"Oh, mamma! mamma! where is you, mamma?" sobbed little Henry, a sweet child of three years old, as he stood in the lawn, opposite the door, with the wind blowing his pretty hair and clothes all about him: "Oh, mamma! mamma! where is you? I don't know where is you, my own mamma." "What are you crying for?" said Bill Boldface, a naughty boy in the village, "eh, what are you crying for, you bold puppy? It's a good scelping you want. Don't you know what a scelping is, my boy?——a good whipping." "No, no! me don't want a whipping, me don't want a whipping; me want mamma. Oh! where is you, my own mamma?" "Well, she's gone into the wood there; and, if you don't make haste and run after her, a big pig that's there under the tree, all bloody, with long ears and cocked tail, will eat her. Run, my boy: that's right: run, now, run
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