Sunday.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

'T is Sunday morning, dear mamma!
I do not wish to play;
Last night I put my dolls and toys
Safe in my box away.

I'll come and sit down by your side,
While you the story tell
Of the good little Joseph, whom
His father loved so well.

And of the time when waters dark
Covered the world around;
And all but Noah in his ark,
Beneath the waves were drowned.

And of the gentle dove, that forth
O'er those wide waters flew,
And twice, with weary wing, returned,
No resting-place in view.

And how the infant Moses, too,
Floated the Nile along;
And how his mother made for him
The basket cradle strong.

Please tell these Bible-stories then,
And take me on your knee,
And I'll sit still, my dear mamma,
And listen quietly.

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