.
"I'll take my Bible," said the child,
"And seek the road to Heaven,
I'll try to find the wicket gate,'
And hope to be forgiven!

I wish my aunts would go with me,
But 'tis in vain to ask,

They are so deaf, and rather lame,

They'd think it quite a task.

No! I must go alone, I see,

And I'll not let them know,

Or like poor Christian's friends, they'll say,
My dear you must not go!

But I must wait till some grand scheme,

Can all their thoughts engage;

And then I'll leave my pleasant home,

And go on Prilgrimage."

She had not waited long, before

One fine autumnal day,

She saw the large old coach arrive,

To take her aunts away.

"We're going out to spend the day,"

The two old ladies said,

"We mean to visit Mrs. Blair,

Poor soul, she's sick in bed.

But Marian you must stay at home,

The lady's ill you see,

You can have your dinner if you

like;

In the large old Apple-tree.
And play in the garden all the day,
Quite happy and content."

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106

THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

A few more parting words were said,
And off the ladies went.
The servants too, were all engaged
"The day is come at last,"
Said Marian, "but oh I wish,
My Pilgrimage were past!"
She knelt beneath her Apple-tree,
And for God's assistance pray'd,
Then with her basket in her hand,
Went forth, the little maid!
Behind the house where Marian dwelt,
Far off in the distance lay,

A high, steep hill, which the sun at morn,
Tinged with its earliest ray.
And that Difficulty was its name,

The child had often thought;
Toward that hill she turned her head,

With hopeful visions fraught.
The flowers seemed to welcome her;
'Twas a lovely Autumn morn,
The little lark sang merrily,

Above the waving corn.

"Ah, little lark, you sing," she said,
"On your early Pilgrimage,
I too will sing, for pleasant thoughts,
Should now my mind engage."

In sweet, clear strains she sung a hymn,
And tripp'd lightly on her way,

Until a pool of thick, soft mud,

Across her pathway lay.

"This is the Slough of Despond," she cried,

Yet she bravely ventured thro'

And safely reached the other side;

But she lost one little shoe!

THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

On an old gray stone, she sate her down

And ate some fruit and bread,

Then took her little Bible out,

And a cheering Psalm, she read.
Then with fresh hope she wander'd on,
For many miles away,

But she reached the bottom of the hill,
Before the close of day.

She clamber'd up the steep ascent,
Though faint and weary, too;
But firmly did our Marian keep,

Her purpose still in view.

"I'm glad at last the arbour's gone,"

Said the little tired soul,

"I'm sure, I should have laid me down
And lost my little roll."

On the high hill-top she stands at last,
And our weary Pilgrim sees,

A porter's lodge of ample size,

Half hid by sheltering trees.

She clapp'd her hands with joy, and cried, "Oh there's the Wicket Gate,'

And I must seek admittance now,

Before it is too late."

Gently she knocked; 'tis answer'd soon,

And at the open door,

Stands a stout man, and Marian felt,

As she never felt before.

With tearful eyes, and trembling heart,
Flushed cheek, and anxious brow,

She said, "I hope you are Watchful' sir,

I want Discretion' now!"

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THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

I suppose you've lost your way, young miss,
You've lost your shoe, I see!"

"Mistress," he cried to his wife, within,
"Here's a young child at our door,
You'll never see such an one again
If you live to be fourscore!
She wants discretion too, she says,
Indeed I think it's true,

But I know some who want it more,
Who will not own it, too."
"Go to the Hall," his wife replied,
“And take the child with you,

The ladies there are all so wise,

They'll soon know what to do!"
The man complied, and led the child,
Through many a flowery glade :
"Is that the Palace Beautiful?"
The little wanderer said;
"There to the left among the trees?
Why miss, 'tis very grand,
Call it a palace if you please,-

"Tis the finest in the land!

Now we be come to the fine old porch,—
And the famous marble hall,-
Here little lady you must wait,

Whilst I the servants call.”
Tired and sad he left the child,

But he quickly re-appeared,
And with him, the lady of the house,-

Poor Marian's heart was cheer'd!—
"Sweet little girl," the lady said,

In accents soft and kind,

"I'm sure you badly want some rest,

And rest, you soon shall find."

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