I am a little boy, nine years old. I live in London, and go to school. I can read and

I am a little boy, nine years old. I live in London, and go to school. I can read and write, and I am learning arithmetic. I get up in the morning, and go to bed at night; and I am washed and combed, and have breakfast and dinner and supper, in due season. I am cleansed from dirt in the morning, and combed in the evening; and I am kissed, and cuddled, and talked to, and hugged, and am very happy. The bumps and thumps I get from other boys, make me glad to have a living body to be bumpt and thumpt at all. In the summer I walk abroad with my father and mother, and see the fields and the houses, and the trees, and the