The Story Of Moses.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

"Tell me a Sunday story,"
A dear child said to me;
And I bent down and kissed her
And placed her on my knee.

"Once, long ago, in countries
Far, very far away,
Where the cold snow-storm never comes,
And all is bright and gay,

"There lived a king, so cruel,
He gave this stern command,
That all the little children
Must die, throughout the land.

"But still there was one mother
Who kept her baby dear,
And quickly hushed its crying,
In silence and in fear;

"But when she could no longer
Her precious baby hide,
She did not like to throw him
Upon the rushing tide;

"And so a little basket
She made, of rushes stout,
And plastered it with clay and pitch
To keep the water out.

"Then in this basket-cradle
She put the little child;
And quietly he floated down
Among the rushes wild.

"Just then the king's own daughter
Came to the water's edge,
And saw the basket floating
Among the grass and sedge.

"She drew it from the water,
And called the babe her own,
And kept him till to be a man
That little boy had grown.

"And when you read the Bible,--
Which you will learn to do,--
You'll see how great and good he was,
And how God loved him, too."

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