14170	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14170-h.htm or 14170-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/1/7/14170/14170-h/14170-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/1/7/14170/14170-h.zip) THE NURSERY No. 100. APRIL, 1875. Vol. XVII A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers Boston: John L. Shorey, 36 Bromfield Street. American News Co., 119 Nassau St., New York. New-England News Co., 41 Court St., Boston. Central News Co., Philadelphia. Western News Co., Chicago. $1.60 a Year, in advance, Postage Included. A single copy, 15 cts. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED. THE BOY WHO LOVED HIS MOTHER By Uncle Charles FROWING AWAY ONE. By E.M.S HUNTING FOR EASTER-EGGS THE BEAUTIFUL SPRING By George Cooper OUR CHRISTMAS PLAY BABY'S PINK THUMBS By Olive A. Wadsworth ABOUT FLAX, BARLEY, AND RYE THE HARE WHO COULDN'T WAIT THE DRAWING-LESSON A SMART HORSE ABOUT SOME INDIANS By Vaughn's Papa THE FIRST-COMER By Marian Douglas WIDE AWAKE By A.B.C. THE FIRST ATTEMPT THE CATARACT OF LODORE By Robert Southey BOILING MAPLE-SUGAR By Uncle Charles THE STOLEN BIRD'S-NEST By Emily Carter THE FIRST BLUE-BIRD By Clara Doty Bates THE LITTLE BIRD (Music by T. Grampian) EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. The beautiful picture of The Cataract of Lodore, in our present number, is well illustrated by Southey's famous lines which were written for his little boys and girls, or, as he phrased it, "for the nursery." We call special attention to the illustration of "The First Corner" on page 117. It is a design by Perkins, exquisitely engraved by John Andrew & Son. "The Boy who loved his mother" is another picture that is worthy of special notice. The "Drawing-Lesson" by Weir, should attract the attention of all children who want to learn to draw. Canvassers will find from our terms that we offer them rare inducements for extending the circulation of "The Nursery." It is poor economy, even in the hardest times, for parents to neglect what may largely contribute to the education of their children. "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful Book," are now recognized as Standard works for the young, and continue to be in great demand. To these we shall soon add "The Nursery Primer," which will surpass everything of the kind yet got up. "Next to a baby," writes a subscriber in Charlotte, Mich., "there never was such joy in a household as 'The Nursery.' My little girl will repeat nearly every poem, though she does not know a letter. My boy is just two, and such a yell of delight when he finds a '_bow-wow_,' as he calls the dog, all to himself, would astonish a Piute Indian. I don't have to keep any 'cramp drops,' 'baby jumpers' or 'patent food,'(?) for the children. I find they never have an ail or grievance, but 'The Nursery' acts as a specific. I wish every mother in the land would give it to her children on trial. And really it makes old people feel quite sunny." It will be seen by a notice in our advertising pages, that the Publisher of "The Nursery" is prepared to execute various commissions in the way of purchasing and forwarding books, Maps, Games, Stationery, &c., for parties desiring them. [Illustration: THE BOY WHO LOVED HIS MOTHER.] THE BOY WHO LOVED HIS MOTHER When Felix was a little fellow, hardly two years old, he used to pet his mother, and tell her how much he loved her. As he grew up, he showed his love by his acts. He minded his mother; he gave her his attention when she talked to him; and, if she told him not to do a thing, he would not do it. If she said, "Felix, don't do that," he would not fret, and say, "Why not, mother?" Oh, no! He would at once give up what he was doing; for he knew she would not, without some good reason, forbid him to do a thing that pleased him. Once, when Felix had grown to be six years old, his mother took him with her on a journey in the railroad-cars to New York. It was a fine day in June: the windows of the cars were open. "Felix," said his mother, as they took their seats, "you may sit by the window; but you must not put your head or your arms out of it." Before she could explain to him her reasons for saying this, a friend who had come in drew off her attention, by talking to her; so that she forgot to explain to Felix why she did not wish to have him put his head or arms out of the window. In the seat just before him, Felix saw a large boy, who kept putting his head out, although the boy's mother kept telling him not to do it. By and by the cars rushed by a post, which stood so near the track that it almost grazed the boy's head. He started back in a great fright, losing his hat as he did so. He had a very narrow escape. Felix now saw why his mother had given him the caution she had. He took her hand in his, and looked up in her face. She smiled on him; for she knew what was passing in his mind. "Yes, Felix," said she: "if you had not loved your mother too much to wound her by disobedience, you might have lost your life." UNCLE CHARLES. FROWING AWAY ONE. I know three little girls who are sisters. Of course, they ought to love each other dearly. When they stand up, they are like a flight of three steps: baby is the lowest; Mattie is the middle step; and Susie is the upper step, because she is tallest. The baby is four years old, I know: so I guess that Mattie is almost six, and Susie a little more than seven. No two of you little people love each other more dearly than Mattie and baby love each other. Where one is, the other always wants to be. They sit and walk with their arms around each other. It is pleasant to see them. They both dearly love Susie too; but she is bigger, and doesn't seem to belong quite so much to them as they seem to belong to each other. One day their mamma was looking at them; and, thinking aloud, she said, "Three little girls! What shall I do with so many? Don't you think I have too many?" Then baby looked earnestly into her mother's face, and said, "O, mamma! if you _must_ frow one away, do frow away Susie." Never you fear, little people, that Susie will be "frowed" away. Her mamma has not one too many, though she has three little girls. E.M.S. HUNTING FOR EASTER-EGGS. The Easter-egg is a painted or colored egg used for a present at Easter, a day which occurs on Sunday, the second day after Good-Friday. The term "Easter" is said to be derived from a Saxon word meaning _rising_; and Easter is a festival of the Christian Church to commemorate the resurrection. In the picture, the children are hunting for Easter-eggs, which the good mother has hidden in different parts of the room. The child who finds the most eggs will have the pleasure of making presents of them to whom he or she may choose. Baby has set his eyes on the egg that lies on the floor. If he takes it up, I hope he will not let it fall, and break it. The other children will not be slow to find the painted eggs. There must be a dozen, or more, of them hidden away. THE BEAUTIFUL SPRING. "I was here first," said the snowdrop: "look!" "Not before me!" sang the silver brook. "Why," cried the grass, "I've been here a week!" "So have I, dear," sighed a violet meek. "Well," piped a bluebird, "don't leave me out! I saw the snow that lay round about." "Yes," chirped a snowbird, "that may be true; But I've seen it all the bleak winter through." "I came betimes," sang the southwind, "I!" "After me, love!" spake the deep blue sky. "Who is it cares?" chimed the crickets gay: "Now you are here, let us hope you'll stay." Whispered the sun, "Lo! the winter's past: What does it matter who's first or last? Sky, brooks, and flowers, and birdies that sing, All help to make up the beautiful spring." GEORGE COOPER. OUR CHRISTMAS PLAY. Our Emily wrote a play for our Christmas entertainment. Emily, Ruth, Mary, and Uncle Peter, all took part in it. The curtain fell amid very great applause from grandma, grandpa, father, and Uncle Charles, Brothers Robert and John, Jane, the housemaid, Aunt Alice, and some six of our cousins. So you see we had a good audience. As it is the only play we have ever seen acted, we may be too partial critics; but readers must judge for themselves. (EMILY _enters with a basket of shoestrings_) EMILY.--Shoestrings to sell! Does anybody want shoestrings? Dear me, how cold it is! To-morrow is Christmas, and I must earn money enough to buy a basket of coal. Who wants a nice pair of shoestrings? RUTH (_entering_).--This is a cold day, little girl, and you are thinly clad. Now, if my Uncle Peter, were here I know what he would do: he would buy you a shawl. EMILY.--As soon as I get rich, I mean to buy one myself. Can I sell you a pair of shoestrings? RUTH.--What is the price? EMILY.--Only two cents a pair. RUTH.--Then you may give me three pairs. Here are six cents. (_Takes out her purse, and pays_ EMILY, _but, in putting it back, lets it fall on the ground._) EMILY.--Thank you; and a merry Christmas to you! RUTH.--I wish I could make your Christmas a merry one, poor child; but I have done what I could. Good-by. (_Goes out._) EMILY.--Oh, if more such customers would come along, how glad I should be! Will any one buy a nice pair of shoestrings? (_Sees the purse, and picks it up._) What is this on the ground? A purse! And it has money in it. One dollar, three dollars--Dear me! That young lady must have dropped it. I must run and give it to her. Where is she? (_Puts down her basket, and goes out._) (MARY _enters, and looks at the basket._) MARY.--A basket on the sidewalk! What does it mean? (_Takes it up._) It is full of shoestrings. I will take it to my mother, and ask her to find the owner. (MARY _takes up the basket, and is going out, when_ RUTH _enters._) RUTH.--Are you the girl I bought shoestrings of? MARY.--No: I have not sold any. These are not mine. RUTH.--Have you seen any thing of a purse about here? MARY.--No: I have seen no purse. (_Goes off-with the basket._) RUTH.--- Oh! here comes the little girl I was looking for; and she has my purse in her hand. (_Enter_ EMILY.) That is my purse, little girl. EMILY (_giving_ RUTH _the purse_).--Take it. I was looking for you. But where is my basket of shoestrings? RUTH.--Why, that little girl yonder has it. See her there, crossing the street. EMILY.--It is my basket. She has taken what does not belong to her. RUTH.--Run, and bring her to me. (EMILY _starts to go out._) Stop! What is your name? EMILY.--Emily Swift. RUTH.--Well, Emily Swift, I think you are mistaken in supposing that the little girl meant to steal your basket. Bring her to me. (EMILY _goes out._) What a pleasant thing it would be to have a purse so full, that one could keep on giving from it, and never find it empty! But here come the children. (EMILY _leads in_ MARY). EMILY.--Here she is. She says she was taking the basket to her mother, so that her mother might find the owner. RUTH.--And do you doubt her word? EMILY.--Doubt her word? Not I! She is too good a little girl to tell a falsehood. Just look in her face, and you will see that she speaks the truth. RUTH.--Yes, Emily Swift, you are right. EMILY.--Goodness me! What is that thing coming this way? MARY.--I am afraid of it. Is it a man? RUTH.--As I live, it is Uncle Peter! EMILY.--Who is Uncle Peter? RUTH.--He is the man, who, every Christmas, buys as many toys as he can carry, and gives them to good children. Here he comes. (_Enter_ UNCLE PETER, _comically dressed, and covered from head to foot with all sorts of toys, he is followed by boys and girls. He dances and sings to music._) UNCLE PETER'S SONG. "Christmas comes but once a year, once a year, once a year! So follow me, my children dear, children dear, children dear: So follow me, my children dear, on Christmas Eve so joyful!" (_After dancing, he takes_ EMILY _and_ MARY _by the hand, and runs off with them, followed by the rest._) As this is Emily's first play, and she is only nine years old, I hope the critics will not be too severe upon it. If well performed, it will be found, I think, far more amusing in the acting than in the reading. BABY'S PINK THUMBS. The snow had quite covered the ground, The wind whistled fiercely and chill, When a poor little storm-beaten bird Flew down on the broad window-sill. Within, there was comfort and wealth; Gay pictures half covered the wall; The children were happy at play; And the fire shone bright over all. Without, there was famine and frost; Not a morsel of fruit or of grain; And the bird gave a piteous chirp, And tapped with his beak at the pane. Then baby climbed up on a chair, Forgetting his trumpets and drums: He doubled his two little fists, And pointed with both his pink thumbs. "See, see!" and he laughed with delight, "Pretty bird, pretty bird: here he comes!" When the bird, with a bob of his head, Made a peck at the baby's pink thumbs. Then the children called out with great glee, "He thinks they are cherries, or plums, Or pieces of apple; and so He tries to eat baby's pink thumbs." "Poor birdie!" said mamma: "we know That God for his creatures will care; But he gives to his thoughtfuller ones The pleasure of doing their share. "We softly will open the sash, And scatter a handful of crumbs; And, when birdie wants breakfast again, He needn't peck baby's pink thumbs. "He may come day by day, if he will, To a feast on the broad window-ledge, And fly, when he's eaten his fill, To his home in the evergreen hedge." OLIVE A. WADSWORTH. ABOUT FLAX, BARLEY, AND RYE. Arthur had been looking at some pictures in a book; but he did not quite understand what they were: so he called on Uncle Oscar to explain. Uncle Oscar took him on his knee, and said, "This, Arthur, is a picture of the flax-plant, a very useful plant indeed; for from it we make linen. Your apron is linen: so are the collar and wristbands on my shirt. "The flax-plant bears delicate blue flowers, which look very pretty when in bloom. Flax is raised very largely in Kentucky, and other States in the Union. Do you know what part of the plant is the stalk? I will point it out to you in the picture. [Illustration: FLAX.] "Well, from this stalk the thread, or fibres, are got, out of which linen cloth is made. The flax is pulled a little before the seeds are ripe: it is stripped, and the stalks are soaked in water. The flax is then dried, and broken and beaten till the threads, or fibres, of the bark are fit for spinning. From the seeds, linseed-oil is made. "Is it not strange, Arthur, that out of the stalk of this little plant should be made the nice white linen of your apron and my handkerchief?" Arthur thought it very strange. Then, pointing to another picture, he said, "What's this, Uncle Oscar?" [Illustration: BARLEY.] "That, Arthur, is a picture of barley as it grows in the field. It yields a very useful kind of grain. You have eaten it in soup, and also boiled. Stripped of the husk, and rounded and polished in a mill, the grains are pearly white; and then they are known as pearl-barley." "Here's another picture, Uncle Oscar." "Did you ever eat rye-bread, Arthur?" "Why, yes, Uncle Oscar! we had it for breakfast." Well, here is a picture of rye as it grows in the field. It is one of the best of grain-bearing grasses. It will grow where the weather is very cold. The straw is often worth almost as much as the grain. [Illustration: RYE.] "Rye grows on poor, light soils, which are altogether unfit for the wheat out of which we make our white bread. Sometimes we mix rye-flour with wheaten-flour, or with corn-meal, and so get a very good kind of bread." "Can I plant some flax-seed, and barley, and rye?" asked Arthur. "Yes, my boy," said Uncle Oscar. "You shall have some to plant in your garden next May. I think you will be pleased with the flax-plant, because of its pretty blue-flower." THE HARE WHO COULDN'T WAIT. "There goes a hare," said Johnny to Max, "Come, let us catch him: here are his tracks!" But, while they were talking so wisely about it, And Johnny was saying "We'll have him; don't doubt it," Behind them the hare, with a jump and a spring, Ran swift as a swallow could dart on the wing; And Max and Johnny looked round too late, While his speed said, "Excuse me, but I can't wait." THE DRAWING-LESSON. We give here another outline from Landseer for our little readers to copy. Perhaps they would like to know something about Sir Edwin Landseer. He was born in London, in 1803, and died less than two years ago. He belonged to a family of artists. His father and elder brother were skilful engravers. His brother Charles earned high rank as a painter. But Edwin was the most famous of them all. While yet a child, no bigger than some of the young-readers of "The Nursery," he showed a great taste for drawing. He had an especial fondness for drawing animals. His father encouraged him by giving him pictures to copy; and soon his skill in copying became so great that his father took him into the fields, and taught him to draw animals from life. In this way he soon acquired correct notions of color; and, at the age of fourteen, he began to attract attention by his spirited paintings of dogs, horses, and other animals. He continued to improve until he became one of the most celebrated artists of his day. In 1850, he was knighted by Queen Victoria, that is to say, he received the honorary title of _Sir_ Edwin Landseer. Mr. Harrison Weir, whose name is well known to our readers, is another English artist, who makes a specialty of the same department of art in which Landseer became so famous. His sketches are remarkable for their truth to nature, and many of them would do no discredit to Landseer himself. Lay a piece of thin paper over the drawing-lesson, and trace the lines of the picture. After a little practice, try to copy it without-tracing. [Illustration: From Sir Edwin Landseer's painting. In outline by Mr. Harrison Weir, as a drawing lesson.] A SMART HORSE. One morning, when the men went to the stable, our horse, Jenny, was missing from her stall. On looking around, they found her in another room, eating meal out of a chest. Now, in order to do this thing, she must not only have untied her halter, but have unfastened and opened a door, and raised the lid of the chest; all of which were supposed to have been left safely closed. We thought that she could not have done it all, but that some careless person had left the chest open, and the door unfastened. So Jenny was led back to her stall and tied up; the lid of the chest was shut down, and the door closed and fastened with a hook. About an hour afterwards, on entering the stable again, Madam Jenny was found as before, with her nose deep in the meal-chest, munching away with great relish. Then we _knew_ she must have unhooked and opened the door, and raised the cover, as well as unhooked her halter. Do you not think she was pretty smart for a horse? Papa says it was more smart than honest to steal meal in that way. But I suppose horses do not know much about honesty. I liked Jenny all the better for her smartness, and I have made a great pet of her since. As she is so fond of meal, I take care to give her so much that she will not have to steal it. She comes to me when I call her; for she knows that I am her friend, and she often gets an apple from my hand. She looks at me so kindly through her great eyes, that I am sure she would thank me if she could speak. This is a real true story. MARY. ABOUT SOME INDIANS. Some boys and girls think Indians are dreadful beings; but my boy, Vaughn, who is now more than three years old, thinks them a very good sort of people. He was born in the Indian country, and is quite used to them and their odd ways. He often used to stand in the doorway, and say, "How, how?" to them as they passed by; and they would smile, and say, "How, how?" back again. This is the Indian way of saying, "How do you do?" One day I was at work in the cellar, when I heard strange voices at the front-door: so I went out to sec what was the matter. In front of the house I found quite a number of Indian braves, with their squaws and pappooses, all riding on sorry-looking ponies. They had drawn up before the house, and were trying to make Vaughn and his mamma understand that they were thirsty. One of the braves had a dog under his blanket; and the little fellow looked very queer as he poked his head out, and watched us. I pointed the band to the town-well, a short distance down the street; and they said, "Ugh!" and rode away in Indian-file. Another day, an old Indian, with a nose like a young elephant's, rode up to the drug-store, and asked, in Indian lingo, for some tobacco. The druggist cut off a large slice of "black navy," and, stepping out on the sidewalk, handed it to the happy old fellow, who, returning his thanks by sundry nods and grunts, opened the folds of his blanket, and drew out the most laughable tobacco-pouch you ever saw. As sure as you live, it was a whole skunk-skin, with jaws, teeth, ears, and all! Just as he was about to drive away, the lady-teacher and a drove of boys and girls came pouring out of the school-room. The Indian looked a little blank, and, glancing first at the lady and then at the children, remarked admiringly, "Heap squaw! heap pappoose!" (The innocent old wild gentleman had taken them all for one family). A chief with his two squaws and two pappooses were coaxed into a picture-car, one day, to be photographed. They seemed afraid of the three-legged animal with the round glass eye; but, at last, one of the squaws was induced to take her seat, baby in arms. The baby bawled lustily, till I quieted him by jingling a bunch of keys, while the artist got the focus. Then I glanced through the camera, and the sight was so pretty and queer, that I induced the chief to take a peep; and when he saw the very minute copy of his spouse and child, standing on their heads, he nearly shook himself to pieces with silent laughter. VAUGHN'S PAPA. THE FIRST-COMER. The drift by the gateway is dingy and low; And half of yon hillside is free from the snow: Among the dead rushes the brook's flowing now. And here's Pussy Willow again on the bough! "Hi, ho, Pussy Willow! Say, why are you here?" "I've brought you a message: 'The Summer is near! All through the long winter, uneasy I've slept: To hear the wild March wind, half listening, I kept. "Loud blew his shrill whistle, and up and awake, My brown cloak from off me I've ventured to shake; Thrice happy in being the first one to say, 'Rejoice, for the Summer is now on her way!' "The moss-hidden Mayflowers will blossom ere long, And gay robin redbreast be trilling a song: But, always before them, I'm sure to be here: 'Tis first Pussy Willow says, 'Summer is near!'" MARIAN DOUGLAS WIDE AWAKE. "Jump up Johnny," said his mother. "It is seven o'clock, and breakfast will be ready soon. The sun was up half-an-hour ago. The birds are singing, and the sky is bright." John sprang out of bed at once, and was soon washed. Then he put on his clothes, and brushed his hair. He went down stairs looking as neat as a new pin. As he was going to school that day, he saw a poor woman with a baby in her arms. She sat on a door-step, and was pale and hungry. John put his hand into his pocket, took some money out, and gave it to her. She thanked him. John then went to school, where he said his lesson; when school was done, he played at ball till dinner-time. A.B.C. THE FIRST ATTEMPT. Alfred has drawn a great many straight lines and houses and dogs and cats; but this is the first time he has tried to draw a man. The profile suits him very well. There are nose and mouth and eyes, that cannot be mistaken. The hair, too, and the hat, are brought out with a strong hand. All that is wanting now is the color; and this Alfred is putting on. His paints are mixed on a broken plate, and he will soon give his man a bright red cheek. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.[A] "How does the Water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the Water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before: So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell, From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills, Through moss, and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake; And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging, As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around, With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in, Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning, And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Robert Southey, an English poet, wrote these lines, not for _our_ "Nursery," but for all nurseries where children are gathered and taught. The Cataract of Lodore is near Keswick, Cumberland County, England. Robert Southey died in the year 1813.] BOILING MAPLE-SUGAR. Most of the sugar we use is made from the sugar-cane, which grows in warm countries. But in France they make a good deal of sugar from beets; and in North America, where the sugar-maple-tree grows, some very nice sugar is made from its sap. Early in spring, while the weather is yet cold, and before the trees have begun to show many signs of life, it is the time for tapping the maples. The sun, which has already begun to make his power felt by melting the snow, and leaving great green patches here and there on the cleared lands, has kissed the rugged trunks of the trees, and has set the sweet sap mounting through every vein and tissue. Now is the time to set the troughs in order, and to bore the holes for the little spouts through which the juice must run. These must be made a foot from the ground, on the sunny side of the tree; and very soon the drip, drip, of the oozing sap will be heard, as it trickles over the spout into the rough bowls placed to catch it at the foot of every maple. As each trough fills, the juice is poured, first into a large barrel, and from thence, when all is ready, into the great iron pot, or caldron, slung over the wood-fire on three poles. In the picture, you may see three brothers, with their two sisters, engaged in collecting the sap, and boiling it till it can be cooled as sugar. If you will look sharp, you can see little bowls placed at the root of some of the trees, and the sap flowing into them. A syrup is made from the sap, which is very delicate, and is much used for buckwheat-cakes. A large quantity of maple-sugar is made every year in the northern part of the United States, and in Canada. But it cannot be made so as to compete with the sugar of the sugar-cane in cheapness. UNCLE CHARLES. THE STOLEN BIRD'S-NEST. Once there were two little sparrows who built for themselves a nest on a small tree by the wayside. The mother-bird laid four little eggs in it; and there she sat, while her mate chirped merrily on a tree near by, till, one fine day in May, four little sparrows were hatched. How glad the parent-birds were! and how they flew round to get food for their little ones! They were willing almost to starve themselves, so that their children might not suffer from want. Oh, what hungry children they were! How they would stretch out their necks, and open their bills for food, as father and mother drew near to feed them! And what queer little noises they would make, as if they were saying, "Feed _me_ first! Oh, give _me_ that nice little worm! No, _I_ am the hungriest, give it to _me_! Me first! Me first!" But the parent-birds seemed to know which of the children had not had a full share; for they would always give it to those who needed it most. But one day, one sad day, a man came by with his cart, and, seeing the nest, took it with all the little birdies, and placed it on some straw in his cart. The parent-birds, wild with grief, flew round and round, but it was of no use. Then they followed the cart, and continued to feed their young as well as they could, though the cart was in motion. But a little girl, whose name was Laura, and who was taking a walk with her mother, saw the man remove the nest, and at once made up her mind to try and get it away from him. So she went up, and asked him if he would let her have the nest, if she paid him for it. The man seemed a little ashamed when he saw Laura and her mother; and he replied, "Well, little girl, it didn't cost me any thing, and so you may have it for nothing." "Oh, I thank you ever so much!" cried Laura. So she took the nest, with the birdies in it; and then she and her mother found a safe place in the notch of a tree, hidden from the road, and there they placed it. Then they walked away, and stood at a distance, and watched till they saw the parent-birds fly down from a high branch to their own nest, and again begin to feed their little ones. How they twittered and chirped with joy! The feeling that she had made the birds happy made Laura happy too. Every day, for a week, she came to see how the little family were getting on. On the eighth day the nest was empty. They had all flown away. EMILY CARTER THE FIRST BLUE-BIRD. Gold-Locks thought just now, Out on the apple-bough Had fallen a bit of the sky. "Blue it is; oh, blue! And large as my hand," she cried. Ah, what a wonder-eyed Dear happy heart are you, With all the world so new, So bright, because untried! Out I hurried to see What the bit of sky might be, When a tender piping note, Soft as a flute, I heard; And there upon a bough, Wintry and bare till now, In a sky-colored coat, Trying his little throat, Was perched the first blue-bird. CLARA DOTY BATES. THE LITTLE BIRD. Words by LORD LYTTON. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Music] 1. The lit-tle bird fares well in Spring, For all she wants she finds enough, And ev'ry casual common thing She makes her own without rebuff. 2. First wool and hair from sheep and cow; Then twig and straw to bind them fast, From thicket and from thatch, and now, A little nest is built at last. 3. From out that little nest shall rise, When woods are warm, a living song, A music mix't with light that flies Thro' flutt'ring shades the leaves among. 4. O little bird, take everything And build thy nest without rebuff, And when thy nest is builded, sing! For who can praise thy song enough? * * * * * COLGATE & CO. NEW YORK VIOLET TOILET WATER. CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap. * * * * * Good commissions or valuable premiums are given to agents for three first-class union religious papers and one agricultural monthly. Canvassers are making excellent wages. Agents wanted. Send for sample copy and terms. Address, H. A. KING, Box 2289, N. Y. City. * * * * * _Mamma! Mamma! Mamma_! You ought to buy one of those Weed Family Favorite SEWING-MACHINES. You can get your sewing done so quick, and then help me to build houses, and set up my animals. They are the best, so get one, mamma. The salesroom is at 349 Washington Street, and MR. J. H. FOWLER, is the AGENT. * * * * * IN PRESS. THE NURSERY PRIMER. A book by which children can teach themselves to read, with but little help from parent or teacher. SUPERBLY AND APTLY ILLUSTRATED. The most beautiful Primer in the market. Containing upwards of a hundred fine pictures. 96 Pages of the size of The Nursery. The word-system of teaching explained and applied. JOHN L. 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SHOREY, Publisher of "The Nursery." 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. * * * * * CONSTANTINES PINE TAR SOAP FOR TOILET, BATH AND NURSERY, CURES DISEASES OF SKIN AND SCALP MUCOUS COATING SOLD BY DRUGGISTS AND GROCERS. * * * * * Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, "THE BEST PRACTICAL ENGLISH DICTIONARY EXTANT."--_London Quarterly Review, Oct_. 1873. A NEW FEATURE. To the 3,000 Illustrations heretofore in Webster's Unabridged we have recently added four pages of COLORED ILLUSTRATIONS. engraved and printed expressly for the work, at large expense, viz.: ARMS OF THE STATES AND TERRITORIES. ARMS OF VARIOUS NATIONS. FLAGS OF VARIOUS NATIONS. UNITED STATES NAVAL FLAGS, &c. Thus adding another to the many useful and attractive features of Webster's Unabridged. The National Standard, PROOF.--20 TO 1. The sales of Webster's Dictionaries throughout the country in 1873 was 20 times as large as the sales of any other Dictionaries. In proof will be sent to any person on application, the statements of more than 100 Booksellers, from every section of the country. Published by G. & C. MERRIAM, Springfield, Mass. * * * * * FAMILIES seek them "The Best," Dealers treble sales with COLTON'S SELECT FLAVORS. Pure, Rich _Flavoring Extracts of_ Choicest Fruits. One-third quantity more than equals ordinary flavors. * * * * * THE LITTLE CORPORAL. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. _Edited by EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER_. This magazine has now been nearly ten years before the public, and has secured for itself the highest reputation, for the excellence of its reading matter, and the beauty of its illustrations. Its conductors aim to provide in each number wholesome entertainment for the Little Folks, Young Folks, and Old Folks _with young hearts._ Terms $1.50 a year, _Postage Paid_. Clubs of 5 names at one time, $1.10 each _Postage Paid_. Specimen numbers 10 cents. Beautiful Premiums for clubs. JOHN E. 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Free from Sectarianism, there is always something to please all classes of readers, both grave and gay. As a Family Paper, it has merits that no similar publication possesses. The large amount and great variety of popular and valuable reading matter in each number is not excelled by any other paper. Sample 6 cents; with two chromos, 25 cents. $2 a year. Try it three months for 50 cents. Say where you saw this. Value and satisfaction, guaranteed. More agents and subscribers wanted everywhere. The Nursery and Mauck's Herald, Both one year, postpaid, for $2.25. Address L.W. MAUCK, Cheshire, Ohio. * * * * * WATERS' NEW SCALE PIANOS _are the_ best made, Prices low _for_ cash, _or on_ installments. _Illustrated Catalogues Mailed_. Waters' CONCERTO Organs _cannot be_ excelled _in_ tone _or_ beauty; _they_ defy competition. 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We furnish our own Magazine, and agree to pay the subscription for the other. Beyond this we take no responsibility. The publisher of each Magazine is responsible for its prompt delivery; and complaints must be addressed accordingly. * * * * * NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS The number of the Magazine with which your subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, it will be understood that the subscription ends with the current year. No notice of discontinuance need be given, as the Magazine is never sent after the term of Subscription expires. Subscribers will oblige us by sending their renewals promptly. State always that your payment is for a _renewal_, when such is the fact. In changing the direction, the _old_ as well as the _new_ address should be given. The sending of "The Nursery" will be regarded as a sufficient receipt. Any one not receiving it will please notify us immediately. ADDRESS, JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfieid St., Boston, Mass. * * * * * CHOICEST BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. The Beautiful Book. _This is a collection of the best poems that have appeared in "The Nursery." It is a volume of 128 pages, richly bound in cloth, with one or more Pictures on every page. It is specially attractive as a Gift-Book for the holidays_. Price ... 75 Cents. * * * * * The Easy Book. _This is a Book of 128 pages, prepared expressly for children just learning to read. It is in large Old English type, with a profusion of pictures and delightful object-lessons, and is made so fascinating that a child learns to read from it with little or no aid._ Elegantly bound in full cloth ... 75 Cents. " " " half cloth ... 50 " * * * * * Bound Volumes of The Nursery. _These now form a complete juvenile library. The Magazine was begun in 1867, and all volumes from that date can be supplied._ Half-Yearly volumes, elegantly bound in cloth, $1.00 Yearly volumes, " " " " 1.75 _The above books will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publisher._ JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. 
14335	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14335-h.htm or 14335-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/3/3/14335/14335-h/14335-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/3/3/14335/14335-h.zip) THE NURSERY No. 101. MAY, 1875. Vol. XVII A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers Boston: John L. Shorey, 36 Bromfield Street. American News Co., 119 Nassau St., New York. New-England News Co., 41 Court St., Boston. Central News Co., Philadelphia. Western News Co., Chicago. $1.60 a Year, in advance, Postage Included. A single copy, 15 cts. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. THE DOG WHO LOST HIS MASTER By Uncle Charles ON A HIGH HORSE By Josephine Pollard CELEBRATING GRANDMOTHER'S BIRTHDAY By Emily Carter THE LITTLE CULPRIT (From the German) THE DOLL-BABY SHOW By George Cooper THE CHICKENS THAT WERE WISER THAN LOTTIE By Ruth Kenyon A HUNT FOR BOY BLUE By A.L.T. A DRAWING-LESSON DAY AND NIGHT By Aunt Winnie VIEW FROM COOPER'S HILL By E.W. SATURDAY NIGHT By Uncle Charles THE CUCKOO By Uncle Oscar WORK AND SING! By Emily Carter ONE YEAR OLD By A.B.C. MY DOG By Willie B. Marshall MAY DOT AND THE LEMONS By G. DADDY DANDELION (Music by T. Crampton) EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. We think that the present number, both in its pictorial and its literary contents, will please our host of readers, young and old. The charming little story of "The Little Culprit," in its mixture of humor and pathos, has been rarely excelled. The drawing lessons, consisting of outlines made by Weir from Landseer's pictures, seem to be fully appreciated by our young readers, and we have received from them several copies which are very creditable. Remember that for teaching children to read there are no more attractive volumes than "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful Book," published at this office. The pleasant days of spring ought to remind canvassers that now is a good time for getting subscribers, and that "The Nursery" needs but to be shown to intelligent parents to be appreciated. See terms. The use of "The Nursery" in schools has been attended with the best results. We have much interesting testimony on this point, which we may soon communicate. It will be worthy the attention of teachers and school committees. Subscribers who do not receive "THE NURSERY" promptly, (making due allowance for the ordinary delay of the mail), are requested to notify us IMMEDIATELY. Don't wait two or three months and then write informing us that we have "not sent" the magazine, (which in most cases is not the fact): but state simply that you have not RECEIVED it; and be sure, in the first place, that the fault is not at your own Post-office. Always mention the DATE of your remittance and subscription as nearly as possible. Remember that WE are not responsible for the short-comings of the Post-office, and that our delivery of the magazine is complete when we drop it into the Boston office properly directed. "Every house that has children in it, needs 'The Nursery' for their profit and delight: and every childless house needs it for the sweet portraiture it gives of childhood."--Northampton Journal. [Illustration: THE DOG WHO LOST HIS MASTER. THE DOG WHO LOST HIS MASTER Spot was a little dog who had come all the way from Chicago to Boston, in the cars with his master. But, as they were about to take the cars back to their home, they entered a shop near the railroad-station; and there, before Spot could get out to follow his master, a bad boy shut the door, and kept the poor dog a prisoner. The cars were just going to start. In vain did the master call "Spot, Spot!" In vain did poor Spot bark and whine, and scratch at the door, and plead to be let out of the shop. The bad boy kept him there till just as the bell rang; and then he opened the door, and poor Spot ran--oh, so fast!--but the cars moved faster than he. Mile after mile poor Spot followed the cars, till they were far out of sight. Then, panting and tired, he stopped by the roadside, and wondered what he should do, without a home, without a master. He had not rested many minutes, when he saw two little girls coming along the road that crossed the iron track. They were Nelly and Julia, two sisters. Spot thought he would try and make friends with them. But they were afraid of strange dogs. Julia began to cry; and Nelly said, "Go away, sir; go home, sir: we don't want any thing to do with you, sir." Spot was sorry to be thus driven off. He stopped, and began to whine in a pleading sort of way, as if saying, "I am a good dog, though a stranger to you. I have lost my master, and I am very hungry. Please let me follow you. I'll be very good. I know tricks that will please you." The children were not so much afraid when they saw him stop as if to get permission to follow. "He is a good dog, after all," said Nelly: "he would not force his company on us; he wants his dinner. Come on, sir!" Thus encouraged, Spot ran up, wagging his tail, and showing that he was very glad to find a friend. He barked at other dogs who came too near, and showed that he meant to defend the little girls at all risks. When they arrived home, they gave him some milk and bread, and then took him into the sitting-room, and played with him. "Beg, sir!" said Nelly; and at once Spot stood upright on his hind-legs, and put out his fore-paws. Then Julia rolled a ball along the floor; and Spot caught it almost before it left her hand. "Now, die, sir, die!" cried Nelly; and, much to her surprise, Spot lay down on the floor, and acted as if he were dead. When papa came home, and saw what a good, wise dog Spot was, he told the children they might keep him till they could find the owner. A week afterwards, they saw at the railroad-station a printed bill offering a reward of thirty dollars for Spot. He was restored at once to his master, who proved to be a Mr. Walldorf, a German. But the little girls refused the offered reward; for they said they did not deserve it, and Spot had been no trouble to them. Three weeks passed by, and then there came a box from New York, directed to Nelly and Julia. They opened it: and there were two beautiful French dolls, and two nice large dolls' trunks filled with dolls' dresses and bonnets,--dresses for morning and evening, for opera and ball-room, for the street and the parlor, for riding and walking. The present was from Mr. Walldorf; and with it came a letter from him thanking the little girls for their kindness to his good dog, Spot, and promising to bring Spot to see them the next time he visited Boston. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration: On A High Horse] ON A HIGH HORSE. On a velocipede Harry would ride: Quickly the splendid steed Set him astride. Now for a jolly time! Now for some sport! Hold on!--the little chap's Legs are too short. Harry can't touch the peg, All he can do; Though he may stretch his leg Out of his shoe! What can we do for him? This much, of course: Let down the rider--or Let down the horse. Many a hobby-horse Small boys must ride, Ere such a steed as this They can bestride So, little Harry dear, Don't look so cross When you are taken down From a high horse. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. CELEBRATING GRANDMOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. There were three little sisters and one little brother; and their names were Emma, Ruth, Linda, and John. And these children had a grandmother, whose seventieth birthday was near at hand. "What shall we do to celebrate our dear grandmother's birthday?" asked Emma, the eldest. "Get some crackers and torpedoes, and fire them off," said Johnny. "Oh, that will never do!" cried Linda. "Let us give her a serenade." "But we none of us sing well enough," said Ruth; "and grandmother, you know, is a very good musician. Let us do this: Let us come to her as the 'Four Seasons,' and each one salute her with a verse." "Yes: that's a very pretty idea," cried Linda. "And I'll be Spring; for they say my eyes are blue as violets." "Then I'll be Summer," cried Emma. "I like summer best." "I'll be Autumn," said Johnny; "for, if there's any thing I like, it is grapes. Peaches, too, are not bad; and what fun it is to go a-nutting!" "There's but one season left for me," said Ruth. "I must be Winter. No matter! Winter has its joys as well as the rest." "But who'll write the verses for us?" asked Emma. "There must be a verse for every season." "Oh, the teacher will write them for us!" cried Ruth. "No one could do it better." And so, on the morning of grandmother's birthday, as she sat in her large armchair, with her own pussy on a stool at her side, the "Four Seasons" entered the room, one after another, and formed a semicircle in front of her. Grandmother was not a bit frightened. She smiled kindly; and then the "Seasons" spoke as follows:-- [Illustration: Celebrating Grandmother's Birthday] SPRING. I am the Spring: with sunshine see me coming; Birds begin to twitter; hark! the bees are humming: Green to field and hillside, blossoms to the tree, Joy to every human heart are what I bring with me. SUMMER. See my wealth of flowers! I'm the golden Summer: Is there for the young or old a more welcome comer? Come and scent the new-mown grass; by the hillside stray; And confess that only June brings the perfect day. AUTUMN. Mark the wreath about my head,--wreath of richest flowers; I am Autumn, and I bring mildest, happiest hours; In my hand a goblet see, which the grape-juice holds; Corn and grain and precious fruits, Autumn's arm enfolds. WINTER. Round my head the holly-leaf; in my hand the pine: I am Winter cold and stern; these last flowers are mine. But while I am left to rule, all's not dark or sad; Christmas comes with winter-time to make the children glad. ALL THE SEASONS. Here our offerings glad we bring, And long life to Grandma sing. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration: Hummingbirds and Fruit] THE LITTLE CULPRIT. School had begun. The boys and girls were in their places, and the master was hearing them spell; when all at once there was a soft, low knock at the door. "Come in!" said the master; and a little cleanly-dressed girl, about six years old, stood upon the threshold, with downcast eyes. She held out before her, as if trying to hide behind it, a satchel, so large that it seemed hard to decide whether the child had brought it, or it had brought the child; and the drops on her cheeks showed how she had been running. "Why, Katie!" cried the schoolmaster, "why do you come so late? Come here to me, little culprit. It is the first time you have been late. What does it mean?" Little Katie slowly approached him, while her chubby face grew scarlet. "I--I had to pick berries," she faltered, biting her berry-stained lips. "O Katie!" said the master, raising his forefinger, "that is very strange. You _had_ to? Who, then, told you to?" Katie still looked down; and her face grew redder still. "Look me in the face, my child," said the master gravely. "Are you telling the truth?" Katie tried to raise her brown roguish eyes to his face: but, ah! the consciousness of guilt weighed down her eyelids like lead. She could not look at her teacher: she only shook her curly head. "Katie," said the master kindly, "you were not sent to pick berries: you ran into the woods to pick them for yourself. Perhaps this is your first falsehood, as it is the first time you have been late at school. Pray God that it may be your last." "Oh, oh!" broke forth the little culprit, "the neighbor's boy, Fritz, took me with him; and the berries tasted so good that I staid too long." [Illustration: At Teacher's Desk] The other children laughed; but a motion of the master's hand restored silence, and, turning to Katie, he said, "Now, my child, for your tardiness you will have a black mark, and go down one in your class; but, Katie, for the falsehood you will lose your place in my heart, and I cannot love you so much. But I will forgive you, if you will go stand in the corner of your own accord. Which will you do,--lose your place in my heart, or go stand in the corner for a quarter of an hour?" The child burst into a flood of tears, and sobbing out, "I'd rather go stand in the corner," went there instantly, and turned her dear little face to the wall. In a few minutes the master called her, and, as she came running to him, he said: "Will you promise me, Katie, never again to say what is not true?" "Oh, yes, I will try--I will try never, never to do it again," was the contrite answer. Then the master took up the rosy little thing, and set her on his knee, and said: "Now, my dear child, I will love you dearly. And, if you are ever tempted to say what is not true, think how it would grieve your old teacher if he knew it, and speak the truth for his sake." "Yes, yes!" cried the child, her little heart overflowing with repentance; and, throwing her arms around the master's neck, she hugged him, and said again, "Yes, yes!" FROM THE GERMAN. THE DOLL-BABY SHOW. Our doll-baby show, it was something quite grand; You saw there the loveliest dolls in the land. Each girl brought her own, in its prettiest dress: Three pins bought a ticket, and not a pin less. For the doll that was choicest we offered a prize: There were wee mites of dollies, and some of great size. Some came in rich purple, some lilac, some white, With ribbons and laces,--a wonderful sight! Now, there was one dolly, so tall and so proud, She put all the others quite under a cloud; But one of us hinted, in so many words, That sometimes fine feathers do not make fine birds. [Illustration: The Doll-Baby Show] We sat in a row, with our dolls in our laps: The dolls behaved sweetly, and met no mishaps. No boys were admitted; for boys will make fun: Now which do you think was the dolly that won? Soon all was commotion to hear who would get The prize; for the dollies' committee had met: We were the committee; and which do you think Was the doll we decided on, all in a wink? Why, each of us said that our own was the best, The finest, the sweetest, the prettiest drest: So we _all_ got the prize--we'll invite you to go The next time we girls have our doll-baby show. GEORGE COOPER. THE CHICKENS THAT WERE WISER THAN LOTTIE. Lottie is always asking, "Why?" When mamma calls from the window, "Lottie, Lottie!" she answers, very pleasantly, "What, ma'am?" for she hopes mamma will say, "Here's a nice turnover for you;" or, "Cousin Alice has come to see you." But when the answer is "It is time to come in," the wrinkles appear on Lottie's forehead, and her voice is a very different one, as she says, "Oh, dear, I don't want to! _Why_ need I come in now?" When papa says, "Little daughter, I want you to do an errand for me," Lottie whines, and asks, "_Why_ can't Benny do it?" Out in the field Old Biddy Brown has four wee chickens, little soft downy balls, scarcely bigger than the eggs they came from just one week ago. They are very spry, and run all about. When the mother Biddy finds any nice bit, she clucks; and every little chick comes running to see what is wanting. When it grows chilly, and she fears they will take cold, she says, "Cluck, cluck, cluck!" and they all run under her warm feathers as fast as they can. Just now Mother Biddy gave a very loud call, and every chicken was under her wings in a minute; and up in the sky I saw a hawk, who had been planning to make a good dinner of these same chickens. I could not help thinking, how well for them, that they did not stop, like Lottie, to ask, "Why?" Down came the hawk with a fierce swoop, as if he meant to take the old hen and the chickens too; but Mother Biddy sprang up and faced him so boldly, that he did not know what to make of it. [Illustration: The Chickens That Were Wiser Than Lottie] She seemed to say, "Come on my fine fellow, if you dare. You have got to eat me before you eat my chicks; and you'll find me rather tough." So the hawk changed his mind at the last moment. He thought he would wait till he could catch the chickens alone. The chickens were saved, though one of them was nearly dead with fright. RUTH KENYON. A HUNT FOR BOY BLUE. We have a little three-year-old boy at our house, who likes to hear stories, and his mother tells him a great many. But there is one which pleases him more than all the rest, and perhaps the little readers of "The Nursery" will like it too. You have all heard of little Boy Blue, and how he was called upon to blow his horn; but I don't think any of you know what a search his father had to find him. This is the story. Boy Blue lived on a large farm, and took care of the sheep and cows. One day the cows got into the corn, and the sheep into the meadow; and Boy Blue was nowhere to be seen. His father called and called, "Boy Blue, Boy Blue, where are you? Why do you not look after the sheep and cows? Where are you?" But no one answered. [Illustration: Father & Horse] Then Boy Blue's father went to the pasture, and said, "Horse, horse, have you seen Boy Blue?" The old horse pricked up his cars, and looked very thoughtful, but neighed, and said, "No, no: I have not seen Boy Blue." [Illustration: Father & Oxen] Next he went to the field where the oxen were ploughing, and said, "Oxen, oxen, have you seen Boy Blue?" They rolled their great eyes, and looked at him; but shook their heads, and said, "No, no: we have not seen Boy Blue." [Illustration: Father & Duck] Next, he went to the pond; and a great fat duck came out to meet him; and he said, "Duck, duck, have you seen Boy Blue?" And she said, "Quack, quack, quack! I have not seen Boy Blue." And all the other ducks said, "Quack, quack!" [Illustration: Father & Turkey] Then Boy Blue's father visited the turkeys, and asked the old gobbler if he had seen Boy Blue. The old gobbler strutted up and down, saying, "Gobble, gobble, gobble! I have not seen Boy Blue." [Illustration: Cockerel] He then asked the cockerel if he had seen Boy Blue. And the cockerel answered, "Cock-coo-doodle-doo! I haven't seen Boy Blue: cock-coo-doodle-doo!" [Illustration: Hen] Then an old hen was asked if she had seen Boy Blue. She said, "Cluck, cluck, cluck! I haven't seen Boy Blue; but I will call my chicks, and you can ask them. Cluck, cluck, cluck!" And all the chicks came running, but only said, "Peep, peep, peep! We haven't seen Boy Blue. Peep, peep, peep!" [Illustration: Hen & Chicks] Boy Blue's father then went to the men who were making hay, and said, "Men, men, have you seen my Boy Blue?" But the men answered, "No, no: we have not seen Boy Blue." But just then they happened to look under a haycock; and there, all curled up, lay Boy Blue, and his dog Tray, fast asleep. [Illustration: Father & Boy Blue] His father shook him by the arm, saying, "Boy Blue, wake up, wake up! The sheep are in the meadow, and the cows are in the corn." Boy Blue sprang to his feet, seized his tin horn, and ran as fast as he could to the cornfield, with his little dog running by his side. [Illustration: Boy Blue & Horn] He blew on his horn, "_Toot, toot, toot_!" and all the cows came running up, saying, "Moo, moo!" He drove them to the barn to be milked. Then he ran to the meadows, and blew once more, "_Toot, toot, toot_!" and all the sheep came running up, saying, "Baa, baa!" and he drove them to their pasture. Then Boy Blue said to his dog, "Little dog, little dog, it's time for supper," and his little dog said "Bow, wow! Bow, wow!" So they went home to supper. After Boy Blue had eaten a nice bowl of bread and milk, his father said: "Now Boy Blue, you had better go to bed, and have a good night's rest, so that you may be able to keep awake all day to-morrow; for I don't want to have such a hunt for you again." Then Boy Blue said, "Good night," and went to bed, and slept sweetly all night long. A.L.T. [Illustration: From SIR EDWIN LANDSEER'S painting. In outline by MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson.] DAY AND NIGHT. Blue-eyed Charley Day had a cousin near his own age, whose name was Harry Knight. When they were about eight years old, and began to go to the public school, the boys called them, "Day and Night." Charley did not object to the puns the schoolboys made; but Harry was quite vexed by them. Having quite a dark skin, and very dark eyes and hair, he thought the boys meant to insult him by calling him, "Night." One large boy, about twelve years old, seemed to delight in teasing Harry. He would say to him, "Come here, 'Night,' and shade my eyes, the day is so bright." Then, seeing that Harry was annoyed, he would say, "Oh, what a dark night!" Poor Harry would get angry, and that made matters worse; for then Tom Smith would call him a "stormy night," or a "cloudy night," or the "blackest night" he ever saw. Harry talked with his mother about it; and she told him the best way would be to join with the boys in their jokes, or else not notice them at all. She said if he never got out of temper, the boys would not call him any thing worse than a "bright starry night." And if he went through the world with as good a name as that she should be perfectly satisfied. "Don't take offence at trifles, Harry," said Mrs. Knight. "Don't be teased by a little nonsense. All the fun that the boys can make out of your name will not hurt you a bit." Harry was wise enough to do as his mother advised, and he found that she was right. The boys soon became tired of their jokes, when they found that no one was disturbed by them. But the little cousins were alway good-naturedly called "Day and Night." AUNT WINNIE. [Illustration: View from Cooper's Hill] VIEW FROM COOPER'S HILL. When grandma was a little girl, she lived in England, where she was born. She lived in the town of Windsor, twenty-three miles south-west of London, the greatest city in the world. Grandma showed us, the other day, this picture of a view from Cooper's Hill, near Windsor, and said, "Many a time and oft, dear children, have I stood there by the old fence, and looked down on the beautiful prospect,--the winding Thames, the gardens, the fields, and Windsor Castle in the distance. "This noble structure was originally built by William the Conqueror, as far back as the eleventh century. It has been embellished by most of the succeeding kings and queens. It is the principal residence of Queen Victoria in our day. The great park, not far distant, has a circuit of eighteen miles; and west from the park is Windsor Forest, having a circuit of fifty-six miles. "It is many a year since I saw these places. I cannot expect to visit them again; but this picture brings them vividly before me. "And so, dear children, should you ever go to England, don't forget to go to Cooper's Hill, and, for grandma's sake, to look round upon the charming prospect which she loved so much when a child." E.W. SATURDAY NIGHT. Bring on the boots and shoes, Tommy; for this is Saturday night, and I must make things clean for Sunday. Here is my old jacket, to begin with. Whack, whack, whack! As I beat it with my stick, how the dust flies! The jacket looks a little the worse for wear; and that patch in the elbow is more for show than use. But it is a good warm jacket still, and mother says that next Christmas I shall have a new one. Whack, whack, whack! I wish Christmas was not so far off. If somebody would make me a present now of a handsome new jacket, without a patch in it, I should take it as an especial kindness. I do hate to wear patched clothes. Stop there, Master Frank! You deserve to be beaten, instead of your jacket. Look in the glass at your fat figure and rosy checks. Are you not well fed and well taken care of? Is not good health better than fine clothes? Are you the one to complain? Ah, Frank! Just look at poor Tim Morris, as he goes by in his carriage. See his fine rich clothes, and his new glossy hat. But see, too, how pale and thin he looks. How gladly would he put on your patched jacket, and give you his new one, if he could have your health! [Illustration: Saturday Night] Whack, whack, whack! I'm an ungrateful boy. I'll not complain again. Christmas may be as long as it pleases in coming. I'll tell mother she mustn't pinch herself to buy me a new jacket. I'll tell her this one will serve me a long time yet; that I have got used to it, and like it. It will look almost as good as new when I get the dust out of it. Whack, whack, whack! UNCLE CHARLES. THE CUCKOO. "Tell me what bird this is a picture of," said Arthur. "That," said Uncle Oscar, "is the cuckoo, a bird which arrives in England, generally, about the middle of April, and departs late in June, or early in July." "Why does it go so early?" asked Arthur. "Well, I think it is because it likes a warm climate; and, as soon as autumn draws near, it wants to go back to the woods of Northern Africa." "Why is it called the cuckoo?" "Because the male bird utters a call-note which sounds just like the word _kuk-oo_. In almost every language, this sound has suggested the name of the bird. In Greek, it is _kokkux_; in Latin, _coccyx_; in French, _coucou_; in German, _kukuk_." "What does the bird feed on?" asked Arthur. "It feeds on soft insects, hairy caterpillars, and tender fruits." "Where does it build its nest?" "The cuckoo, I am sorry to say, is not a very honest bird. Instead of taking the trouble to build a nest for herself, the female bird lays her eggs in the nest of other birds, and to them commits the care of hatching and rearing her offspring." "I should not call that acting like a good parent," said Arthur. "Do the other birds take care of these young ones that are not their own?" "Oh, yes! they not only take care of them and feed them for weeks, but sometimes they even let the greedy young cuckoos push their own children out of the nest." "That's a hard case," said Arthur. "Is there any American bird that acts like the cuckoo?" [Illustration: The Cuckoo] "Oh, yes!" said Uncle Oscar. "There is a little bird called the 'cow-bunting,' about as large as a canary-bird: she, too, makes other birds hatch her young and take care of them." "I don't like such lazy behavior. Did you ever hear the note of the cuckoo?" said Arthur. "Oh, yes!" replied Uncle Oscar. "I have heard it in England; and there, too, I have heard the skylark and the nightingale, neither of which birds we have in America. But we have the mocking-bird, one of the most wonderful of song-birds." "I wonder if the cuckoo would not live in America," said Arthur. "I should like to get one and try it. I would take good care of it." "It would not thrive in this climate, Arthur." UNCLE OSCAR. [Illustration: Work and Sing!] WORK AND SING! You must work, and I must sing, That's the way the birdies do: See the workers on the wing; See the idle singers too. Yet not wholly idle these, They the toilers do not wrong; For the weary heart they ease With the rapture of their song. If our work of life to cheer We no music had, no flowers, Life would hardly seem so dear, Longer then would drag the hours. Like the birdies let us be; Let us not the singers chide; There's a use in all we see: Work and sing! the world is wide. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration: One Year Old] ONE YEAR OLD. Hold her up, mamma, and let us all have a look at her. Is she not a dear little thing? She is not a bit afraid, but only puzzled at being stared at by so many people. She does not know what to make of it. She clutches at her mother's chin, as much as to say, "Tell me what this means." It means, baby, that you are one year old. This is your birthday, and we have come to call on you. [Illustration: Nurse, Baby, & Cat] But here is Jane, the nurse. Has she come to take you away from us? We are not ready to part with you. You want to go with her? Well, that is too bad! You like her better than you do me. I must see what she does that makes you so fond of her. She takes you to the barn, and shows you the horse and the cow. Then she lets you look out of the barn-window. There you spy the kitten. The kitten sees you, and jumps up on the basket, and looks in your face. You put out your little hand, and try to reach her. Jane has the pig and the chickens to show you yet. But I cannot stay any longer. I must leave you playing with the kitten. A. B. C. [Illustration: My Dog] MY DOG. I have a dog, and his name is Don. He is nine years old. His master is in Boston, and I call Don my dog, because I like to have him here. He is a black-and-white dog, and measures six feet in length, and about two feet in height. When I go on errands, Don takes the basket or pail, and trots away to the store; and sometimes I have to pull him, or he will go the wrong way. He is a lazy old fellow, and he likes to sleep almost all the time, except when he is asked if he wants to go anywhere; and then he frisks around, and seems as if he had never been asleep. When he wants a drink, he goes around to the store-room door, and asks for it by looking up in our faces; and I dare say he would say, if he could speak, "Please give me a drink?" I have a little brother, and he sits on my dog a good deal. And I have a cousin of whom the dog is very fond and when she is at the table, he will put his paw on her lap, and want her to take it. My little baby-brother tumbles over the dog, and sits on him; and sometimes when I am tired, I lie down and take a nap with my head on Don's back. He likes to have me do it, and he always keeps watch while I am asleep. LYNN, MASS. WILLIE B. MARSHALL. MAY. Pretty little violets, waking from your sleep, Fragrant little blossoms, just about to peep, Would you know the reason all the world is gay? Listen to the bobolinks, telling you 'tis May! Little ferns and grasses, all so green and bright, Purple clover nodding, daisies fresh and white, Would you know the reason all the world is gay? Listen to the bobolinks, telling you 'tis May! Darling little warblers, coming in the spring, Would you know the reason that you love to sing? Hear the merry children, shouting as they play, "Listen to the bobolinks, telling us 'tis May!" [Illustration: Dot and The Lemons] DOT AND THE LEMONS. Dot's father is a funny man. One night, he brought home some lemons for mamma,--twelve long, fat, yellow lemons, in a bag. Dot was sitting at the piano with mamma when his father came in, and did not run, as usual, to greet him with a kiss. So Dot's father opened the bag, and let the lemons drop one by one, and roll all over the floor. Then Dot looked around, and cried, "Lemons, lemons! Get down; Dot get down!" And he ran and picked up the lemons one by one, and put them all together in the great black arm-chair. As he picked them up, he counted them: "One, two, three, five, six, seven, nine, ten!" When Dot got tired of seeing them on the chair, he began to put them on the floor again, one at a time, and all in one spot. While he was doing this, his father stooped down, and when the little boy's back was turned, took the lemons, slily from the spot where Dot was placing them, and put them behind his own back,--some behind his right foot, and some behind his left. He took only a few of them at first, so that Dot should not miss them. But, when Dot came to put the last lemon on the floor, he could not see any thing of the others, and was very much surprised. Then mamma, grandmamma, and grandpapa all burst out laughing. His father stepped aside, and there Dot saw the lemons in two rows. Then father said, "That was only a joke. Now, Dot, put them back again on the chair--quick!" And Dot ran and began to take away the lemons from the first row, and lay them on the black cushion of grandpapa's great arm-chair, one by one. One--two--three--four--five: he had only one more lemon to pick up from the first row; but when he came for it--my! there were two. Well, to tell the truth, Dot didn't notice this at first. He picked up one of the two, and thought to himself, "Only one left, Dot." But, I declare! there were _two_ left when he came back. "This is a long row," thought Dot. And every time he left _one_, he found _two_, till papa had quite used up the second row, from which he had been filling up the first. At last Dot _did_ see the last lemon, and then again he didn't see it, for when he looked for it, it wasn't _two_, as before, it wasn't there at all! "O papa! you have it behind you; and Dot will pull at your hand till you give up the lemon; and then you can't play any more tricks with your bright little boy." But Dot will go up to bed with Alice, and in the middle of the night mamma will hear him saying in his sleep, "Five, six, nine, 'lemon!" For Dot always says '_lemon,_ when he means _eleven_. G. DADDY DANDELION. Words by T. Hood. Music by T. Crampton [Music] _Allegretto. mf_ 1. Daddy Dandelion Was a splendid fellow, With a coat of green, And a crest of yellow. He had lots of gold, He was very lazy; So he chose to scold Modest little Daisy. 2. Ah! you silly flower, You're to me beholden, To your best of power, Aping me the golden. Just then some one passed, Who his stick was swinging, Chopped off Dandelion, Stopped his accents stinging. 4. Daisy at the sight Dropped a tear for sorrow, Closed her leaves that night, Opened on the morrow. Gazing with delight People, all of them, Asked her where she found Such a sparkling gem. * * * * * [Box: Colgate & Co. New York] VIOLET TOILET WATER. CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap. Good Commissions or valuable premiums are given to agents for three first-class union religious papers and one agricultural monthly. Canvassers are making excellent wages. Agents wanted. Send for sample copy and terms. Address, H.A. KING, Box 2289, N.Y. 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ADDRESS, JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield St., Boston, Mass. 
14493	----	NO. 165. SEPTEMBER, 1880. Vol. XXVIII. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 BROMFIELD STREET. American News Co., 39 & 41 Chambers St., New York. New-England News Co., 14 Franklin St., Boston, Central News Company, Philadelphia. Western News Company, Chicago. $1.50 a Year, in advance. A single copy, 15 cents. Entered at the Post Office at Boston as Second-Class Matter. * * * * * CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE, * * * * * PAGE ROSA BONHEUR By _Alfred Selwyn_ 65 PIP AND POP By _Uncle Charles_ 67 WHAT CAME OF A DIRTY FACE By _H._ 69 WATERING THE FLOWERS By _Uncle Sam_ 70 BABY TO HER DOLL By _W. G._ 72 PETER AND TOMMY By _Uncle Charles_ 73 IF I WERE A FAIRY By _George S. Burleigh_ 74 A CHILD FASCINATING BIRDS By _Emily Carter_ 77 DADDY FROG By _George Cooper_ 79 THE FIRST CATCH By _G.T.T._ 81 TALKING WITH THE FINGERS By _S.A.E._ 82 A DAY ON GRANDPA'S FARM By _S.J.P._ 83 EMMA AND ETTA By _A.B.C._ 85 BROWNIE'S ADVENTURE By _Mrs B. P, Sibley_ 87 A MISJUDGED FRIEND By _Marian Douglas_ 90 A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE By _Mrs. Henrietta R. Eliot_ 92 SONG OF THE BIRDS _(Music by T. Crampton)_ 96 * * * * * _The change in the publishing department of "The Nursery" involves no change whatever in its editorial management. Our facilities for carrying on the work are now better than ever. We have in preparation for coming numbers some admirable designs, illustrative of the choicest reading-matter in prose and verse. None but the best will find a place in its pages. "The Nursery" will maintain its reputation as the best of all magazines for young children. All communications relating to it should be addressed to_ THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY. _The time will soon be at hand for getting up clubs for the next year. It is a good plan to be in the field early. We shall offer extra numbers, as usual, to_ NEW _subscribers who send their money before the new year begins. Our next number will contain a comprehensive and attractive Premium-List. Direct all remittances to_ THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY. _Our friends of the Newspaper Press will oblige us by sending marked copies of monthly notices without fail. We are about revising our exchange list, and wish to have the means of knowing to what papers we are indebted. In all notices please mention that subscriptions should be addressed to_ THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY. _We call attention to the list of illustrated-books for children which we offer for sale. (See advertisement on third page of cover_). THE BOUND VOLUMES OF "THE NURSERY," _now thirteen in number, form a library from which one cannot choose amiss_. THE EASY BOOK _and_ THE BEAUTIFUL BOOK _are unequalled by anything of the kind in the market. Make drafts and money-orders payable to the order of_ THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. [Illustration: Oxen] ROSA BONHEUR. About forty years ago, at an exhibition of paintings in Paris, two small pictures attracted great attention. One was called "Goats and Sheep;" the other, "Two Rabbits." They were wonderfully true to life; and what made them still more remarkable was, that they were the production of a girl only nineteen years old. That young French girl, Rosalie Bonheur, is now the famous artist known the world over as "Rosa Bonheur." She was born in Bordeaux in 1822. Her father, Raymond Bonheur, was an artist of much merit, and he was her first teacher. From earliest youth she had a great fondness for animals, and delighted in studying their habits. So, naturally enough, she made animals the subjects of her pictures, and it is in this peculiar department of art that she has become eminent. Her works are quite numerous and widely known. One of the most famous is her "Horse-Fair," which was the chief attraction of the Paris Exhibition in 1853. She is still practising her art; and in addition to that she is the directress of a gratuitous "School of Design" for young girls. When Paris was besieged by the Prussians, the studio and residence of Rosa Bonheur were spared and respected by special order of the crown prince. Auguste Bonheur, a younger sister of Rosa, and one of her pupils, has also gained a high reputation as an artist. She, too, excels as a painter of animals. We give as a frontispiece to this number an engraving of one of her pictures, and we will let the picture tell its own story. It is a work that would do credit to the famous Rosa herself. ALFRED SELWYN. PIP AND POP. [Illustration: Pip And Pop.] _Pip_.--Well, cousin Pop, how goes the world with you? Do you find any worms? _Pop_.--Not a sign of one! What is to become of the race of sparrows, I don't know. The spring is late and chilly. There is still frost in the ground. _Pip_.--Not even a fly have I caught this blessed day. _Pop_.--Just my luck, friend Pop! If it weren't for the crumbs a little girl throws out for me every day, I should starve. _Pip_.--I should like to know that little girl. Where does she live? _Pop_.--She is at school now. But come with me about two o'clock, and you shall be fed. _Pip_.--Thank you, cousin. I'll do as much for you one of these days. I have heard of a little girl in Ohio, who feeds the birds so well, that they follow her into the house, light on her head, and play with her. _Pop_.--A thought strikes me, cousin. The little girl who feeds me is just as good as the Ohio girl; but I am not as good as the Ohio birds. I have not trusted her as I ought to. I have not lighted on her head. I have not followed her into the house. _Pip_.--That was a fault, my dear Pop. I do not think she will put us in a cage. I think she will be good to us. _Pop_.--Then I'll tell you what we'll do. After she has had her dinner, we'll fly in at the window, and light on the table. _Pip_.--A good idea! I agree to it. Now, don't you be afraid, Pop, and back out. _Pop_.--That I won't. First we'll go and have a good wash in the brook, so that our feathers shall be all clean. _Pip_.--Another good idea! Hunger sharpens your wits, cousin. _Pop_.--It sharpens my appetite: I know that. _Pip_.--Come on, then! Let us see who will fly the faster to the brook. [_They fly off_.] UNCLE CHARLES [Illustration: Birds Drinking] WHAT CAME OF A DIRTY FACE. [Illustration: What Came of a Dirty Face.] A little boy I used to know, Who went to a district school. He learned to read, and he learned to write, And to whisper against the rule. What fun it was with his marbles to play When the teacher was busy, and looking away! This little boy, one day, was sent A pail of water to bring, And like Jack and Jill away he ran, And back he came with a swing. But, just as he entered the schoolroom door, Both he and the water went down on the floor. Oh, then, what a noise there was in the room! The school-ma'am fetched a mop; But, the more she tried the water to check, The more it wouldn't stop. There never was such water to run: It seemed, with the children, to like the fun. What was it that made the little boy fall, And show such a lack of grace? I'll tell you all, for I happen to know: It was only a dirty face! He looked at himself in the water-pail, And that made the little boy's footstep fail. WATERING THE FLOWERS. "Why is it that flowers always grow so nicely for Mary? I often plant seeds; but nothing comes from them. They won't grow for me. But blossoms seem to spring right up wherever she goes. They must have a particular liking for her." That's what Master Tom said, one day, as he saw Mary watering the flowers. Well, it is no wonder, Tom, if flowers do have a liking for such a lovable little girl. There's nothing so very strange about that. How could they help liking her? [Illustration: Watering the Flowers.] But, after all, perhaps the secret of the matter is, that Mary loves the flowers, and never forgets to take care of them. She looks after them every day, and not by fits and starts, as some people do. So she has good luck with her flowers, and is always able to make up a nice bouquet. And she not only enjoys the flowers herself, but, what is better still, she takes delight in having others enjoy them with her. She does not forget to send a liberal share to the Flower Mission; and many a poor sufferer has been cheered by the sight of Mary's flowers. UNCLE SAM. BABY TO HER DOLL. [Illustration: Baby to Her Doll.] I wonder what you are thinking about While you look so smiling at me. You never frown, and you never pout; Your eyes are as clear as can be, And though you are often hurt, no doubt, Not a tear do I ever see! W.G. PETER AND TOMMY. [Illustration: Peter and Tommy.] _Peter._--I say, Tommy, where did you get that new hat you have on your head? _Tommy._--What business is that of yours? _Peter._--Oh, I want to learn, that's all. I may be wanting to get a hat of that kind myself, you know. Is it the latest style? _Tommy._--Look here, young one: I sha'n't stand any of your chaffing. As soon as I get through with my bread and butter, I shall take hold of you. _Peter._--Your bark is worse than your bite, Tommy. I shouldn't wonder if you were to come off second best in a square fight. _Tommy._--Be off, Peter, and let me eat my bread and butter in peace. _Peter._--It seems to me it would be good manners to offer me a bite. _Tommy._--You'll provoke me, Peter, to give you a thrashing. _Peter._--My advice is that you don't try it on. _Tommy._--Peter, you are a little upstart. I should leave nothing of you, if I once took hold of you in earnest. _Peter._--It's a hot day, Tommy, and the wisest thing you can do is to share your slice with me. I am very hungry. _Tommy._--Oh, if you're hungry, that alters the case. Sit down, Peter, and you shall have a good bite. _Peter._--Ah! That tastes nice. Now, Tommy, explain about that hat of yours. _Tommy._--That's my secret, Peter. I sha'n't tell it. _Peter._--I can guess it. It's only a basket. _Tommy._--What a wise Peter you are! And to think you've had no schooling as yet! UNCLE CHARLES. IF I WERE A FAIRY. If I were a fairy slight and small, Say, about as tall As a span-worm forming the letter O, What do you think I would do? I know! In the bell of the lily I'd rock and swing, Twitter and sing; And, taking the gold-dust under me, I'd splash the hips of the buzzing bee, That he might have meal to make his bread, With honey spread, For his thousand babies all in rows, Each in a bandbox up to his nose. I'd count the curls of the hyacinth By the fallen plinth, And make them glossy with morning dew By sunrise tinted with purple and blue; And out of the sunset sky I'd get For the violet Yellow and red, and dark marine, And purples deep, and a tender green; And all night long, as they lay in sleep, I would paint and steep Their velvet cheeks in a hundred dyes, That well they might open great staring eyes. Unseen I would come where the tired ants tug At a heavy slug, With my rye-beard lance I'd push it along, And they'd think, "All at once we are wondrous strong!" In the nest of the robin, under the eaves Of the apple-leaves, I'd drop a worm in the gaping throats That answer my chirp of the mother's notes. When bonny Miss Harebell thirsts in vain For a drop of rain, I would fill at the brook my shining cap, And lay it all dripping in her lap. Oh, what would I do as a fairy small? I cannot tell all; But I would do much with a right good will: To all things good, and to nothing ill. And I'd laugh and skip, like a bird on wing, Twitter and sing, And make boys and girls, and birds and flowers, All say, "What a lovely world is ours!" Well, what if I am not quite so small? I can do it all In my own sweet home by the same good will, No fairy, but something nobler still. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. [Illustration: If I Were a Fairy.] A CHILD FASCINATING BIRDS. [Illustration: A Child Fascinating Birds.] There is a little girl in Ohio, five years old, who has the power of charming birds at will. Her mother was the first to notice the exercise of this strange power. The little Girl was playing in the yard where some snowbirds were hopping about. When she spoke to them, they would come, twittering with glee, and light upon her shoulders. On her taking them in her hands and stroking them, the birds did not care to get away. They seemed to be highly pleased, and, when let loose, would fly a short distance, and soon return to the child again. She took several of them into the house to show to her mother. The mother, thinking the little girl might hurt the birds, put them out of doors. But the little birds were not to be cheated in this way. No sooner was the door opened than they flew into the room again, and alighted upon the girl's head, and began to chirp. The birds staid about the house all winter. Whenever the door was opened, they would fly to the little girl. The parents feared that this might be a bad omen, and that the little girl would die. But she kept her health, and did not die. She still makes pets of the birds, and they come and play with her. She handles them so gently, that even a humming-bird has been known to come to her several times. Last winter a whole flock of birds kept near the house all the season. She would feed them, and then play with them for hours at a time. Every morning the birds would fly to her window, and chirp, as much as to say, "Good-morning, little mistress! Wake up, wake up!" I think the child must be a near relation of that "Little Bell," of whom the poet Westwood sang,-- "Whom God's creatures love," the angels fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care: Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm; love deep and kind Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!" EMILY CARTER. DADDY FROG. [Illustration: Daddy Frog & Children] Old Daddy Frog lives in a bog, And his coat is bottle-green; Yellow his vest; handsomely dressed, His pretty shape is seen. Puffing with pride, there at his side His dame is sure to be: Smiling, she says, "No one could raise A finer family! Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!" Old Daddy Frog leaps on a log In a spry and jaunty way: Calling his boys--oh, what a noise! He joins them in their play. Hippety hop! under they pop, And Daddy Frog says he, "Isn't it fine? How they will shine, This polished family! Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!" Old Daddy Frog lives in the bog Till the summer days are done: Little boys grow; dressed like a beau Now is each model son. Daddy Frog's eyes wink with surprise, Filled with delight is he; Dame at his side chuckles with pride, "There's no such family! Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!" GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration: Daddy Frog] THE FIRST CATCH. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. [Illustration: Fish in Hat] I caught a fish alive. Why did You let him go? [Illustration: Boy Bit] He bit my little finger so. TALKING WITH THE FINGERS. No doubt, many of the little readers of "The Nursery" go to school; yet not many of them, I think, can ever have been in such a school as the one in which I am teaching. The walls of the room are hung with pictures of birds, animals, insects, fishes, and flowers. The blackboard is covered with drawings of many familiar objects. While I am writing this, seven little boys and nine little girls (how many does that make in all?) are busy writing on their slates. These children do not have any books to study. I tell them what I wish to teach them, and they write it down, and try to remember it. But I teach them without speaking a word. I talk to them with my fingers. You have guessed already, I dare say, that these dear little children are deaf and dumb; that is, they can neither hear nor speak. They cannot go to school and live at home, and see papa and mamma night and morning, as you can; for there are no schools for them near their homes. They have to go a long way from home, and stay in school many long weeks without seeing father or mother, brother or sister. So, when vacation comes, how glad and happy they are! Some of them are even now writing on their slates, "In sixteen weeks we shall go home." I have said that these children cannot speak; but that is not quite true, for many of them are learning to speak. When I talk to them, they look very closely at my lips, and so learn to tell what I am saying. Some of them have very sweet and pleasant voices, the sound of which they have never heard in all their lives. And now let me say that I hope you will learn the finger-alphabet; so that, if you visit any of my little pupils, you can talk to them. If you ask them, they will spell very slowly,--how fast they _can_ spell!--so that you can read what they say. Perhaps you can get "The Nursery" to print the alphabet for you. S.A.E. ROCHESTER, N.Y., March, 1880. A DAY ON GRANDPA'S FARM. [Illustration: A Day on Grandpa's Farm] "Arlington!" cried the conductor, as the train stopped at a little station in Central Wisconsin. We got out of the car just in time to see grandpa driving up in his big double wagon. We climbed in, and grandpa said, "Get up, Bill! Go along, Jip!" and away we started for the farm. When we got there, the first thing we saw was grandma making cookies with holes in them. She said she would give us some if we would be sure and not eat the holes. After dinner, my sister Ally, cousin Johnny, and I, went out to take a ramble in the barn and hunt for eggs. Pretty soon we heard Johnny calling, "Oh, come quick, and see what I have found!" We ran quickly to the place where he was, and there we saw a hen with a brood of chickens. One of the chicks was on its mother's back, one was on the floor in front of her, and the others were peeping out from under her wings. It was a pretty sight. After naming each of the chickens, we all made a search for eggs. We found one nest with five eggs in it, another with three, and another with two. Johnny put the eggs in his cap, and carried them into the house. He soon came running back, saying, "Now, let us go and have a swing." So we all went to the swing, and swung till we were tired. Then Ally said, "Oh, come and see the ducks swimming on the pond!" but Johnny said, "Wait till I get my boat, that uncle Sam made for me." So we all went to the pond, and Johnny put in his boat. It sailed right out among the ducks, and they were much afraid of it, and swam away as fast as they could, saying, "Quack, quack, quack!" Johnny went to the other side of the pond to get his boat, which had sailed across, and he had just got back when we heard grandma calling, "Children, come in to supper." After supper, mamma read us a story from "The Nursery," and then tucked us snugly in bed, and we went to sleep to dream of cookies, and hunting eggs. S.H.P. EMMA AND ETTA. [Illustration: Emma and Etta] Emma and Etta are sisters. They have a doll whose name is Clara. They are very fond of Clara, and it would be hard to tell which of the two Clara likes best. It is not often that one doll has two such mothers. In the picture you may see Emma dressing the doll. She has curled the sweet little thing's hair, and Etta has a nice, clean gown all ready for her to put on. It is to be hoped that this doll with two mothers will not be too much petted. It would be a pity if she should become a spoiled child. A.B.C. [Illustration: Child and Doll] BROWNIE'S ADVENTURE. [Illustration: Brownie's Adventure] Grace and Willie named him Brownie, because all his brothers and sisters were white, and he was such a funny little brown puff-ball of a chicken. Mrs. Speckle (that was his mother) was just as proud of him as she could be; but foolish Brownie thought her too strict. She would never consent to let one of the downy things out of her sight for a moment, and told them fearful stories of hawks and weasels, to say nothing of bad boys and big dogs. But Brownie kept thinking that some day, when he was a little older and stronger, he would leave the yard, and see whether there were really such dangers in the fields and woods as his mother said there was. After a while the pretty brown feathers all dropped out, one after another, until Brownie looked more like a chicken which had been plucked than any thing else. Grace could not keep from laughing at the sight of him; and it was very droll when he popped up on a log, and tried a weak, quavering crow. To be sure, Mrs. Speckle did not keep a looking-glass, and I suppose poor Brownie had no idea how very absurd he looked. To tell the truth, he thought he was almost grown up, and began to watch for a chance to begin his journey to see the world. He had not the least doubt that he would see something fine, if he could only get out of the sight of his mother, who was so very strict, and had such foolish notions, as he thought. So, one day, as Mrs. Speckle was having a friendly chat with Dame Top-Knot, he took the chance to creep slyly under the fence, and was off all alone. "How silly mothers are! And such cowards too!" he said to himself. "I am sure there's nothing here to hurt me. I would like to see any one meddle with me!" At this instant he felt a sharp peck; and a voice said close to his ear, "Halloo, little one, you had better start for home!" He looked up, and saw young Green-Wing, who was two months older, and boasted a comb of good size, to say nothing of his sharp spurs. Brownie thought it best to say nothing after the first "peep," and hid, trembling with fright, under the first leaf he could find. But the sun shone, the sky was a lovely blue, the ground was bright with flowers, and there were many bugs crawling about. Brownie had quite a feast, and was beginning to regain his spirits, when something happened which turned all his thoughts topsy-turvy. The sky grew dark all at once. Something caught hold of him, and Brownie felt himself going up, up, so swiftly, that it quite took his breath away. "It must be a thousand miles," he thought. Crack! went a gun. Then the hawk let go and Brownie went down, down to the ground, where he lay for a long time as if he were dead. When he opened his eyes it was almost dark. The sun had set, and he had forgotten the way home. "I shall never see mamma again," he sobbed. "I wish I had been good and not run away." "Why, here's Brownie!" cried Grace's voice. "The hawk did not get him after all. Come, Willie, and help me drive him to the hen-house." "I hope, my dear, you will never be so very naughty again," said Mrs. Speckle, as he crept under her wing. MRS. B.P. SIBLEY. [Illustration: Hen and Chicks] A MISJUDGED FRIEND. The gardener shut the garden gate, And went to weed the onion-bed: The growing plants stood tall and straight; "But what is this?" surprised he said. Some broken bricks, some stones and sticks, And underneath them, crushed and dead, A large brown toad! "James, Martin, Fred!" He called three little boys, who played Near by, beneath a pear-tree's shade, And sternly asked, "What cruel play Is this you've been about to-day?" "'Tis very hard we should be blamed, I'm sure!" poor little James exclaimed: "We only killed the toad because An ugly-looking thing he was,-- So very ugly, that we knew He surely would some mischief do. He had great warts upon his back, And curious blotches, greenish black, And darting tongue, and strange flat head"-- "And how he sprawled his legs!" cried Fred. "His mouth," said Martin, "was so wide, It reached far round on either side; And queer winks with his eyes he'd give: We did not dare to let him live. We had to kill that toad because An ugly-looking thing he was." The gardener gravely shook his head; "It was a heartless act," he said; "And, more than that, you may depend Upon my word, you've killed a friend; For often, at my work, I've found This same toad near me, hopping round, And, watching him, I've learned that he My constant helper used to be,-- A second gardener, with no pay, Who still was busy every day. "He killed the young potato-bugs, The caterpillars, and the slugs, The beetles striped with yellow lines, That spoil the tender melon-vines, And looked round with his blinking eyes For cabbage-worms and turnip-flies, Low-flying moths with downy wings, And slimy snails in shady nooks. It was the cruellest of things To kill poor Hop Toad for his looks. "And if, when you shall older grow, You strangers judge by outward show, You'll be as foolish as unjust: In worthless men you'll put your trust, And often sorrow, in the end, For having wronged some honest friend. MARIAN DOUGLAS. A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE. Our Ned is a brave little fellow about eight years old. He is full of fun, and loves to play out of doors in all kinds of weather. But what little boy can be merry when he has a raging toothache! Ned bore it like a hero; but he had to give up at last, and he was glad to take refuge in his mother's lap, and be a baby again for a while. With his head pillowed on his mother's breast, the little boy found some relief; but still he was in great pain. His sister stood by, trying to think of some way to help him. Ned could hardly keep from crying; but he said to his mother, "I should like to have you tell me a story." "What shall it be, darling?" said his mother. "Tell me about Harry and his dog Jack." This story had been told to Ned when he was a very, very little boy, and a good many times since then. It seemed odd to his mother that he had chosen such an old story. But he wanted to hear it; and so she told it all over again. This is the story:-- "There was once a little boy named Harry, and he had a little dog named Jack. Jack was a queer-looking dog. He was nearly all black; but he had a white tail, and his front-feet were white. "Harry loved Jack very much, and as he never forgot to feed him, and never teased him, the dog loved Harry very much. When Harry went to school, Jack went too,--not into the schoolroom (for dogs can't learn to read, you know), but into the school-yard, where he played about till Harry came out again. At recess, he used to play with the boys, and have almost as much fun as if he were a boy too. "The yard wasn't very large, and, when the boys played ball, they would often throw the ball over the fence. Then it was Jack's part of the play to run after the ball. The boys would call, 'Jack, Jack!' and Jack would run under the fence, seize the ball in his mouth, and bring it back to the boys. [Illustration: Mother, Son, & Daughter] "But, one day, the ball rolled off the pavement out into the street. A wagon was passing just then; and Jack was in such a hurry to get the ball, that he ran right in its way, and the wheel went over his leg. "The boys all ran out to help Jack; and one of them said, 'O Harry! I'm afraid that he is badly hurt; for see, he runs on three legs, and lets the other one hang.' Harry took Jack up in his arms, and said, 'Poor Jack, poor little Jack.' Then he felt very gently of the dog's leg, and found that it was broken. "Oh, how sorry Harry and all the other boys felt! Harry couldn't keep from crying, and they all said that if little Jack got well they wouldn't send him out after the ball any more. "As soon as they were back in the yard, Harry ran into the school-house with Jack in his arms, and said to the teacher, 'Please, sir, may I go home now? My poor little dog Jack has broken his leg, and I want to show him to my mother, and try and make it better.' The teacher said, 'Yes, Harry, you are a good boy, and Jack is a good little dog, and you may take him home.' So Harry started at once. "When Harry's mother saw him coming home, she was afraid he was sick. She ran out to the gate, and said, 'Why, Harry! What makes you come home so early to-day?'--'O mamma!' said Harry, 'my poor little Jack has broken his leg!' Then Harry's mother looked at Jack, and, after thinking a minute said, 'My dear Harry, I am very sorry; but I think we shall have to kill little Jack to save him from suffering. A dog's broken leg cannot be made whole again.' "Oh, how sad little Harry felt when his mother said that! It made him cry very hard. But in a little while something made him stop crying: and what do you guess it was? Why, he began to think that perhaps his mamma was mistaken when she said that dogs couldn't have their legs mended; and he thought he would go to the doctor who cured him when he was sick, and ask about it. "So he said, 'Dear mamma, please let me go and ask Dr. Stratton if he won't try to fix Jack's leg.' And his mother said, 'Well, Harry, you may go; but I don't think the doctor will do it.' "So Harry put on his hat, and went over to Dr. Stratton's. Harry knocked on the doctor's door. 'Come in!' said the doctor. 'Why, Harry! What do you want? Anybody sick at your house?' "'N-no, sir,' said Harry, 'not exactly anybody, but my little dog Jack has a broken leg, and mamma says you can't mend it; but please try. My dear little dog is such a good dog, and mamma says he will have to be killed. Will you please try?' "Now, the doctor was a very kind man. He smiled, and said, 'Well, Harry, I never mended a dog's leg; but I'll try for your sake--but won't he bite me?' "'Oh, no!' said Harry. 'My dog Jack always minds me, and he will do just as I tell him.' "So the good doctor put on his hat, and went with Harry. When they were in Harry's house, the doctor said that he must have some very smooth pieces of wood. Harry said, 'I think the cover to my broken paint-box would do if it was whittled.' So he brought it, and the doctor said it was just the thing. "Then the doctor said, 'Now I must have some white cotton-cloth.' Harry's mother gave the doctor an old shirt, and he tore it into strips. Then he said, 'Now, Harry, I am ready.' "So Harry brought the little dog Jack, and said to him, 'Now, Jack, lie still!' And the good dog didn't move or bite while the doctor set his leg, and bound it up with the pieces of wood and the cloth. Then the doctor said, 'Now, Harry, you must take good care of Jack and keep him in the house till his leg is quite well.' "'I will,' said Harry. Then he made a nice soft bed and laid Jack in it, and took good care of him, and in a few weeks, what do you think? Jack was well! "I tell you, the boys were glad to see him back at school; and one of them made a rhyme about him that they used to sing every morning when they saw him coming,-- "'Little dog Jack, he broke his leg; But now he's come back, peg-a-ty-peg!'" This was the end of the story, and Ned was so quiet that his mother thought he was asleep. But, all of a sudden, he looked up, with a smile, and said, "I'm going out now to have a game of foot-ball." "Why, what has become of that toothache?" "All gone," said Ned. "Why, that is a most wonderful cure. We will go and tell the dentist about it to-morrow." MRS. HENRIETTA R. ELIOT. [Illustration: Children Playing] SONG OF THE BIRDS. Words from the Nursery. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. Chipper, chipper, chip! come, clear the way! We must be at work to day. See us swiftly fly along, Hear outbursts of merry song; Watch us in our busy flight Glancing in your window bright; Save your bits of yarn for me; Just think what a help 'twould be! 2. Chipper, chipper, chip! Hark, how he sings, As he comes for threads and strings, Which he is not slow to see, From the budding lilac tree! Now with cunning saucy pranks, See him nod his hearty thanks: "These are just the thing," says he; "What a help they'll be to me!" 3. Chipper, chipper, chip! Now see him go, Now so fast and now so slow; Working ever at the nest, Never stopping once to rest, Getting bits of straw and things For his good wife, while he sings, "Chip, chip, chip, so gay are we, Singing in the lilac tree." * * * * * 1.50 for a Subscription to "The Nursery" will make a child happy all the year. * * * * * AND NOT WEAR OUT. SOLD by Watchmakers. By mail, 30 cts. circulars FREE J. S. 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Each bottle contains from thirty to forty glasses of Sparkling Seltzer, which makes it positively the cheapest, as well as the most efficacious mineral water extant. SOLD BY ALL DRUGGISTS. [Illustration: TARRANT'S SELTZER APERIENT.] * * * * * HANFORD'S NONE SUCH BAKING POWDER Is ABSOLUTELY PURE;--Grape Cream Tartar and Bicarb. Soda, Contains _nothing else; full weight;_ forfeited if not as represented. _All other kinds_ have filling. Sample of _pure_ powder and test to detect filling free by mail. GEO. C. HANFORD, Syracuse, N.Y. * * * * * 52 Gold, Crystal, Lace Perfumed and Chrome Cards name in Gold and Jet, l0c. Clinton Drive, Cromwell Coun. * * * * * 50 Elegent New Chromos, Shells, Gold-border &c. cards, name on 10c G.A. Spring, Northford, Ct. * * * * * A PRESENT. Beautiful Chromo Cards given to readers of this paper for 3c. stamp, C.B.Ravene, Summit, N.Y * * * * * INVALID ROLLING CHAIR. [Illustration: (RECLINING)] A Priceless boon to those who are unable to walk. Hon. A.H. 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The third volume of "The Child's Monthly," a magazine which has been used with great success in many primary schools, was completed with its March issue. It is now consolidated with "The Nursery," which will embody all its most prominent features. We can supply back numbers of "The Child's Monthly" and "Monthly Reader" at the above low rate. We call the especial attention of School Committees, Teachers, and others to the opportunity here afforded of obtaining the Choicest and Best Illustrated Reading-Matter at a trifling expense. Each number contains 16 pages, printed in large type on fine tinted paper. Send stamp for a specimen copy. Address THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 _Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass._ BOUND VOLUMES OF "THE NURSERY" Will be sent, postpaid, by the publisher at the following prices:-- Half-Yearly Volumes, $1. Yearly Volumes, $1.75. The magazine was begun in 1867. * * * * * OXFORD'S SENIOR SPEAKER. A splendid volume, containing the best collection extant, of Pieces for Declamation, New Dialogues, &c. Illustrated with excellent likenesses of Charbam, Mirabeau, Webster, Demosthenes, Cicero, Grattan, Patrick Henry, Curran, Sheridan, Madame Roland, Victor Hugo, Calhoun, Hayne, Everett, Tennyson, Longfellow. O. W. Holmes, Bret Harte, Epes Sargent, Thackeray, Dickens, and many more, embracing Ninety Beautiful Illustrations in all. Every schoolboy ought to have this book; it is latest and best SPEAKER. Price 1.50. OXFORD'S JUNIOR SPEAKER Beautifully illustrated (Price 75 Cents), is the best work of the kind for younger classes in Declamations. THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 Bromfield Street, Boston. * * * * * PRETTY PAPERS FOR PAPER DOLLS AND MAY BASKETS Send 15 cents, and get 20 varieties by mail. THE NURSERY, 36 Bromfield Street Boston, Mass. * * * * * Please Show your copy of The Nursery to all your friends, and ask them to subscribe for it at once. 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15928	----	No. 164 AUGUST, 1880. Vol. XXVII. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS BOSTON, THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 BROMFIELD STREET. American News Co., 39 & 41 Chambers St., New York. New-England News Co., 14 Franklin St., Boston. Central News Company, Philadelphia. Western News Company, Chicago. $1.50 a Year, in advance. A single copy, 15 cents. Entered at the Post Office at Boston as Second-Class Matter. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880. by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. * * * * * CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR. * * * * * PAGE THE LITTLE TEACHER By _Dora Burnside_ 33 THE ANT'S DAIRY By _T.C._ 36 BABY JEAN By _F.E. Hamilton_ 37 THE FRIENDLY DOG By _Uncle Charles_ 38 CARLO'S BONNET By _B.P._ 40 CHARLEY GOES A-FISHING By _A.B.C._ 42 WHAT WE SAW IN THE WOODS By _Thomas Stafford_ 44 BABY READING TO HER MOTHER By _M.D.B._ 46 NOW, AND THEN By _Alice Williams Brotherton_ 47 DRAWING-LESSON By _Harrison Weir_ 49 THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER By _Alfred Selwyn_ 50 JOHNNY AND THE TOAD By _H.A.F._ 52 THE HEN WHO HELPED HERSELF By _L.B._ 54 THE GREAT JOURNEY By _George S. Burleigh_ 57 A WOFUL TALE By _Jane Oliver_ 59 THE BROKEN KITE By _Ida Fay_ 62 SUMMER GAMES (_Music by T. Crampton_) 64 * * * * * $2.50 } { $2.50 _Per Hundred._ } CHEAP { _Per Hundred._ Supplementary Reading for Primary Schools! * * * * * THE Child's Monthly Reader. The third volume of "THE CHILD'S MONTHLY," a magazine which has been used with great success in many primary schools, was completed with its March issue. It is now consolidated with "THE NURSERY," which will embody all its most prominent features. We can supply back numbers of "The Child's Monthly" and "Monthly Reader" at the above low rate. We call the especial attention of School Committees, Teachers, and others to the opportunity here afforded of obtaining the Choicest and Best Illustrated Reading-Matter at a trifling expense. Each number contains 16 pages, printed in large type on fine tinted paper. Send stamp for a specimen copy. Address THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 _Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass._ [Illustration: THE LITTLE TEACHER.] THE LITTLE TEACHER. I know of a little girl, who, like Mozart, shows a great talent for music, though she is not yet ten years old. Before she could walk, it seemed to be her delight to creep along the floor to the piano, draw herself up so as to touch the key-board, and then strike the different keys. Some of the sounds were pleasing to her, and from some she would start and draw back, as if she were hurt. A false note in music seemed to inflict pain, while she would show great pleasure when the harmony was perfect. This little girl, whose name is Laura, has been so faithful in studying the rules of music, that, young as she is, she is employed to teach it to children still younger than herself. As her parents are poor, she is paid well for this service. In the picture you may see her standing, while Emma Dean, one of her little pupils, occupies the music-stool. "Oh, I shall never learn to play like you, Miss Laura," says Emma. "Pray don't call me _Miss_," says Laura; "for I am but a little girl like yourself." "But then you know so much more than I do, that I like to call you _Miss_," says Emma. "Are you not my teacher?" "I try to be," says Laura; "but, if we talk instead of work, we shall not make much improvement. Now let me hear you play over this exercise once more." "But I have played it a dozen times," says Emma. "Let us try something new." "You have played it a dozen times; but you must play it two hundred times more, if you expect to be perfect in it," says Laura. "Two hundred times! Oh, I can't think of it," exclaims Emma. "Let us try something new." Here Mrs. Dean, who from a room near by had overheard the conversation, came in, and said, "If you cannot obey your teacher, Emma, you must stop taking music-lessons. Miss Laura is quite right; and I am glad to see that she does not yield to your whims. The best way in learning is always to learn one thing thoroughly before passing to another." Emma gave up the point, and began to play the exercise with a good grace. She did so well, that, when she had played it over thirty times, Miss Laura said to her, "That will do for to-day. We will take it up again in our next lesson. Now we will pass to a new piece." But Mrs. Dean said, "You have done enough to-day, my children. Now go and pick some strawberries for yourselves in the garden, and then we will take a walk in the grove." And this is what they did. Dora Burnside. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE ANT'S DAIRY. Do ants keep cows? Let us see. A little insect named an aphis is found on the leaf of most every plant. This little parasite lives on the sweet juice called honey-dew. Now the ants are very fond of this honey-dew, and know that they can obtain a supply from the body of the _aphis_. The ants, therefore, climb up trees on whose leaves the _aphides_ have collected. Then an ant goes close to one of these insects for a drop of the sweet juice. If this be not soon given out, the ant will gently tap the body of the aphis, and thus obtain a supply of the sweet fluid. After feasting on this, the ant will pass to another little aphis and treat it in the same manner for another drop. But the ant has sense enough to treat the aphis as we treat our cows. Our farmers, you know, keep the cows in enclosed meadows, and supply them with hay and turnips when the grass fails. The ants also take a number of aphides close to their nests, and there keep them secure and supply them with suitable food. Now the lady-birds are also fond of the aphides, and eat them up by hundreds. But the ant has sense enough to keep the aphis for a supply of honey-dew instead of killing it as the lady-bird does. Is not the ant, therefore, entitled to be regarded as a cow-keeper, and are not the tiny little aphides his milch-cows? T.C. * * * * * BABY JEAN. Eyes as bright as diamonds, Mouth all sweet and clean, Cheeks with tempting dimples That's my baby Jean!" Hands as soft as rose-leaves, Teeth like glistening pearls, Little sunbeams woven On her heads for curls. Little feet that patter Here and everywhere, Little mind that's busy, Filled with childish care. Lips from which the kisses Bubble all day long, Tongue that's ever singing Some sweet cradle-song. How I love my baby Words can never tell; And she--she loves papa Just as much and well. She's the dearest fairy That was ever seen; And from Heaven I'm certain Came my baby Jean! F.E. HAMILTON. [Illustration: ] THE FRIENDLY DOG. Poor Old Whitey! He fell lame, and was turned out in a little field to starve. And he would have starved, if it hadn't been for Milo. And who was Milo? He was a dog who had lived in the stable with Old Whitey. They had become great friends. Each had found the other trusty and kind. And I think Milo must have reasoned in this way: "Is it not sad to see my old friend shut up in that barren little field with nothing to eat? He has nibbled all the grass, and there is nothing left for him. It is too bad; and I can't stand it." In the cellar of the stable were some turnips and beets. What does Milo do but take a long beet in his mouth, and carry it to Old Whitey, who neighs, as if to say, "Thank you, old friend." Then he gobbles it up, and looks at Milo, as if to say, "Another, if you please." Milo trots off, and brings him a turnip. Oh, how it does relish! Old Whitey begins to caper, in spite of his lame legs. Milo kept running to and fro for half an hour, till Old Whitey had made a good dinner. Then the man who had shut up the old horse found out what was going on. He seized a whip, and ran at Milo to punish him. But it happened that the lady who owned the farm, and who did not know how Old Whitey had been treated, came back from the city just at that time to pass a month in the country. She saw what was going on, asked what was the matter, and, when she learned it, said to the man, "The dog is a better Christian than you are. He shall stay, and you shall go. Come into the house, and let me pay you your wages." [Illustration] Thenceforth Old Whitey was well taken care of; and, as for Milo, he was petted and praised to his heart's content. Cruelty to animals is an act which no good man or child can he guilty of. I was not sorry to learn that the man who had tried to starve Old Whitey was dismissed from his place. Uncle Charles. CARLO'S BONNET. Of course Carlo was a dog, and I'll tell you how he came to us. As my father was walking up Arch Street, Philadelphia, one day, with his hands clasped behind him, something cold and damp was pushed against his fingers. He turned round quickly, and a beautiful brown-and-white pointer came to his side, and looked up at him with such a pleading look in his soft brown eyes, that my father said, as he patted him on the head, "Poor fellow, are you lost?" That was enough for Carlo, as we named him. He had found a kind master, and my father a faithful friend. Of course it wouldn't do to keep the dog without trying to find his owner: so the next day he was advertised; and, for several days after, every ring at the bell would make us children start, and feel afraid that somebody had come to take him away. But nobody came for him; and we loved and petted our new-found treasure to the neglect of wooden horses and dolls, and all our other toys. Sometimes he would come to the parlor-door with his feet very wet and muddy from running through the street-gutters. Then we would say, "O Carlo! what dirty boots!" He would hang down his head, and go off to the back-yard, and lick his feet until they were clean, when, with a bound, and a wag of the tail, he would rush back to the parlor, quite sure that he would be let in. But the month of June was coming,--a sorrowful time for dogs; for the city had ordered that all dogs found on the streets without muzzles on must be destroyed. At five o'clock every morning, the wagons used to go through the streets, and take up all dogs that were not muzzled. So we had to get a "bonnet," as we called it, for our pet. It was made of bright red leather, and really he looked so handsome in it, that we thought he ought to like to wear it when he went out for a walk; but he didn't one bit. He used to rub his head on the sidewalk, and fuss and squirm, and, when he didn't get rid of his bonnet in that way, the cunning fellow used to hide it when he got home. [Illustration] We kept it hung up on a high nail in the dining-room; but one day, when we called Carlo to have his bonnet put on before he went out, there was no bonnet to be found. Who could have taken it? I must say Carlo acted very much like the thief; for he hung his head, and looked sheepish, when we asked him about it. We hunted under the chairs and the lounge, in the closets, in parlor and dining-room, Carlo fussing round with us, just as if he wanted dreadfully to find it; but it couldn't be found. So we went out, and shut the street-door after us, saying, "Well, Carlo, you can't go out to walk, that's all." Those who hide know where to find. When Carlo saw, that, without his bonnet, there was no walk for him, he scampered into the basement-kitchen, got out the muzzle from a pile of old papers in one of the closets, carried it up stairs, and laid it down on the dining-room floor. But this was not the last time Carlo hid his red bonnet and found it again. In all sorts of places he would stow it away when he came in from his walks. And at last he got so used to it that when we said, "Now, Carlo, go fetch your bonnet," he would dash off and pull it from its hiding-place, and quietly stand to have it buckled on. He behaved so well in the streets, that before the dog-season was over, we used to take his bonnet off, and let him carry it home in his mouth. One rainy day, when the water was pouring down the open gutters, and I was hurrying home, I happened to look round, and there was Carlo coming along behind me; but his pretty red bonnet was bobbing along in the gutter, where the sly rascal had thrown it, hoping, I suppose, that it would be carried down to the Delaware River. B.P. * * * * * CHARLEY GOES A-FISHING. Will Charley go a-fishing? Yes, of course he will; Fix him out with hook and line, And let him try his skill. [Illustration] "Shall I fish for mackerel? Shall I fish for shad?" "Pull up any fish that bites, That's a jolly lad!" A.B.C. WHAT WE SAW IN THE WOODS. We were camping out in the woods, not far from the Canada line. In the party were my brother Tom, Mr. Brisk, who was a sportsman of fame, and uncle Ralph, who hated the sound of a gun. [Illustration] One day, as I was roaming through the thick wood, what should I see but a male deer, with branching horns, looking up at the blue sky! I crept back softly to our tent, and told Mr. Brisk what I had seen. He seized his gun. "What's that you say, Tom?" asked uncle Ralph. "Only this," said I; "there is a fine fat deer down by the brook; and, as we are all fond of venison, I think it's a good chance for Mr. Brisk to get a good shot at him." "Oh! that's it, is it?" said uncle Ralph, while his eyes flashed with mischief. "By all means let us kill the deer. Come, Brisk, where's your gun?" Mr. Brisk was looking at the barrels and the caps of his gun to see if all was right; then he said to uncle Ralph, "You and Tom had better stay here; for too many of us may startle the deer." "Go on," said uncle Ralph. "Be quick, or you will lose your chance." Mr. Brisk started for the brook, treading carefully, so as not to make a noise. No sooner was he gone than uncle Ralph seized me by the collar, and said, "Now, you young scapegrace, come along with me, and help me save the life of that deer." The old gentleman was in earnest. He could not bear to see life destroyed, whether of bird or beast. He lived on vegetables and fruits, and believed that the lower animals have souls. We took a by-path to the brook, and there found the deer quietly grazing. Just as Mr. Brisk was preparing to fire, uncle Ralph threw a stone at the deer, and sent him off on a fast gallop through the woods. "Hallo! What did you do that for?" asked Mr. Brisk. "I did it so that you should not have a venison dinner," said uncle Ralph, laughing. Mr. Brisk was pretty mad at first; but at last he joined in the laugh, and we all had a good feast on strawberries instead Of Venison. THOMAS STAFFORD. [Illustration] [Illustration] BABY READING TO HER MOTHER. She is tired of her dolly, and tired of her play, And she thinks she will read to her mother to-day. So, seated on the carpet, this little Kitty Brown Reads story after story, though the book is upside down. M.D.B. NOW, AND THEN. "Well, well, well!" said grandmamma, "Only to see the toys,-- The marvels of skill and of beauty, That are made for these girls and boys!-- Velocipedes, acrobats, barrows, And a dozen kinds of ball, And the beautiful bows and arrows, With quivers and belts and all; And dolls, with an outfit from Paris, With eyes that open and shut, With jewelry worth a small fortune, And six several bonnets,--_tut, tut!_ "My goodness! If Polly and Rachel, Who played in old times with me, In the corner down by the smoke-house, These wonderful dolls could see! Rachel's doll had a round head whittled From a bit of soft pine wood; And Polly's was only a corn-cob, With a calico slip and hood. My doll was a lovely rag-baby, With badly-inked eyes and nose; Her cheeks were painted with cherry-juice; And I made every stitch of her clothes. "Nathan's bow was a pliant whalebone, And his arrow a white-pine stick; Such a life as his archery practice Led the cats and each wretched chick! Our tea-sets were bits of dishes That mother had thrown away, With chincapin saucers and acorn-cups; And our dolls slept on moss and hay. With a May-apple leaf for a parasol We played 'Lady-come-to-see,' Polly's house was the kitchen door-step, And mine was the apple-tree. "We never saw 'Germans' and 'Matinees,' And we played good romping plays; And, somehow, I think we were happier far Than the children are nowadays. Our swing was an old, wild grape-vine; We waded and climbed and ran, And never were weary, nor sick, nor 'bored' From the minute that day began. Well, well, well!" said grandmamma, "In spite of their wonderful toys, I do believe we had merrier times Than these little girls and boys!" ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.] THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER. Amy Cooper lived in a little fishing-village, not far from the cliffs of Dover, in England. She was the daughter of a poor fisherman, who worked hard for his family. Mr. Cooper was such a good, kind man, that no one could help loving him. His children loved him dearly; and no one loved him quite so dearly as his daughter Amy. She was a thoughtful little girl, and at the time of my story was twelve years old. She saw that her father's health was failing through hard work; and the one great thought in her mind was, "How can I help my dear father to earn money for us all?" This was a hard question, and it was long before Amy could find an answer. But one day, with her aunt, she took a long walk to Dover. Here she saw a large hotel, and many well-clad persons in a pleasant park near by. It was on this visit to Dover that Amy formed a plan about which I am going to tell you. Now it had happened three years before, that a poor young man of the name of Simpson had been saved from drowning by Amy's father. I fear that the young man had thrown himself into the water because he was sick of life, but I dare say he was glad enough to be pulled out. Mr. Cooper took him home, gave him a room and a bed, and there Mr. Simpson staid for some time. He was what is called an artist. He had a great talent for drawing with a pen and ink. He taught Amy to do this. She soon did it so well, that he said to her, "Keep on trying, my dear, and it may be a great help to you by and by." Sure enough she did keep on trying. Her one thought was to do so well that she could make money by her art. Poor Mr. Simpson died after he had staid with the honest fisherman two years; and his last words to Amy were, "Keep on practising, my dear: don't let a day pass without it. I am sure you will make an artist." Amy had followed his advice; and now, when her father was ill, she resolved to see if she could riot, turn her art to account. She made twenty sketches with pen and ink. They were sketches of fishermen--drawn from life; and they were done with a spirit and skill that struck every one with surprise. [Illustration] Taking the specimens with her, she went to Dover, and showed them to the ladies and gentlemen. At last one gentleman, a Mr. Ritson, who was rich, and fond of art, said to her, "Don't try to humbug me, little girl. Yon never did this work. Come in, and let me test you." "Do it," said Amy, bravely and confidently. He took her into the reading-room of the hotel, and in a few minutes she produced a likeness of Mr. Ritson, which made him cry out, "Bravo, bravo, little girl! You have done it! Forgive my suspicions. Here is a guinea for what you have done. Come here to-morrow at this time, and I will see what I can do to help you." Amy, wild with joy, took the money home to her father. The prosperity of the family was now assured. Mr. Ritson proved to be a true friend. He showed Amy's sketches to a great many persons, and praised them so highly, that she soon began to have orders. She continued to improve, and in time became quite a successful artist. She had as much work as she could do, and earned more in a month than her father could earn in a year. He soon got well, and lived to take great comfort in the fame of his dear little girl. ALFRED SELWYN. * * * * * JOHNNY AND THE TOAD. JOHNNY. I want to go to school, And he won't let me pass; I think that a toad Ought to keep on the grass. I don't want to cry; But I'm afraid I'm going to: Oh, dear me! What am I to do? TOAD. [Illustration] Here's a dreadful thing!-- A boy in the way, I don't know what to do: I don't know what to say. I can't see the reason Such monsters should be loose: I'm trembling all over; But that is of no use. JOHNNY. I must go to school, The bell is going to stop: That terrible old toad,-- If he only would hop! TOAD. I must cross the path, I can hear my children croak; I hope that dreadful boy Will not give me a poke. A hop and a start, a flutter and a rush, Johnny is at school, and the toad in his bush. H.A.F. * * * * * THE HEN WHO HELPED HERSELF. In a city not far from Boston, there once lived a stout little fellow named Willie Wilkins. He was six years old, had red cheeks and blue eyes, and such curly hair that it was always in a tumble, no matter how much it was brushed. One summer his mamma took him into the country to spend a few weeks at a farm-house. The farmer's wife, Mrs. Hill, was very glad to have him come, for she had no girls or boys of her own, to make the house pleasant. She liked to see Willie running about, and hear his shrill voice calling after the great house-dog Bruno. One morning Willie had been as busy as ever at his play: he had been in the orchard, hunting for ripe apples; he had been in the barn, looking for hen's eggs in the sweet hay; he had been down to the brook, sailing his boat; and he had played market-man, with Bruno harnessed for a horse. [Illustration] After all this, the little boy was both tired and hungry: so he went back to the house, and sat down on the broad stone steps outside the kitchen-door to rest. Mrs. Hill was busy in the kitchen, frying doughnuts, and, when Willie saw what she was doing, he was more hungry than ever. The doughnuts looked very brown and nice; but Willie was too bashful to ask for one. At last Mrs. Hill looked up, and, seeing Willie's blue eyes fixed upon her with such an eager gaze, she guessed at once what he wanted. She gave him a doughnut and a kiss, and he sat down on the doorstep with the doughnut in his hand. But he had hardly taken two bites of it, when a strange thing happened. Some hens were scratching around in the yard to find food for themselves and their chickens. Now one old Biddy, who had a large family to provide for, and who was almost tired out with hunting for worms, looked at Willie's doughnut with a longing eye. She walked close up to the doorstep, arched her neck, and clucked, asking as plainly as she knew how for a piece of doughnut. But Willie was too busy even to look at her. At last Biddy became impatient. As no notice was taken of her civil request, she made up her mind to take, without further asking, what Willie did not seem inclined to give. She was a little afraid to do it; but her chickens were teasing for more food, and she was determined to get enough for them. So she stepped up beside Willie, snatched the doughnut out of his hand, and ran away with it as fast as she could. Her chickens ran after her, screaming for the fine feast which their mother had stolen for them. And there sat Willie on the doorstep, his eyes bigger and bluer than ever, amazed to find himself robbed in this way by a respectable looking old hen. He did not know what to do, and was half inclined to cry. But, when little children are in trouble, there is always one thing they can do: they can go to their mamma, and ask her help. Willie thought of this, and trotted off with a very sober face to tell his mamma this wonderful story of the hen who helped herself. L.R. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GREAT JOURNEY. "Come, my baby, all alone!" Was so long a baby-journey ever known? All the way, so wide and bare, From the table to the chair; 'Tis no wonder he should linger, Holding on to papa's finger, Though his mother beckons there From her throne, With, "Come, baby, all alone!" "Come, my baby, all alone!" Were such mingled doubt and daring ever shown? Now he drops his hold, and then Closer clings to it again; Now he steps out with a shiver, As one tries a rapid river, And shrinks back, and wonders when, Taller grown, Baby shall go all alone. "Here comes baby, all alone!" Was a more victorious bravery ever known? Right across the trackless space The small feet have won their race; And he tosses back thereafter Such a peal of ringing laughter! It laughs out from every face, Proud to own "Baby has gone all alone!' Back goes baby all alone. Oh what inches, all at once, has baby grown! Back and forth, with merry cries, Like a little bird he flies; First to father, then to mother, Then to sister, then to brother, Greeting each with laughing eyes. Bravely done! Shout for baby, every one! GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. A WOFUL TALE. [Illustration] CHAPTER I. MAKING FRIENDS. Jane has on a clean apron. In her hand she has a piece of cake. She has just taken one bite when she meets a dog. "Good dog," says Jane, "come let me pat you." He looks up, and whines, as much as to say, "I am glad to see you, Jane." CHAPTER II. RATHER TOO INTIMATE. [Illustration] "You like me, don't you?" says Jane. "You are a sweet little pet. I wonder what your name is. I shall name you Skip. Come up here, Skip, and let me smooth your silken hair." So Skip springs up, and puts both of his front paws on little Jane's clean apron. Jane is startled. Does he want to kiss her, or does he want the cake? Ah, it is the cake that the sly rogue wants! CHAPTER III. THE END. Jane is seated on the ground. She is in tears. Her friend Skip has left her. Her cake has gone too. Did Skip snatch it away from her? Yes, he did, without giving her a chance to take a second bite. And he pushed her down besides. And he ran away and left her. Poor little girl! Ungrateful little dog! JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE BROKEN KITE. It was a splendid great kite, almost as tall as George himself. It was a birthday-gift from his grandfather. George had never owned a kite before; and there never was a happier boy than he when he went out to fly it for the first time. But he came back looking quite sad. "Why, what is the matter my boy?" said his grandfather. George held up his kite. There was a large hole in it. In trying to raise his kite, the little boy, being perhaps rather clumsy, had got it entangled in a tree. Its beauty was spoiled, and George had brought it home without having had the pleasure of seeing it up in the sky. "Well, well," said his kind old grandfather, "we will have it mended and try it again. Better luck next time!" Carlo, the dog, looked up, as much as to say, "If there is anything I can do for you, George, call on me." But George's bright little sister Susan, without saying a word, ran into the house and brought a pot of paste and some paper. "I'll mend it for you, George," said she, "in three minutes." And sure enough, she mended it so neatly that it was as good as new the next morning, and George took it out again with a face as merry as ever. He got it up in fine style this time, and had a grand time flying it. It went up higher and pulled harder than any kite on the play-ground. Susan, who often went out with George to have a share of the fun, was hardly strong enough to hold it. [Illustration] One day when Susan was trying to wind up the string, the stick slipped out of her hands, and away went the kite. George got it back after a hard chase, but it was torn to shreds. Susan now looked sad in her turn. But George only laughed, and said, "Never mind, Susie. Bring out the old paste-pot again." IDA FAY. SUMMER GAMES. Words by GEORGE COOPER. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. "Pretty birds, pretty birds, what do you play, Flying about in the leafy spray!" "Little maid, little man, can't you guess? Every one comes in a tidy dress; Everyone cheerfully keeps the rule; We merry birds are playing school." 2. "Butterflies winging from rose to rose, What are you playing? there, no one knows." "Little maid, little man, oh! 'tis fun, Roaming and sporting till set of sun: Roses and lilies so white and neat, 'Mong these we play at hide and seek." 3. "Gay breezes tossing the leaves about, What are you playing at when you're out?" "Little maid, little man, come and see: Here we go racing from tree to tree; Oh, it is jolly! we never flag; This is our merriest game of tag." 4. "Grasshoppers out in the meadow so sweet, What do you play with your nimble feet?" "Little maid, little man, one, two, three; Hipperty, hopperty, can't catch me! Oh, such a merry, delightful game! Hop-scotch you young folks call its name." * * * * * A KEY THAT WILL WIND ANY WATCH AND NOT WEAR OUT. SOLD by Watchmakers. By mail, 30 cts. Circulars FREE. J.S.BIRCH & CO., 38 Dey St., N.Y. ELGIN WATCHES. All styles. 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16522	----	No. 106. OCTOBER, 1875 Vol. XVIII. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 BROMFIELD STREET. AMERICAN NEWS Co., 119 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK. NEW-ENGLAND NEWS Co., 41 COURT ST., BOSTON. CENTRAL NEWS Co., PHILADELPHIA. WESTERN NEWS Co., Chicago. $1.60 a Year, in advance, Postage included. A single copy, 15 cts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by JOHN L. SHOREY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX. PAGE. THE DELIGHTS OF THE SEASIDE By _Emily Carter_ 97 MABEL AND HER FRIEND CARLO By _Ned_ 99 PLAYING KING By _Alfred Selwyn_ 100 A TRUE ANTELOPE STORY By _Lloyd Wyman_ 102 THE APPLE TREE By _Clara Doty Bates_ 105 A COUNCIL OF HORSES By _Uncle Charles_ 106 THE PET OF THE SHIP By _C.E.C._ 108 THE UNMOTHERLY HEN By _C.R.W._ 111 A DRAWING LESSON 113 THE CHILDREN'S VISIT TO THE LIGHTHOUSE By _Charlie's Mamma_ 114 GOING AFTER COWS By _W.T.O._ 116 ROLY-POLY By _Olive A. Wadsworth_ 119 ELSIE'S DUCKS By _Ida Fay_ 120 FISHING FOR TROUT By _Alfred Selwyn_ 122 WE THREE By _Bella_ 124 PET, THE CANARY By _Mamma_ 125 THE CAT SHOW By _Sallie's Mamma_ 126 GOING THROUGH THE CORN (_Music by T. Crompton_) 128 EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. With this number we begin on the last quarter of the year 1875; and we have the pleasure of informing our host of readers, young and old, that the prospects of "The Nursery" were never so encouraging as now. It has not only held its own during these hard times, but gone on increasing. Canvassers may take hold of it with the assurance that future numbers will be improvements even on the past. "Playing the King," in our present number, will be a good piece for humorous declamation at school. Both the artist and the poet have done their work well. For the coming holidays, there will be no juvenile work equal in attraction to the "NURSERY PRIMER," which will now soon be ready. It will be the best book for beginners ever got up. Already we have received numerous orders for it, to which we shall soon respond. "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful Book" ought to be remembered by dealers ordering for the holidays. These books have only to be seen to be appreciated. The Nursery series of books is allowed to be the best for the purpose designed, namely, the teaching of children to read, _chiefly by their own efforts_, that has ever appeared. Unaccepted articles will be returned to the writers _if stamps are sent with them_ to pay return postage. Manuscripts not so accompanied will not be preserved, and subsequent requests for their return cannot be complied with. [Hand-->] ==New Subscribers for 1876, whose names and money are sent us before November next, will receive the last three numbers of 1875 FREE.== [Hand-->] We want a special agent in every town in the United States. Persons disposed to act in that capacity, are invited to communicate with the publisher. [Illustration] THE DELIGHTS OF THE SEASIDE. Oh merry, merry sports had we, last summer on the beach,-- Lucy and Oliver and I, with Uncle Sam to teach! At times, clad in our bathing-suits, we'd join our hands, all four, And rush into the water, or run along the shore. The wet sand, how it glistened on the sunny summer day! And how the waves would chase us back, as if they were in play! And when, on the horizon blue, a sail we would espy, How "Ship ahoy!" or "Whither bound?" we all of us would cry! The white, white sand, so smooth and hard, oh what a place for fun! With no one by to check our screams, or say, "Now, pray, have done!" The sea-birds, not at all disturbed by all our mirthful noise, Would cry to us, as if they said, "Shout on, shout on, my boys!" Sometimes we'd seek for flattened stones, and skim them o'er the waves; Then go where, in the piled-up rocks, the sea had hollowed caves; Or sit and feel the cooling breeze in silent happiness; Or hunt for seaweed in the clefts, and take it home to press. And well do I remember there a little shallow creek, Where we would go and sail our ships, at least three times a week: We loaded them with cargoes rich, and sent them all to Spain; And back they came with heavy freights, by which we made much gain. Oh! pleasant pastimes on the beach, how often I recall The ocean grand, the distant sails, the rocks, the lighthouse tall! They do not fade, these pictures bright, from memory's inner view; And age itself shall never dim their colors ever new. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] MABEL AND HER FRIEND CARLO. Mabel lives on a hill, quite near a beautiful lake, and is very fond of going with her papa to take a row on the water. Sometimes they visit the woods on the other side of the lake, and pick wild flowers, or go where the water-lilies grow, near the shore, and gather a bunch of the pretty white blossoms. But I must tell about Mabel's friend Carlo. He is a large shaggy dog, owned by a gentleman who lives near. Although quite a young dog, he knows a great deal. He is very fond of water, and is wild with delight at the prospect of a swim. His master owns a large sail-boat, and, as the water near the shore is not deep, he has to use a small boat to reach it. When Carlo sees him take down the oar from its place in the yard, he runs up, and takes it in his mouth, as much as to say, "Let me carry that for you, master." Then he trots down the hill with the oar, feeling very proud that he is allowed to carry it. One day, Carlo took hold of the rope with his teeth, and drew the small boat to the shore; so that his master, who was in it, did not have to use the oar. Mabel loves Carlo very much; and, although he is a large dog, he knows that he must play very gently with little boys and girls, and not hurt them with his great paws. NED PLAYING KING. Ho! I'm a king, a king! A crown is on my head; A sword is at my side; and regal is my tread: Ho, slave! proclaim my will to all the people round,-- The schools are hereby closed; henceforth must fun abound. Vacation shall not end; all slates I order smashed; The man who says "arithmetic"--he must be soundly thrashed; All grammars shall be burnt; the spellers we will tear; The boy who spells correctly--a fool's cap he shall wear. No dolls shall be allowed, for dolls are what I hate; The girls must give them up, and learn to swim and skate; Confectioners must charge only a cent a pound For all the plums and candy that in the shops are found. That man who asks a dime for any pear or peach-- I'll have him hung so high, that none his feet can reach; No baker is allowed hereafter to bake bread; He must bake only pies and cake and ginger-snaps instead. All lecturers must quit our realm without delay; The circus-men and clowns, on pain of death, must stay; All folks who frown on fun, at once must banished be: Now, fellow, that you know my will, to its fulfilment see! ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] A TRUE ANTELOPE STORY. Some time ago, I told the readers of "The Nursery" about catching a buffalo-calf. I will now tell them about a young antelope which we caught, and another which we almost caught. Tip and I were in that part of Western Kansas which is left blank on the maps. Two hunters, Thompson and Hughes, had joined us; and we were coming back from a buffalo-chase. We had been crawling lazily along, over prairie, through valley, up and down hill, since sunrise, and it was now nearly noon. All of a sudden, from a clump of tall grass near us, up sprung an antelope and a pair of beautiful fawns. Like a flash, the old one and one of the fawns started over the brow of the ridge on which they were lying; while the other little fellow began running around in a circle, as you have seen ponies do at the circus, bleating as hard as he could. The boys leaped from the wagons in an instant, while I remained to hold the horses. Ranging themselves around the circle, the three hunters every now and then, dashed headlong after the fawn as he flew past; but missed him by a rod or more every time. Our dog Landy, also, was on hand for the fun; and it was a laughable sight to see the great awkward fellow straining every nerve to overtake the little streak of animated lightning that flashed before him. Landy was a Newfoundland shepherd, and I knew that nothing could induce him to hurt the fawn if he should catch him. While I was watching the sport, and laughing at the drollery of it, all at once I heard a stamping on the other side of the wagon, and, stepping quickly around the horses' heads, I saw the old doe, and a buck and doe with her. [Illustration] As the fawn came bounding along the circle, the buck and does, bleating anxiously, darted in ahead of him, rushing right by the men and dog. Never stopping an instant, the big buck led the way, the does and fawn followed; and, before you could say "Jack Robinson," they were "over the hills, and far away." This was the antelope that we _almost_ caught. The boys came back to the wagons, thoroughly fagged out, and looking painfully silly. Again we drove along, but had not proceeded more than a mile or two, when up sprung another old doe, and ran toward Landy, stamping her fore-foot fiercely. Of course the foolish dog took after her as hard as he could go,--just as she wanted him to do; and a fine chase she led him, always taking care not to leave him so far behind as to discourage him, and make him turn back. We knew at once by her actions that she had a fawn near there; and so, while she was leading Landy away from it, we set about hunting it up. In a few minutes, I came across the little slender-legged beauty, snugly curled up under a tuft of grass. As I came upon him, he dashed out of cover with a shrill, plaintive little "baa-baa, baa-baa," and, as fawns always do in such cases, began running in a small circle. Landy, disgusted with his hopeless chase, came trotting back, and at once struck in after the fawn. This one was not so fleet as the other; and by and by Landy overtook him, and tried to stop him by pushing him over with his nose. This frightened the fawn so badly, that he made direct for Tip, who was squatting in the long grass in wait for him, and rushed joyfully into his arms. We took the bright-eyed little thing into the wagon, and by night he was so tame, that he would follow us around; and, when we lay down to sleep on the ground, I gave him a corner of my blanket for a bed. At last we got back to Thompson's log-house, which stood near the timber; and, when we went away we gave the fawn to his two little girls. I would really like to know what ever became of it. PERRY, O. LLOYD WYMAN. [Illustration] [Illustration] The Apple Tree. Up in the apple-tree See the rosy cheeks; See the balls that look like gold; See the crimson streaks. In the lovely autumn day, Bright as in the bloom of May, Filled with fruit, and fair to see, Is the apple-tree. Under the apple-tree See the rosy cheeks: Little Ginx, the baby, What is it he seeks? Ah! his tiny teeth are white, And are eager for a bite,-- Such a tempting store to see Is the apple-tree. Under the apple-tree, Other rosy cheeks,-- Edith, Mabel, Gold-Locks, Full of happy freaks. Here they run, and there they run, Shouting merrily, if one Fallen in the grass they see From the apple-tree. CLARA DOTY BATES. A COUNCIL OF HORSES. On the large plains of South America, horses run wild in great numbers. They are caught by means of a lasso, which is a rope with a noose at one end. This is thrown with great dexterity over the neck of the wild horse. The artist has called the picture which we here present "A Council of Horses." Do they not look as if they were taking advice of one another? The white horse, with his erect neck and head, seems to be the leader, or chief. He is willing to hear what the others may have to say; but he means that they shall follow him, after all. And can horses really make known their wishes to one another? It would almost seem so, though we cannot prove it. Wild horses choose their own chiefs, and these give the signal of departure. If any extraordinary object appears, the chief commands a halt. He goes to discover what it is, and, after his return, gives, by neighing, the signal of confidence, of flight, or of combat. Five sorts of neighing may be noticed: that of joyfulness, of desire, of anger, of fear, and of sorrow. A feeling peculiar to the horse is emulation. Whoever has witnessed a horse-race can understand the ardor, vehemence, and struggle for victory, which excite the energies of both horses and men. The animals have often tried to hold their rivals back by the teeth. This has been known to happen when the horses are left entirely to themselves, as on some of the Italian race-courses, where the horses run without riders. The horse has a strong memory. Franklin relates, that he had a horse that conducted him through a hilly country where it was difficult to find the road. Every time Franklin himself was unable to tell which road to take, he would leave the reins on the horse's neck, and the good beast, left to itself, never failed to go right. [Illustration] The noblest conquest that man ever made over the animal creation is that of the horse. Every thing in him breathes out vivacity and energy. That need of continual movement, that impatience during repose, that nervous motion of the lips, that stamping of the feet, all indicate a pressing need of activity. UNCLE CHARLES. THE PET OF THE SHIP. PART III. One day when the ship was at anchor in one of the ports on the western coast of South America, a number of sheep were brought on board. Whether Dennis regarded them as intruders, or not, I cannot say; but his treatment of them was anything but kind. [Illustration] The poor sheep stood in great fear of him, and fled in alarm whenever he made a charge at them. One by one they began to disappear; and, at last, only one--a little fellow whom the sailors afterward named Billy--was left. He was greatly distressed when the last of his companions was taken away, and ran bleating about the deck in search of him. To add to his troubles, that dreadful bully Dennis, who had been watching him for some time, was now coming towards him. He was frightened nearly to death. What must have been his delight when he saw in Dennis's eyes a look of pity, and heard his friendly grunt! I don't know what Dennis said; but I do know, that, half an hour afterwards, Billy had forgotten all about his troubles, and was lying down with his head resting in Dennis's fat neck. Even the rough sailors were pleased; and as they looked at Dennis, who was fast asleep, they said, "Now that was a fine thing, and Dennis was the pig to do it. He was willing to fight with a flock of sheep; but, when it came to quarrelling with one little fellow, he was too noble for that." [Illustration] Thenceforth Dennis and Billy were inseparable, and no pair ever agreed better. There were times, however, when Dennis seemed a little vexed with Billy, though he was always as kind as possible. I will tell you of an instance. Billy would always watch the crowd about Dennis, when the latter was taking his bath, with a great deal of anxiety; and, if Dennis did not appear very shortly, he would begin bleating loudly. This would disgust Dennis immensely; but he couldn't bear to think that Billy's feelings were hurt: so he would leave his nice bath, and push his way through the men, until Billy could see him. Then he would return to the pump, grunting in a manner that plainly showed his feelings. He was certainly saying, "I do wish that sheep had a little more of the pig about him. If I am out of his sight for a moment, he begins to cry, and take on in such a manner, that I must show myself to him; and then I have all the trouble of making the sailors pump again." But the sailors only waited to make Dennis beg a little. They had no idea of not pumping again. They were always pleased when he showed so much good feeling for Billy; and generally he got a larger allowance of water to pay for it. I believe that Dennis was not living when the ship reached California. That ever he became food for his sailor friends no one can imagine. Therefore his fate must remain a mystery, unless some of my readers happen to know one of the crew of "The Vanderbilt," and can learn from him something on the subject. If they can, there are many, no doubt, who would be glad to hear from them in the pages of "The Nursery." My little girls would, at least. But, probably, Dennis has more of a place in their thoughts than he can have in those of others. C.E.C. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE UNMOTHERLY HEN. Now, my dear children, if you will be very quiet, I will tell you a true story, which I sometimes tell my little daughter Fanny and her cousin Grace, when they climb up on my knees just before going to bed. On a farm near Fishkill, where Fanny's Aunt Jane lives, they raise a great many chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese. When I was a boy, ever so many years ago, I used to have great fun hunting for eggs through the hay and straw in the barns. Well, last year one of the hens, instead of laying her eggs in the hen-house or barn, like a well-mannered hen, stole off under a wood-pile, and was not seen for three weeks, when she made her appearance with a fine brood of chickens. To keep her from straying away again, she was put into a coop. For several days, she was a good mother to her children; but, after a week or so, she began to act very strangely, and, when her children came near her, she would peck and abuse them. Would you believe it, children? in one day, this unmotherly hen had pecked all but one of her chickens to death; and, when Aunt Jane found this poor chap, he had but one eye, and all the toes were gone from one foot; so that he had to stand on the other. At first, Aunt Jane thought it would be a mercy to kill the little fellow, and put him out of pain; but she finally determined that she would try to cure him. So she took him into the kitchen, and made him quite comfortable in a box half filled with cotton-batting, and placed near the stove. She gave him cracked-corn to eat, and plenty of water to drink, and, after a while, he got so strong, that he hopped out of the box, and was just as jolly a chicken as he could be, with only one eye to see with, and only one foot and the stump of another to walk on. Still he would not go out and play with other chickens of his age, but persisted in hanging around the kitchen. One morning, when Aunt Jane went into the breakfast-room, she found him on the table, helping himself from a dish of stewed potatoes. Such impudence could no longer be tolerated: so the saucy little cripple was banished to the barnyard to learn manners. And what do you think became of the unmotherly hen? She lost all her friends. She was despised and hated by everybody on the farm. She was pointed at as "that cruel, speckled hen," until life became a burden to her. She was not permitted to have any more chickens. When the cold weather came, she was sent to a poor woman for a thanksgiving dinner; and it is to be hoped that all the hens in the barnyard took warning from her fate. C.R.W. LANSINGBURGH. N.Y. [Illustration: Outline Drawing by MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson.] THE CHILDREN'S VISIT TO THE LIGHTHOUSE. Charlie and Georgie were staying at Appledore, one of the Isles of Shoals, and, with two other little children, had many nice times fishing and sailing. The lighthouse is on White Island, which, as you see in the picture, is a lonely and rocky place. It would be very dangerous for any ship to come in from sea on that part of the coast, if it were not for the friendly warning of the brilliant light. One warm, sunny morning, Charlie and Georgie, with their papa and mamma, and their two little friends, rowed across from Appledore, and landed on the pebbly beach of White Island. Here the children ran about, and picked up stones until they were tired; and then the whole party seated themselves on some shaded rocks, and ate their lunch of crackers and bananas. While they were eating, an old white dog, belonging to the lighthouse keeper, came up and made their acquaintance. Georgie shared his cake with him; and it was amusing to see the old dog watching with eager eyes every piece that went into any mouth but his own. When lunch was over, the two older children, Charlie and Anna, led the way; and all were soon climbing the winding stairs in the lighthouse tower. When they reached the top, they found themselves in a small room with windows on every side, and the great lamp in the centre. The lantern is made of red-and-white glass, and turns around, so that first a red, and then a white, light may be seen far out at sea. The keeper explained how, after lighting the lamp, he wound up the machinery which caused the lamp to revolve; and told them of the lonely hours he had spent in the little room below the lamp, while the waves dashed, and the storm beat outside. [Illustration] For many weeks in the winter he lives there all by himself, and sees no one; but, in the summer time, there is hardly a day when he does not have a boat full of visitors. He always gives them a hearty welcome, and makes himself very agreeable. I suppose he feels as though he must make the most of society while he can get it. The children listened to his talk with great interest. With many thanks for his kind attentions, they bade him "Good-by," and, intent on collecting shells on another island near, stepped into their boat, and were rowed away, leaving the man and his friendly dog to enjoy each other's company. CHARLIE'S MAMMA. GOING AFTER COWS. When Edward was eight years old, his mother told him he might go with John, the hired man, to drive the cows from the pasture. How happy the little boy was! Every day he would be ready as soon as John gave the word; and off they would go, through the woods, over hills and rocks, and gurgling brooks, wherever the ding-dong of the distant cow-bells pointed the way. Sometimes they had a long search before they could find all the cows; for the pasture was very large, and the cows would wander about in every part of it, to find the best feeding-places. [Illustration] On the way home, Edward would run ahead of the cows, and open the bars; and sometimes he would sit on the wall, and pat each cow as she came through. When the cows reached the barnyard, Edward would help milk. There was one old cow which he called his own, and which he named Carrie. She always stood very still while being milked, and that was one reason why he liked her better than any of the rest. After milking, he helped John to carry in the milk, and his mother often gave him a mug full. Oh, how nice it was! W.T.O. [Illustration] ROLY-POLY. Roly-Poly is three years old, Three years old, and a trifle over: Roly-Poly is round as a ball, Jolly as larks, and sweet as clover. Roly-Poly has stars for eyes, A heavenly chin with a dimple in it, Peaches for cheeks, the bud of a nose, And a tongue that is never still a minute. Roly-Poly gets up in the morning,-- Morning, quoth I? it's the crack of the dawn!-- Dresses himself in a boot and a stocking, Flies to his sister as swift as a fawn. Pulls at her eyes with his fat little fingers,-- Crazy for stories, that's all the matter!-- "Oh! I am sleepy and cross," she cries; "You, Roly-Poly, disperse and scatter!" But Roly-Poly's a resolute tyrant; Father and mother are captives wholly: So what can a poor big sister do But yield to a king like Roly-Poly. Roly-Poly's a man of business: He canters to market on grandpa's cane, Orders a breakfast of peppermint-candy, And gallops his pony home again. Roly-Poly's a man of pleasure: Sorrow and care are for grown-up stupids: Pictures and kisses, toys and caresses, Fondling and fun, for dimpled Cupids. After the sun has gone out of the south, The night comes down on his eyelids slowly; He topples asleep with his thumb in his mouth,-- What an iniquity, Roly-Poly! OLIVE A. WADSWORTH. ELSIE'S DUCKS. Elsie was the daughter of poor parents, who lived on the borders of a lake. Once, when she was very ill with a fever, a good neighbor made her a present of three young ducks. Elsie was much pleased, and she soon began to get well. Her mother would bring a large tub of water into the room where the little invalid lay; and the three ducks would swim about, and swallow the crumbs which Elsie threw to them. As soon as she got well, she would drive the ducks down to the lake, and let them swim. They were so tame, that they would come out of the water at her call. Sometimes her father and the rest of the family would get into a boat, and he would row across the lake to the opposite side, where some families lived who employed Elsie's mother to wash clothes for them. [Illustration] At these times, the three ducks would follow the boat. Perhaps they did not like to trust their dear Elsie on the water, unless they were by to help her in case of need. Sometimes old and young would join in a song; and then far over the lake would be heard the words: "Come to the sunset tree, the day is past and gone, The woodman's axe lies free, and the reaper's task is done." It was a very pretty sight, on a summer evening, when the bright clouds over the setting sun threw their tints on the water, to see the ducks swimming by the side of the little boat which contained Elsie and the rest of the family. It was so pretty a sight, that a good artist made a picture of the scene. We give you a copy of it here. IDA FAY. [Illustration] FISHING FOR TROUT. The trout belongs to the salmon family. Its flesh is generally of a pale pink or yellow color. It is one of the handsomest fish to be found in our waters. The variations of its tints are very beautiful; and the red spots on its skin distinguish it from common fish. I never had much luck in catching trout. One summer I went from the city to try the trout-streams in Northern New York. I had a handsome rod, and a line nicely baited with an artificial fly; but, though I was very persevering, my success was small. I remember sitting for hours on the slender bridge just below the Upper Cascades of Buttermilk Fall, represented in the picture; but my patience was not rewarded by the capture of a single trout. I was sorry for this; for I had depended on getting one for my dinner. As I was about retiring, a little barefoot fellow, about twelve years old, came along with a common fishing-pole, and hook baited with a worm, and said, "Mister, I'll catch a trout for you."--"Do it, then," said I. He threw his line over a smooth spot in the pool below; and, before he had been at it five minutes, he pulled up a noble trout, large enough for a good dinner. Another and another were pulled up in quick succession. I did not know what to make of it; for I thought I had fished in a very scientific way. "Teach me the knack," said I. "Oh, it can't be taught," replied the boy. "Well, here is a dime for your trouble," said I, putting the fish into my pail. "Do you suppose I take pay for what I do for sport, mister?" said little barefoot, waving back my hand with the air of a prince. After that we became good friends, and met often at the bridge; but I never could learn his knack of catching trout. ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration] WE THREE. What fine times we have together!--Carlo, John, and Bella; by which last I mean myself. Carlo has the advantage of the other two of us sometimes; for he has four legs, and can run faster than either John or I. But then we can do a great many things that Carlo cannot do. For example, John and I sometimes take our books, and sit down on the rocks in the wood, under the thick trees, and read stories. And then Carlo will lie down at our feet, and go to sleep; for he cannot understand the nice stories which the other two friends enjoy so much. But wait till we go into the swamps after berries, or into the wood-borders after hazel-nuts. Then Carlo is wide awake, you may be sure. If he sees a snake, what a noise he makes! We can always tell by the tone of his bark when he has found a snake. And, when John climbs a tree after nuts, how anxiously Carlo will stand underneath and watch him, so afraid is he that the little boy will get a fall! And how the good dog will jump and show his pleasure when he sees John once more safe on the firm ground! Oh! we have fine times together, we three, both in summer and winter; for Carlo likes to see us skate on ice, and is fond of a snowballing frolic. In all our sleigh-rides he goes with us, and takes great care of us. We are dear friends, we three, and I should no more think of striking Carlo than of striking John. BELLA. PET, THE CANARY. A little girl by the name of Agnes, who lives in Maine, and who much enjoys "The Nursery," has a beautiful, bright canary, which her papa brought her one day in a paper-box. Agnes named him Pet. The little fellow has become so tame, that he is allowed to stay out of his cage as long as he wishes, always going to it of his own accord when bedtime comes. One day I found no pins on my pin-cushion; and, seeing them scattered around on the bureau, I wondered who could have done the mischief. I soon found, by watching, that it was Pet's work. Every day he took his stand on the pin-cushion, in front of the glass, to pull out all the pins. I saw him once work a long time trying to stick one back by tipping his head, first one side and then the other, holding the pin tightly in his bill; but he soon gave it up. Little Fannie, Agnes's two-year-old sister, often shares her lunch with him; he sitting on the edge of the saucer, and helping himself while she is eating. As I write, he is sitting on the tassel of the shade, looking out of the window. Some day I'll tell you more of Pet's pranks. MAMMA. [Illustration] THE CAT SHOW. It was at the Crystal Palace, in Sydenham, England. I wish all the readers of "The Nursery" could have seen it. There were over three hundred cats in cages. Each one had a nice red cushion in the front-part of the cage, and in the back part a dish of water or milk. Each one had a ribbon around the neck, to which was attached a medal with the number of the cage. The ribbons were of all colors. The cats that had taken the first prize were known by a little blue flag suspended over the front of the cage, and were the largest cats. Very many of them were lazily sleeping on their cushions, as happy as if they were in their own homes. They took little notice of the people who were looking at them; and, as a placard on each cage ordered spectators to "move on," no one could spend much time in trying to attract their attention. I can hardly tell you about all the cats, there were so many,--some all white, some all black, and some all yellow; black-and-yellow, black-and-white, black-and-gray, gray-and-white, black-and-yellow-and-white; cats with long hair, and cats with short; cats with tails, and cats without. One large Russian cat, called the "Czar," was brown, with smooth, short, shining fur, which looked like seal-skin. Then there were kittens of all sizes and colors. In one cage was a black mother-puss, with four perfectly white kittens, their eyes not yet open. Another black mother had two kittens,--one black, and one gray. A black-and-yellow puss had one black, and one yellow kitten. In some of the cages were two or three large kittens having a good time together. Some of them had balls to play with; some were climbing on the sides of the cage or frolicking with one another; and others were running around after their tails, in real kitten fashion. Just before five o'clock, the baskets in which the cats were brought were placed on the tops of the cages. Some of the cats reached up and tried to get hold of them. They all seemed to know that the show was over, and that they would soon be able to run and jump about, with plenty of air and space. I must not forget to tell you how quiet all these cats were. Not one "Me-ow" was to be heard. When, out of sight of the cages, one would never have known there was a cat in the building. SALLIE'S MAMMA. [Illustration: sheet music] GOING THROUGH THE CORN. Music by T. Crampton. 1. Right and left upstanding, See on either side, Blooming corn expanding, Rippling like the tide. With breath of Eden scented, On the breezes borne,... All in love presented, Going through the corn. 2. Bath'd in light etherial, Ripening in the sun, Royal corn imperial, Bread for every one. 'Tis God's own gift descending, For the poor and lorn,... See the full ears bending, Going through the corn. 3. Thrush and blackbird singing In the coppice near, All the blue sky ringing With their notes so clear! The twitt'ring swallows skimming, Through the air of morn,... Happy all, all hymning, Going through the corn. [Illustration: Colgate & Co. New York] VIOLET TOILET WATER. CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap. * * * * * Price, Twenty-Five Cents. ==NEWSPAPER ADVERTISING== NINETY-EIGHTH EDITION. Containing a complete list of all the towns in the United States, the Territories, and the Dominion of Canada, having a population greater than 5,000 according to the last census, together with the names of the newspapers having the largest local circulation in each of the places named. Also, a catalogue of newspapers which are recommended to advertisers as giving greatest value in proportion to prices charged. Also, all newspapers in the United States and Canada printing over 5,000 copies each issue. 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" " " half cloth ... 50 " == *** The above books will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publisher, ==JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.== * * * * * ==VOLCANIC MEDICINES== Which convulse the system by their violent cathartic action, must not be taken for constipation. The mild, soothing and painless operation of ==Tarrant's Seltzer Aperient== is exactly what is required, and will speedily cure the most chronic cases. ==Sold by all Druggists.== * * * * * $57.60 AGENTS' PROFITS PER WEEK. Will prove it or forfeit $500. New article just patented. Samples sent free to all. Address W.H. CHIDESTER, 267 Broadway, N. York. * * * * * ==WANTED== Agents for the best-selling Prize Package is the world. It contains 15 sheets paper, 15 envelopes, golden Pen, Pen Holder, Pencil, patent Yard Measure, and a piece of Jewelry Single package with elegant prize, post pdd, 25c. Circular free. BRIDE & CO., 769 Broadway. 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We offer no premiums in money._ Address, JOHN L SHOREY, 36 Bromfield St., Boston. 
16524	----	No. 107. NOVEMBER, 1875. Vol. XVIII. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 BROMFIELD STREET. AMERICAN NEWS CO., 119 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK. NEW-ENGLAND NEWS CO., 41 COURT ST., BOSTON. CENTRAL NEWS CO., PHILADELPHIA. WESTERN NEWS CO., CHICAGO. $1.60 a Year, in advance. A single copy, 15 cents. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by JOHN L. SHOREY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN. * * * * * PAGE. FLORA'S LOOKING-GLASS By _Anna Livingston_ 129 CHINESE SCENES By _C.E.C._ 132 MINOS By _Elizabeth Sill_ 134 GRANDMA'S GARDEN By _M.A.C._ 136 GREAT-AUNT PATIENCE AND HER LITTLE LION By _Mamma_ 138 CROSSING THE BROOK 141 NELLIE'S LITTLE BROTHER By _Mary Atkinson_ 142 ANNIE'S WISH By _George Bennett_ 144 A DRAWING LESSON 145 GRANDPA'S PIGS By _Homer_ 146 CAPTAIN BOB By _Emily Carter_ 149 PAPA CAN'T FIND ME By _George Cooper_ 151 THE SOLDIER-DOG By _Pinky_ 152 THE SURPRISE By _Ida Fay_ 153 LITTLE PEDRO By _Cousin Emily_ 154 THE PARROT'S LAMENT By _Jane Oliver_ 156 WHAT THE DOVE LOST By _Aunt Emmie_ 157 THE CHICKEN AND THE DOG By _Uncle Charles_ 158 GIRLS AND BOYS (_Music by T. Crampton_) 160 * * * * * EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. ... Now is the time for Canvassers to begin their operations for 1876. Now is the time for our friends to show their good will. We count all our subscribers as our friends; and all of them may do us a service by renewing their subscriptions immediately. A blank form for that purpose is furnished herewith, and there is plenty of room on it to add the names of a few new subscribers. We hope that every old subscriber will try to send us at least one new one. ... On the last page of our cover will be found the advertisement of "THE NURSERY PRIMER," the most charming book for children, considering its cheapness, that has yet been put upon the market. Look at it, see the beautiful and apt engravings, one or more on every page, and you will want at least a dozen copies to distribute among your little friends at Christmas. ... We call attention, also, to the advertisement of "THE EASY BOOK" and "THE BEAUTIFUL BOOK." No more useful or delightful books for beginners in reading have appeared. These, with "The Nursery Primer." form a cheap but elegant library for childhood. ... _Progress, improvement_, will be our motto in the future as they have been in the past. "The Nursery," we can assure our readers, is younger and more full of life than ever, notwithstanding its nine years. ... Unaccepted articles will be returned to the writers _if stamps are sent with them_ to pay return postage. Manuscripts not so accompanied will not be preserved, and subsequent requests for their return cannot be complied with. * * * * * [Illustration: Hand] ~New Subscribers for 1876, whose names and money are sent us before December next, will receive the last two numbers of 1875 FREE.~ * * * * * [Illustration: Hand] ~We want a special agent in every town in the United States. Persons disposed to act in that capacity, are invited to communicate with the publisher.~ SPECIAL NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS. The number of the Magazine with which your subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, it will be understood that the subscription ends with the current year. Please to look at the printed label. If the number upon it is ~108~, or if _no_ number appears there, you will know that your subscription ends with this year (1875). In that case you are earnestly requested to send the renewal to us _immediately_, so that your address may remain on our printed list, and you may continue to receive the Magazine without any interruption. Remember that the amount to be remitted is ~$1.60~, and that you will receive the Magazine postpaid. To save you the trouble of writing a letter, we annex a blank form that may be used in making the remittance. _JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield St., Boston, Mass._ _Enclosed please find $1.60 for renewal of subscription to "THE NURSERY," to begin with the number for, ................... 1876, to be sent to the following address_:-- -------------------------------+------------------------------- NAME OF SUBSCRIBER. | RESIDENCE. -------------------------------+------------------------------- | | -------------------------------+------------------------------- | | -------------------------------+------------------------------- [Illustration: FLORA'S LOOKING-GLASS.] FLORA'S LOOKING-GLASS. On the edge of a thick wood dwelt a little girl whose name was Flora. She was an orphan, and lived with an old woman who got her living by gathering herbs. Every morning, Flora had to go almost a quarter of a mile to a clear spring in the wood, and fill the kettles with fresh water. She had a sort of yoke, on which the kettles were hung as she carried them. The pool formed by the spring was so smooth and clear, that Flora could see herself in it; and some one who found her looking in it, one bright morning, called the pool "Flora's Looking-Glass." As Flora grew up, some of the neighbors tried to make her leave the old woman, and come and live with them; but Flora said, "No: she has been kind to me when there was no one to care for me, and I will not forsake her now." So she kept on in her humble lot; and the old woman taught her the names of all the herbs and wild flowers that grew in the wood; and Flora became quite skilful in the art of selecting herbs, and extracting their essences. There was one scarce herb that grew on the border of "Flora's Looking-Glass." It was used in a famous mixture prepared by the old woman; and, when the latter was about to die, she said to Flora, "Here is a recipe for a medicine which will, some day, have a great sale. Take it, and do with it as I have done." Flora took the recipe, and the old woman died. But poor Flora was so kind and generous a girl, that she gave the medicine away freely to all the sick people; nor did she try to keep the recipe a secret. So, though she was not made rich by it, she was made happy; and, as weeks passed on, a man who was a doctor, and had known her father, came to her, and said, "Come and live with me and my wife and daughters, and I will send you to school, and see that you are well taught." "But how can I pay you for it all?" asked Flora. "The recipe will more than pay me," said the good doctor. "You shall have a share in what I earn from it; and you shall help me make the extract." Flora now goes to school in winter; but in midsummer she pays frequent visits to "Flora's Looking-Glass," and thinks of the kind old lady who taught her so much about herbs and flowers. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration: A SHOT AT AN EAGLE.] CHINESE SCENES. I have two little girls here in China, who are constant readers of "The Nursery." They think I can tell you little readers at home of some pretty sights they see here. They have asked me so often to do so, that, now they are tucked away for the night, I will try to please them. In landing at Hong Kong, after a long voyage, it looks very odd to see the water covered with small boats, or _sampans_, as the Chinese call them. In each boat lives a family. It is their house and home; and they seldom go off of it. They get their living by carrying people to the ships, and by fishing. They have a place in the bottom of the boat, where they sleep at night; and, in cold weather, they shut themselves up in it to keep from freezing. I went out in one of these boats a few days ago. The water was very rough; and I was quite astonished, after being out some time, to see a pair of bright eyes shining from below, through a small crack, nearly under my feet. Coming back, it was not quite so rough; and the owner of the bright eyes--a little girl four years old, with a baby strapped on her back--came "up topside," as they call up above. When the baby was fussy, the girl would dance a little; and so the baby was put to sleep in this peculiar fashion. It is a very common sight to see a boatwoman rowing the boat, with her baby strapped on her back. The child likes the motion, and is very quiet. It must be very hard for the mother; but the Chinese women have to endure more hardships than that, as I shall show you in future numbers of "The Nursery." In cold weather, these people must suffer very much, they are so poorly clad. They put all the clothing they have on the upper part of their body; and their legs and feet are hardly covered at all. Fortunately for them, it is not very cold in this part of China. [Illustration] In Canton, there are many more boats than here; for the floating population there is the largest in the world. I have seen as many as ten children in one boat. The small ones have ropes tied around them: so, if they fall into the water, they can be picked up easily. A little fire in a small earthen vessel is all that these strange people have to cook their food by. The poorer ones have nothing but rice to eat, and consider themselves very fortunate if they get plenty of that. Those better off have a great variety of food; and some of it looks quite tempting; but the greater part is horrible to look at, and much worse to smell. All the men and boys have their hair braided in long cues. The women have theirs done up in various styles; each province in China having its own fashion. Neither women nor men can dress their own hair. The poorest beggars in the street have their hair done up by a barber. For the men there are street barbers, who shave heads on low seats by the roadside; but, for the higher classes and the women, a barber goes to their houses. The women's hair is made very stiff and shiny by a paste prepared from a wood which resembles the slippery-elm. It takes at least an hour to do up a Chinese woman's hair. C.E.C. HONG KONG, CHINA. MINOS. I read, the other day, an account, taken from an English paper, of a wonderful little dog, called Minos. He knows more arithmetic than many children. At an exhibition given of him by his mistress, he picked out from a set of numbered cards any figure which the company chose to call for. When six was called, for instance, he would bring it; and then, if some one said, "Tell him to add twelve to it."--"Add twelve, Minos," said his mistress. Minos looked at her, trotted over to the cards, and brought the one with eighteen on it. Only once was he puzzled. A gentleman in the audience called out, "Tell him to give the half of twenty-seven." Poor Minos looked quite bewildered for a moment; but he was not to be baffled so. He ran off, and brought back the card with the figure on it. Was not that clever? He has photographs of famous persons, all of which he knows by name, and will bring any one of them when told to. He can spell too; for when a French lady in the company wrote the word "_esprit_," and handed it to him, he first looked at it very hard, and then brought the letters, one by one, and placed them in the right order. When Minos was born, he was very sickly and feeble; and his mother would not take care of him, and even tried to kill him. But little Marie Slager, daughter of the lady who has him now, took him and brought him up herself. [Illustration] From that time he was her doll, her playfellow, her baby. She treated him so much like a child, that he really seemed to understand all that was said to him. She even taught him to play a little tune on the piano. Almost all performing animals are treated so cruelly while they are being trained, and go through with their tricks in so much fear, that it is quite sad to see them. But the best thing about Minos's wonderful performances is, that they were all taught him by love and gentleness. Remember this, boys, when you are trying to teach Dash or Carlo to fetch and carry, or draw your wagon: there is no teacher so good as love. ELIZABETH SILL. [Illustration] GRANDMA'S GARDEN. This is the way; here is the gate, This little creaking wicket; Here robin calls his truant mate From out the lilac-thicket. The walks are bordered all with box,-- Oh! come this way a minute; The snowball-bush, beyond the phlox, Has chippy's nest hid in it. Look at this mound of blooming pinks, This balm, these mountain daisies; And can you guess what grandma thinks The sweetest thing she raises? You're wrong, it's not the violet, Nor yet this pure white lily: It is this straggling mignonette,-- I know you think it silly,-- But hear my story; then, perhaps, You'll freely grant me pardon. (See how the spiders set their traps All over grandma's garden.) Long since I had a little friend, Dear as your darling sister, And she from over sea, did send This token, ere Death kissed her: 'Twas in a box, a tiny slip, With word just how to set it: And now I kiss its fragrant tip,-- You see I can't forget it. [Illustration] Well, here I get thyme, sage, and mint, Sweet marjoram and savory; (Cook says they always give a hint Of summer, rich and flavory); Here's caraway--take, if you will: Fennel and coriander Hang over beds of daffodil, And myrtles close meander. What's next to come, one may not know-- But then I like surprises: Just here, where tender roses blow, A tiger-lily rises. Here cock's-comb flaunts, and columbine Stands shaded by sweetbrier, And marigolds and poppies shine Like beds of glowing fire. A group of honest sunflowers tall Keep sentry in yon corner; And close beside them on the wall, The peacock, strutting scorner, Spreads out his rainbow plumes alone, Or stoops to pick a berry, Where briers climb the mossy stone Beneath those clumps of cherry. Now we'll turn back: you've seen but few Of my old-fashioned beauties, But take away a nosegay new To cheer you at your duties; Take pansies and forget-me-nots; Pluck pinks, bluebells, and roses, And tell me if you know a spot Where flourish fairer posies. Grandma herself no lovelier ground This side of paradise has found. M.A.C. [Illustration] GREAT-AUNT PATIENCE AND HER LITTLE LION. "What relation is she to me?" said black-eyed Fred, as he heard his mother say that her Aunt Patience was coming to visit them. "She is your _great_-aunt," said mamma; "and I want you and Bertie to be very polite to her." The little boys had heard their mamma say that Aunt Patience was "a lady of the old school," and that she was afraid the children would trouble her, as they were not quite so still as the little boys and girls used to be forty or fifty years ago. So Fred and Bertie stood somewhat in awe of this Great-Aunt Patience; and when the dear old lady arrived, and papa and mamma went to the cars to meet her, the two boys were watching rather timidly for the carriage, at the parlor-windows. As she came up the steps, leaning on papa's arm, little Bertie exclaimed, "Oh, see, Freddie! she is not _great_ at all: she is as little as a girl." "Yes, and she laughs too," said Fred; "and her eyes are as blue as mamma's, and her hair as white as a snowdrift." Just then, the driver took off a strange-looking thing from the carriage, and brought it up the steps. It was an old-fashioned trunk, covered with stiff, reddish-brown hair. The boys had never seen a hair trunk, and it seemed to them, at the first glance, more like some kind of an animal than a trunk. Before they had a chance to examine it, their mamma called them to come and kiss their aunt, which they did very politely, as they had been directed. But her sweet face won their hearts at once; and Bertie exclaimed, "Oh, you are not a _big_ Patience: you are a _little_ good Patience, I know; and I am not a bit afraid of you!" [Illustration] "Bless your little heart, dear! what has mamma been telling you to make you afraid of me?" said auntie with a merry laugh. As soon as they could get away, the boys ran up stairs to see what the driver had carried to their aunt's room. Fred discovered what it was as soon as he opened the door; but Bertie, who was not yet four years old, was greatly puzzled. "What can it be?" said he, keeping a safe distance away from it. Now, Fred liked to play tricks upon his little brother sometimes: so he said, with pretended alarm, "Why, perhaps it is a young lion." After this startling suggestion, Bertie did not wait an instant. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, screaming, "O mamma! there is a young lion up stairs. O papa! do get your pistol, and shoot him." The poor child was really in a great fright; and all the family ran at once to see what could be the matter. They met naughty Fred, laughing, but looking rather guilty. "Why, it is only great Patience's trunk," said he. "Bertie thinks it is a lion." Papa told Fred he did very wrong to frighten the boy so; but they all had a good laugh at poor Bertie's mistake. Bertie was soon induced to take a nearer look at his frightful little lion; and, when Aunt Patience took out from it two or three quarts of chestnuts, it lost all its terrors. The boys were allowed to play in the room as much as they pleased; and the innocent hair trunk was made to do duty as a wolf, a bear, a tiger, and various other wild beasts. "I wish you would stay here a hundred years!" said little Bertie to his aunt, one day. "I wish she would stay for ever and ever, and longer too!" said Fred. "What do you go back to your old school for?" said Bertie. "My school!" said Aunt Patience. "I have not any school, and never had any."--"Why," exclaimed the little boy, "my mamma said you were a lady of the old school!" Then mamma and auntie had a merry laugh; and the boys were informed that mamma only meant that Aunt Patience was a very polite lady of the olden time. The boys constantly forgot to call her "auntie," but remembered the title of "great," and the precious old lady was just as well pleased to have them call her "Great Patience." When she bade them good-by, they both cried, though Fred was very private about his tears; and both boys declared that the best visitors they ever had were "Great Patience and her little red lion." MAMMA. [Illustration] CROSSING THE BROOK. Over the stepping-stones, one foot and then another; And here we are safe on dry land, little brother. [Illustration] NELLIE'S LITTLE BROTHER. When Nellie was quite young, she lost her dear mother; and two sad years passed by for the little girl. She used to go and look at her mother's portrait, and wonder whether she could see Nellie, though Nellie could not see her. But, at last, her father gave her a new mother, who was so kind and good, that Nellie loved her very much; though she never could forget her first dear mother. One happy day, Nellie learned that a little brother had been born. How glad she was then! Some weeks passed by before Nellie was allowed to take the little fellow in her arms; but, when she was permitted to do this, it seemed to her that she had never felt such delight before. When he would put up his tiny hands, and feel of her face, she was ready to weep with joy. But one night the nurse was ill; and there was nobody to take care of the baby. Nellie begged so hard to be allowed to sit up and attend to it, that she was at last permitted to do so. She passed two hours, watching baby as he slept, and thinking of the nice times she would have with him when he grew up. At last he awoke; and then Nellie gave him some milk from the porringer, and tried to rock him to sleep again. But the little fellow wanted a frolic: so she had to take him in her arms, and walk about the room with him. She walked and walked till it got to be twelve o'clock; and then she stood in the faint lamplight, before the portrait of her own mother, and it seemed as if the sweet face were trying to speak to her. But Nellie was so very sleepy, that she hardly knew what she was about. She walked, like one in a dream,--from the bed to the cradle, and from the cradle to the bed,--and all at once baby seemed quiet, and she was walking no longer. At last she started up, and found she had been lying on the bed. The faint light of the early dawn was coming through the eastern window-panes. Where was baby? Oh! what had Nellie done with him? She jumped from the bed, ran here and there, but could not find him. At last she looked in the cradle, and there he was, lying snugly asleep. Without knowing what she had done, she had put him in the cradle, and had covered him up, and then, without undressing herself, had gone and lain down on the bed. "Oh, you darling, you darling!" cried Nellie; but the tears came to her eyes, and she could say no more. MARY ATKINSON. [Illustration] ANNIE'S WISH. "I wish I were a fairy,-- A fairy kind and good, I'd have a splendid palace Beside a waving wood. And there my fairy minstrels Their golden harps should play; And little fairy birdies Should carol all the day. "A hundred fairy minions On my commands should wait; And want and pain should never Be known on my estate. I'd send my fairy heralds, To solace, soothe, and aid; And love and joy and pleasure Each dwelling should pervade." "But, ah! you're not a fairy, Dear little Sister Ann; So pray now be contented, And do the best you can. To parents, friends, and teachers, Be docile, true, and fond, And you will work more wonders Than with a fairy's wand." GEO. BENNETT. [Illustration: Outline Drawing by MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson.] [Illustration] GRANDPA'S PIGS. Mamma says that I am only a little boy; but I think I am quite big. I shall be six years old next May. Last summer, mamma took me to grandpa's, to stay a few weeks. When we got to the house, I asked grandpa if I might go with him every day to feed the pigs. He said, "Yes." So the next morning I went. There were four large pigs, and six little ones; and, when the food was put into the trough, they were all so eager to get it, that they kept tumbling over one another. One morning, there was not a pig in the pen. We hunted everywhere, but could not find them. At last, grandpa said, "They must be in the turnip- garden." Sure enough, there they were. The moment they saw us, they scampered; but, after a while, we got them all back in the pen. Then grandpa said he wanted to know how they got out: so we hid in the barn. By and by, an old pig peeped around, to see if anybody was watching. As he saw no one, he grunted, as much as to say, "All right," and started for a large hole beneath the fence. But, before he could get out, grandpa nailed a plank over the hole. I wanted a pig to take home with me; but grandpa said it would not live in the city. HOMER. [Illustration] [Illustration] CAPTAIN BOB. At the hotel near the seaside, where I staid last summer, there was a little fellow who was known to the guests as Captain Bob. He was from the West, where he had never seen a large sheet of water. But, at his first sight of old Ocean, he gave him his heart. Old Ocean seemed to return the tender liking; for he was very kind to Captain Bob, who was nearly all day at the seaside, running some sort of risk. There was nobody to prevent his going in to swim as often as he chose. Nobody had taught Captain Bob to swim. How he learned he could not explain. He was always ready to venture into a boat. He took to sculling and rowing quite as naturally as a duck takes to swimming. One morning, we were all made sad by the report that Captain Bob was missing. He had not been seen since noon the previous day. Messengers were sent in every direction to make inquiries after the captain. Several persons said, that, the last they had seen of him, he was standing by the big post on the wharf, with a little boat in his hand that an old sailor had made for him. Two days were at an end, and still there was no news of Captain Bob. His parents and friends were greatly distressed. But, on the morning of the third day, there was a shout from some of the gentlemen on the piazza; and, on hastening to find out what was the matter, whom should I see but Captain Bob, borne on the shoulders of two young men, and waving his cap over his head. Bob's story was this: A mackerel-schooner was anchored off shore; and Bob had persuaded the sailor, who had given him the toy-boat, to take him on board. The sailor had done this, not suspecting what was to happen. A school of mackerel had been seen; and, as the breeze was fair, the skipper spread all sail, and was soon five miles off shore. The mackerel were so plenty that the fishermen made the most of their luck, and did not return to the shore near the hotel till the third day. "Did you have a good time, captain?" I asked. "A _good_ time!" exclaimed Captain Bob. "It was the jolliest time I ever had. You should have seen me pull in the fish." After this adventure, Captain Bob was more of a hero than ever among the people of the hotel. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] "PAPA CAN'T FIND ME." No little steps do I hear in the hall; Only a sweet silver laugh, that is all. No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight; I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright. Two little hands a wee face try to screen: Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen. "Where is my precious I've missed so all day?" "Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say. "Dear me! I wonder where baby can be!" Then I go by, and pretend not to see. "Not in the parlor, and not on the stairs? Then I must peep under sofas and chairs." The dear little rogue is now laughing outright, Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight. Home will indeed be sad, weary, and lone, When papa can't find you, my darling, my own. GEORGE COOPER. THE SOLDIER-DOG. I have been reading in "The Nursery" the story about Mellie Hoyt and his dog Major. My papa often tells me about another good old dog, named Major. He was a soldier-dog, that papa knew when he went to the war. Major was a kind dog to all his friends; but he would bark at strangers, and sometimes he would bite them. He once tried to bite a steam-engine as it came whistling by; but the engine knocked him off the track, and almost killed him. He had never seen a steam-engine before, and he knew better than to attack one after that. But he was not afraid of any thing else. When the soldiers went out to battle, Major would go with them, and bark and growl all the time. Once, in a battle way down in Louisiana, Major began to bark and growl as usual, and to stand up on his hind-legs. Then he ran around, saying, "_Ki-yi, ki-yi_." By and by he saw a cowardly soldier, who was running away; and he seized that soldier by the leg, and would not let him go for a long time. He wanted him to go back and fight. Soon after this, Major began to jump up in the air, trying to bite the bullets that whistled over his head. When a bullet struck the ground, he would run and try to dig it out with his paws. At last he placed himself right in front of an advancing line of soldiers, as much as to say, "Don't come any further!" He seemed to think that he could drive them back all alone. By and by a bullet hit Major as he was jumping about; and he dropped down dead. The soldiers all felt sad, and some of them cried. They missed him like one of their comrades, and they had many to mourn for in that dreadful battle. I hope there never will be another war. PINKY. PORTLAND, ME. [Illustration] THE SURPRISE. "Whose hands are over your eyes? Guess quick." "Old Mother Hubbard's?" "Wrong: guess again." "The good fairy's, Teenty Tawnty?" "There are no fairies in this part of the country, and you know it. Guess again." "Well, I guess it is the old woman that lived in a shoe." "She is not in these parts. I will give you one more chance. Who is it?" "I think it must be little Miss Muffit,--the one who was frightened by a spider." "Nonsense! One would think you had read nothing but 'Mother Goose's Melodies.'" "Can it be Tom, Tom, the piper's son?" "No, I never stole a pig in my life. Now give the right name this time, or prepare to have your ears pulled." "Oh, that would never do! I think it must be my cousin, Jenny Mason, who is hiding the daylight from me." "Right! Right at last! One kiss, and you may go." IDA FAY. [Illustration] LITTLE PEDRO. Pedro is a little Italian boy, who lives in Chicago. When I first knew him, he was roaming about from house to house, playing on the fiddle, and singing. Sometimes kind persons gave him money, and then he always looked happy. But many times he got nothing for his music, and then he was very sad; for he lived with a cruel master, who always beat him when he came home at night without a good round sum. One day last spring, he had worked very hard; but people were so busy moving, or cleaning house, that, when night came, he had very little money. He felt very tired: so he went home with what he had. But his cruel master, without stopping to hear a word from the little fellow, gave him a whipping, and sent him out again. He came to my gate, long after I had gone to bed, and played and sang two or three songs; but he did not sing very well, for he was too tired and sleepy. Just across the street, in an unfinished building, the carpenters had left a large pile of shavings. Pedro saw this by the moonlight, as he went along; and he thought he would step in and lie down to rest. His head had hardly touched the pillow of shavings before he was asleep. He dreamed about his pleasant home far away in Italy. He thought he was with his little sisters, and he saw his dear mother smile as she gave him his supper; but, just as he was going to eat, some sudden noise awoke him. He was frightened to find it was daylight, and that the sun was high in the sky. In the doorway stood a kind gentleman looking at him. Pedro sprang up, and took his fiddle; but the gentleman stopped him as he was going out, and asked if that pile of shavings was all the bed he had. He spoke so kindly, that Pedro told him his story. The gentleman felt so sorry for him, and was so pleased with his sweet, sad face, that he took him to his own home, and gave him a nice warm breakfast; and, being in want of an errand-boy, he concluded to let Pedro have the place. Pedro has lived happily in his new home ever since; and, though he still likes to play on his fiddle, he has no wish to return to his old wandering mode of life. COUSIN EMILY. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PARROT'S LAMENT. Swinging in a gilded cage, Petted like a baby's doll, Thus I spend my dull old age, And you call me "Poll." But in youth I roved at will Through the wild woods of Brazil. When you ask me, "What's o'clock?" Or repeat some foolish rhyme, And I try your speech to mock, I recall the time When I raised my voice so shrill In the wild woods of Brazil. Sporting with my comrades there, How I flew from bough to bough! Then I was as free as air: I'm a captive now. Oh that I were roaming still Through the wild woods of Brazil! JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] WHAT THE DOVE LOST. Uncle Tom was walking slowly down the street, one sunny day, when he saw a boy put his hand into a paper bag, take out a lemon, and throw it at a plump gray pigeon that was trying to pick up some crumbs which had been thrown out. Poor little pigeon! He had been fluttering, off and on, over the crumbs,--now scared away by a fast trotting-horse, now flying to a door-post to get rid of some rapid walker,--and had only just alighted to pick up his breakfast, when he was struck right in the back by the bullet-like lemon. Uncle Tom ran as quickly as he could, and took the panting little thing up in his hand very gently. Just then the horse-car came along; and uncle jumped into it, saying to himself, "I'll take this pigeon out to little Emily. How she will dance and skip when she sees it!" The car went on and on, ever so far away from Boston, and by and by was half-way across a bridge. The pigeon had lain nestled under Uncle Tom's coat; and the warmth seemed to make it feel better. First it put one round bright eye out, then the other, and took a peep at the people sitting near it. Then, I think, its back must have ceased aching; for it grew lively, and stirred around. Uncle Tom felt it moving, and was afraid that it would presently try to get away: so he held it as close as he could without hurting it. But just as he thought how safe he had it, and how tame it would be when it had lived with its little mistress a while, it popped its head out again. It popped so far out this time, that there was nothing to take hold of but its tail-feathers. Uncle Tom clutched those firmly; but, to his great astonishment, the pigeon gave another spring, and pulled itself away, leaving all its beautiful tail-feathers behind it. Away it flew, down the car, over the heads of the people, out of the door, past the head of the conductor (who did not know that he had such a strange passenger), and out over the water, back to Boston. Uncle Tom was left with only a handful of dark-gray feathers to take home with him; and little Emily had no pet pigeon, after all. AUNT EMMIE. THE CHICKEN AND THE DOG. Tantalus, as the old Greek fable tells us, was King of Lydia. Being invited by Jupiter to his table, he heard secrets which he afterwards divulged. To divulge a secret is to make it vulgar, or common, by telling it. Poor Tantalus was punished rather severely for his offence; but he had sinned in betraying confidence. Sent to the lower world, he was placed in the middle of a lake, the waters of which rolled away from him as often as he tried to drink of them. Over his head, moreover, hung branches of fruit, which drew away, in like manner, from his grasp, whenever he put forth his hand to reach them. And so, though all the time thirsty and hungry, he could not, in the midst of plenty, satisfy his desires. Therefore we call it to tantalize a person to offer him a thing he longs for, and then to draw it away from him. [Illustration] In the picture, a little chicken is looking up at a spider which sits over her in the midst of its web. She watches it, hoping that it will come so near to her little bill, that she can peck at it, and swallow it. But the spider is on its guard. To and fro it swings, letting itself down a little bit, but never so far as to be in any danger; and then, just as the enemy prepares to snap at it, it climbs nimbly into its secure network. The second Tantalus of our picture, the little dog, has, also, small prospects of reaching the object on which his heart is set. At some distance from him on the ground lies a bone, which he longs to get; but the chain which fastens him, prevents his going near enough to seize it. Both the dog and the chicken are _tantalized_, you see. Let us keep down our desires, try to reach only what is fairly ours, be content with little, and never betray confidence. Then shall we avoid the fate of Tantalus. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration: Musical Score] GIRLS & BOYS T. CRAMPTON 1. In all the land by field and town, The boys and girls go up and down. In all the land the girls and boys Wherever they go they make a noise. They play at cricket, tops and games, With balls that carry various names; They whirl the skipping rope, and drive The hoop till it appears alive. 2. They thread the needle in the ring; They play at tea and visiting; Or woman poor from Sandyland, whose talk is hard to understand. Their lungs and limbs they freely use, They never mope or have the blues; And it is always half their joys In all their play to make a noise. 3. They play at Hopscotch, marbles, dumps. And Fly the garter; oh! what jumps! From Tipcat quick away I fly For fear they'll hit me in the eye. In winter on the ice they go, And keep the pot a-boiling so, And tho' they shout and make a noise, Somehow, _I like these girls and boys_. [Illustration: COLGATE & CO. NEW YORK] VIOLET TOILET WATER. CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap. * * * * * ~BOYS AND GIRLS~. Send 10 cents and stamp, and receive 25 beautiful ~Decalomania~, the height of parlor amusement, with full instructions, new and novel, or send stamp for sample to E.W. HOWARD & CO. P.O. Box 143, Chicago. * * * * * ~HOW~ TO CANVASS. To make Frames, Easels, Passe, Picture Books, etc. Send two stamps for book and designs. J. JAY GOULD, Boston, Mass. * * * * * [Illustration] ~AGENTS WANTED.~ Men or women. $34 a week. Proof furnished. Business pleasant and honorable with no risks. A 16 page circular and Valuable Samples free. A postal-card on which to send your address costs but one cent. Write at once to F.M. REED, 8th st., NEW YORK * * * * * ~NOTICE.~ Any of the following articles will be sent by mail, postpaid on receipt of the price named:-- [Illustration] PRICE ~Fret, or Jig-Saw~, for fancy wood-carving. With 50 designs, 6 saw-blades, Impression-paper, &c. ~$1.25~ ~Fuller's Jig-Saw Attachment~ by the aid of which the use of the Saw is greatly facilitated. (See advertisement on another page) ~1.50~ ~Hollywood Designs~ for Amateur Wood-Carvers, ready for cutting, twenty patterns in a box, for ~.75~ ~New Spelling Blocks~ ~1.00~ ~Picture Cubes~, For the Playroom ~1.50~ ~Initial Note-Paper and Envelopes~ ~.50~ " " " ~.75~ " " " ~1.00~ " " " ~1.50~ ~Boys and Girls Writing-Desk~ ~1.00~ ~The Kindergarten Alphabet and Building Blocks~, Painted: Roman Alphabets, large and small letters, numerals, and animals ~.75~ " " " " ~1.00~ " " " " ~1.50~ ~Crandall's Acrobat or Circus Blocks~, with which hundreds of queer, fantastic figures may be formed by any child ~1.15~ ~Table-Croquet~. This can be used on any table--making a Croquet-Board, at trifling expense ~1.50~ ~Game of Bible Characters and Events~ ~.50~ ~Dissected Map of the United States~ 1.00~ Books will be sent at publishers' prices. JOHN L. SHOREY, Publisher of "The Nursery." 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. ~THE NURSERY.~ PREMIUM-LIST FOR 1876. For ~three~ new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following articles: a heavily gold-plated pencil-case, a rubber pencil-case with gold tips, silver fruit-knife, a pen-knife, a beautiful wallet, any book worth $1.50. For ~five~, at $1.60 each, any one of the following: globe microscope, silver fruit-knife, silver napkin-ring, book or books worth $2.50. For ~six~, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following: a silver fruit-knife (marked), silver napkin-ring, pen-knives, scissors, backgammon board, note-paper and envelopes stamped with initials, books worth $3.00. For ~ten~, at 1.60 each, select any one of the following: morocco travelling-bag, stereoscope with six views, silver napkin-ring, compound microscope, lady's work-box, sheet-music or books worth $5.00. For ~twenty~, at $1.60 each, select any one of the following: a fine croquet-set, a powerful opera-glass, a toilet-case, Webster's Dictionary (unabridged), sheet-music or books worth $10.00. ---> ~Any other articles equally easy to transport may be selected as premiums, their value being in proportion to the number of subscribers sent. Thus, we will give for three new subscribers, at $1.60 each, a premium worth $1.50; for four, a premium worth $2.00; for five, a premium worth $2.50; and so on.~ BOOKS for premiums may be selected from any publisher's catalogue: and we can always supply them at catalogue prices. Under this offer, subscriptions to any periodical or newspaper are included. * * * * * ~SPECIAL OFFERS.~ ~BOOKS.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any _half-yearly_ volume of THE NURSERY; for ~three~, any _yearly_ volume: for ~two~, Oxford's Junior Speaker; for ~two~, The Easy Book; for ~two~, The Beautiful Book; for ~three~, Oxford's Senior Speaker; for ~three~, Sargent's Original Dialogues; for ~three~, an elegant edition of Shakspeare, complete in one volume, full cloth, extra gilt, and gilt-edge; or any one of the standard British Poets, in the same style. ~GLOBES.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, we will give a beautiful Globe three inches in diameter; for ~three~, a Globe four inches in diameter; for ~five~, a Globe six inches in diameter, ~PRANG'S CHROMOS~ will be given as premiums at publisher's prices. Send stamp for a catalogue. ~GAMES, &c.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, we will give any one of the following: ~The Checkered Game of Life~, ~Alphabet and Building-Blocks~, ~Dissected Maps, &c. &c.~ For ~three~ new subscribers, any one of the following: ~Japanese Backgammon or Kakeba~, ~Alphabet and Building Blocks~ (extra). ~Croquet~, ~Chivalrie~, and any other of the popular games of the day may be obtained on the most favorable terms, by working for "The Nursery." Send stamp to us for descriptive circular. ~MARSHALL'S ENGRAVED PORTRAITS OF LINCOLN AND GRANT.~ Either of these large and superbly executed steel engravings will be sent, postpaid, as a premium for three new subscribers at $1.60 each. *.* Do not wait to make up the whole list before sending. Send the subscriptions as you get them, stating that they are to go to your credit for a premium; and, when your list is completed, select your premium, and it will be forthcoming. *.* _Take notice that our offers of premiums apply only to subscriptions paid at the full price: viz., $1.60 a year. We do not offer premiums for subscriptions supplied at club-rates. We offer no premiums for one subscription only. We offer no premiums in money._ Address ~JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ ~THE NURSERY.~ * * * * * ~TERMS--1876.~ ~SUBSCRIPTIONS~,--$1.60 a year, in advance. Three copies for $4.30 year; four for $5.40; five for $6.50; six for $7.60; seven for $8.70; eight for $9.80; nine for $10.90, each additional copy for $1.20; twenty copies for $22.00, always in advance. ~Postage is included in the above rates. All magazines are sent postpaid.~ A SINGLE NUMBER will be mailed for 15 cents. _One sample number will be mailed for 10 cents._ VOLUMES begin with January and July. Subscriptions may commence with any month, but, unless the time is specified, will date from the beginning of the current volume. BACK NUMBERS can always be supplied. _The Magazine commenced January, 1867._ BOUND VOLUMES, each containing the numbers for six months, will be sent by mail, postpaid, for $1.00 per volume; yearly volumes for $1.75. COVERS, for half-yearly volume, postpaid, 35 cents; covers for yearly volume, 40 cents. PRICES OF BINDING.--In the regular half-yearly volume, 40 cents; in one yearly volume (12 Nos. in one), 50 cents. If the volumes are to be returned by mail, add 14 cents for the half-yearly, and 22 cents for the yearly volume, to pay postage. REMITTANCES should be made, if possible, by Bank-check or by Postal money-order. Currency by mail is at the risk of the sender. * * * * * ~IN CLUB WITH OTHER PERIODICALS.~ _Price_ _With Nursery_ Harper's Monthly $4.00 $4.75 Harper's Weekly 4.00 4.75 Harper's Bazar 4.00 4.75 Atlantic Monthly 4.00 4.75 Scribner's Monthly 4.00 4.75 Galaxy 4.00 4.75 Lippincott's Magazine 4.00 4.75 Appleton's Journal 4.00 4.75 Leslie's Illustrated Weekly 4.00 4.75 Leslie's Lady's Journal 4.00 4.75 Demorest's Monthly 3.10 4.25 The Living Age 8.00 9.00 St. Nicholas 3.00 4.00 Arthur's Home Magazine 2.50 3.60 Wide-Awake 2.00 3.20 Godey's Lady's Book 3.00 4.00 Hearth and Home 3.00 4.00 The Horticulturist 2.10 3.20 American Agriculturist 1.50 2.70 Ladies Floral Cabinet 1.30 2.60 Mother's Journal 2.00 3.25 The Household 1.00 2.20 The Sanitarian 3.00 4.00 Phrenological Journal 3.10 4.00 N.B.--To obtain the benefit of the above rates, it must be distinctly understood that a copy of "The Nursery" should be ordered with _each_ magazine clubbed with it. Both Magazines must be subscribed for at the _same time_; but they need not be to the same address. We furnish our own Magazine, and agree to pay the subscription for the other. Beyond this we take no responsibility. The publisher of each Magazine is responsible for its prompt delivery; and complaints must be addressed accordingly. * * * * * ~NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS.~ The number of the Magazine with which your subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, it will be understood that the subscription ends with the current year. ~No notice of discontinuance need be given, as the Magazine is never sent after the term of subscription expires.~ Subscribers will oblige us by sending their renewals promptly. State always that your payment is for a _renewal_, when such is the fact. In changing the direction, the _old_ as well as the _new_ address should be given. The sending of "The Nursery" will be regarded as a sufficient receipt. ~Any one not receiving it will please notify us immediately, giving date of remittance.~ Address ~JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ "Truly a Treasure of Delight for the Little Ones." "Not only a Primer, but a Superb Present for a Child." ~Ready Nov. 20, 1875,~ ~THE NURSERY PRIMER.~ ~Beautifully Bound, in Boards.~ SIXTY-FOUR PAGES OF THE SIZE OF "THE NURSERY." Every Page Richly Illustrated. ~PRICE ONLY 30 CENTS!~ "_In cheapness and attractiveness, the greatest book ever put into the market as a Holiday-Gift for children._" "_The Best Book yet for Teaching Children to Read._" "_The Choicest and Cheapest of all books for children._" "_With such tools as this, learning to read is no longer a task_." ~EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE.~ "We can confidently claim that no Primer or First Book for Children has yet appeared, either in Europe or America, which, in the variety, beauty, aptness, and interest of its illustrations, can be compared with this. As an aid in Object-Teaching it will be found invaluable." ~Price 30 Cents. A single copy by mail for 30 Cents. Six Copies sent by mail for $1.50.~ ---> Dealers wanting a cheap, but truly elegant work for children, to place on their counters the coming holidays, should order at once. Address ~JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ 
17536	----	[Transcriber's note: As pages 23 and 24 were missing from the original scanned booklet they were not included in this transcription.] No. 169. JANUARY, 1881. Vol. XXIX. THE NURSERY A MONTHLY MAGAZINE FOR YOUNGEST READERS NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, BOSTON $1.50 a year, in advance. 15 cents a single copy. Entered at the Post Office at Boston as Second-Class Matter. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. * * * * * CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE. * * * * * PAGE THAT MERRY CHRISTMAS By _Uncle Charles_ 2 BABY'S QUIET FAMILY By _W.G._ 3 BABY AND THE BIRD By _A.B.C._ 4 A NEW YEAR'S DIALOGUE By _Marian Douglas_ 5 THE SHEEP FOLLOW THE SHEPHERD By _Dora Burnside_ 7 "A FRIEND IN NEED" By _Jane Oliver_ 8 "IN A MINUTE" By _Mary Addison_ 10 THE CHRISTMAS-TREE By _George S. Burleigh_ 12 DOWN THE RIVER AFTER THE BOY By _Alfred Stetson_ 14 "FLUTTER, FLUTTER!" By _Mary N. Prescott_ 16 DRAWING-LESSON By _Harrison Weir_ 17 CHRISTMAS BELLS By _George Cooper_ 18 JACK THE MAGPIE By _Aunt Sadie_ 19 PORTRAITS FOR LITTLE FOLKS By _K.G._ 21 AMONG THE HOLLY-BUSHES By _Emily Carter_ 23 (Missing) THE BASKET OF APPLES By _Uncle Sam_ 25 CHRISTMAS (_Music by T. Crampton_) 32 * * * * * A BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD. Vitalized Phos-phites (This differs from all other tonics because it is composed of the nerve-giving principles of the ox brain and wheat germ.) It gives vitality to the insufficient growth of children; feeds the brain and nerves; prevents fretfulness; gives quiet rest and sleep. An ill-fed brain learns no lessons, and is excusable if peevish. Restless infants are cured in a few days. For sale by Druggists, or mail, $1.00. =F. CROSBY 666 8TH AVE. N.Y.= * * * * * EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. *** "The Nursery" is fortunate, not only in being in charge of its original editors, but in retaining the good will and hearty co-operation of its most valued contributors. *** Among these the name of Marian Douglas deserves special mention. We present a capital poem from her pen, and are promised a series of a similar character, one of which will appear in each number during the year. The name of George Cooper is also endeared to our readers by his charming verses. A poem by him is given in this number, and we have others in store. George S. Burleigh, Emily Carter, Jane Oliver, Mary N. Prescott, and other favorites contribute to our table of contents. *** Some choice things that came too late for this issue will appear in future numbers. Poems by Mrs. M.D. Brine, illustrated by her sister, Miss Northam, poems and sketches by Josephine Pollard, Clara Doty Bates, and others, are among the treasures held in reserve. =The Yearly Volume of "The Nursery" for 1880 is now ready. Sent by mail, postpaid, for $1.75.= Direct all communications to =THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO.,= 36 _Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass._ =_The Nursery_ 1867-1881 A MONTHLY MAGAZINE FOR YOUNGEST READERS.= * * * * * This unique and much-admired work, begun in 1867, and now a _welcome and trusted visitor_ in every intelligent family where there is a child, gives in _every number_ a profusion of THE CHOICEST PICTURES, Executed in the _best and most costly style_, and, in most cases, from _original designs_ made expressly for the young. ITS ARTICLES, Whether in prose or verse, are adapted with the greatest care to the capacities of children, and are, with very rare exceptions, wholly original. A SONG SET TO MUSIC, By a skilful composer, and specially adapted to children's voices, is given in every number. * * * * * TERMS: =Subscription Price (postage included), $1.50. Payable always in advance. 15 cents a single number. A Sample Number will be sent for 10 cents.= Address all communications to THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. THE NURSERY. * * * * * WHAT THE PAPERS SAY OF IT. If you would teach your child to read in the easiest, quickest, and most practicable way, easiest both to the child and the teacher, put "The Nursery" in its hands every month. Our word for it, you will be surprised at the result. "The Nursery" will be found a primer, a reading-book, drawing-book, story-book, and lesson-book, all in one.--_Boston Transcript._ "The Nursery" is as great a favorite as ever; and all attempts to imitate it have failed. No other magazine can supply its place. No family where there are small children can afford to be without it.--_Providence Press._ Among American periodicals for the young, there is not one that we can more confidently commend than "The Nursery." Indeed, there is not one of the kind in Europe that quite comes up to this.--_N.Y. Tribune._ Every house that has children in it needs "The Nursery" for their profit and delight; and every childless house needs it for the sweet portraiture it gives of childhood.--_Northampton Journal_. "The Nursery" continues to be without a rival in its own field, and fills its place so well that none need wish for anything better. The idea that anything is good enough for the little ones finds no place in the mind of its editor, and both stories and pictures are of the choicest.--_Chicago Advance._ No better outlay of money can be made for children than in subscription to such a magazine as "The Nursery," as it affords not only pleasure, but real benefit.--_Richmond (Va.) Religious Herald._ We again repeat our hope that no family in this country, in which there is a child or children, will be without this beautiful, simple, and natural little magazine.--_Marshall (Mich.) Expounder._ Of the many attempts to imitate it, all have failed. We are proud of such an American journal for children.--_Illinois Schoolmaster._ Teachers who have tried it say that it charms the children into learning to read. Blessings on the sunny "Nursery"! Far and near may households be brightened by its presence!--_Massachusetts Teacher._ A bright, pleasant little pictorial, with which the smallest children able to read at all may be amused and instructed. Parents looking for such reading will be interested in it.--_N.Y. Tribune._ "The Nursery" is the very best magazine that we know for children. It is beautifully illustrated, and the stories are _always clean and pure_, inculcating kindness to one another and to animals. Its lessons are all in favor of truth, honor, and honesty. It should be in every family where there are young children to be entertained and instructed.--_Woman's Journal._ "The Nursery" is 'a magazine for youngest readers,' and, as we know by its use in our own family, most admirably adapted for the purpose for which it is intended.--_Charleston (S.C.) Carolinian._ Those who wish to furnish their little ones, just learning to read, with something fresh,--something written with great care, and illustrated with skill, to which the ordinary 'primers' cannot and do not attain,--should provide themselves with "The Nursery."--_Detroit Post._ To those of our readers who have young children of their own, or who are called on to suggest quiet amusement for little patients, we can conscientiously commend "The Nursery," a monthly juvenile magazine published in Boston, as the only periodical we have been able to find suited to the comprehension of children under ten or twelve years of age.--_N.Y. Medical Gazette._ We wish we could express in fitting words our gratitude to the editor, publisher, and contributors of this exquisite little magazine. It is intended for the small boys and girls who do not read very long words; but, if we mistake not, 'children of a larger growth' will be fascinated by its charming pictures and its dainty execution.--_N.Y. Liberal Christian._ Few better services can be done than to banish namby-pamby trash from juvenile literature, and to substitute for it what is healthy and jolly and interesting. This is the work that "The Nursery" performs for little children, and we therefore take pleasure in its deserved success.--_N.Y. Independent._ [Illustration: THAT MERRY CHRISTMAS.] THAT MERRY CHRISTMAS. [Illustration: W] What a glad noise there was that Christmas morning! The children had got up early to look in their stockings. John's were not quite large enough to hold all of his gifts. It is rather hard to crowd a sword, a gun, and a rocking-horse all into one stocking. Mary had a fine new doll. Harry had a box, and, on taking off the cover, up sprang a wise-looking little man, with a cap on his head. Jessy had a doll, and a very pretty one it was too. Tommy had a what-do-you-call-it. Why did he look up the chimney? I think it was to see if there was any sign of Santa Claus. John mounted his horse, waved his sword, and held up his gun. But very soon he began to get tired of them all. The thought came into his head that he was more than eight years old. "What do I want of these toys?" said he. "Why was I so silly as to choose them, when aunt Susan would have given me a microscope?" And John laid down his sword and gun, feeling quite above such childish things. When aunt Susan came, she saw that John did not seem as glad over his presents as the rest of the children did over theirs. "What is the matter, John?" she asked. "Why are you not playing with your toys?" "Aunt Susan," said John, "I wish I had taken the microscope. Is it too late?" "No, John. I thought you might repent your choice, so I said to Mr. Grover, who keeps the toy-shop, 'I think I shall want to change the microscope: can I do so?' He said, 'Yes.' His shop will be open till eleven o'clock. So run round and get the microscope, and tell him to send to-morrow and take back the toys." In five seconds John had on his hat, and was running down the street to Mr. Grover's. He came back with the microscope in about half an hour, and was full of joy at the change. A merry Christmas it was then for all the children! UNCLE CHARLES. * * * * * [Illustration: Baby's quiet family] BABY'S QUIET FAMILY. Whenever I walk With my children three, I laugh and I talk For the whole family. There's Ruth (her arm's broken!) And Jane and Annette, They never have spoken Or laughed even, yet; But I know when they're glad,-- Mothers always can tell,-- And I'm sad when they're sad, For I love them so well! Whenever we walk, Though they're still as can be, I can easily talk Quite enough for the three. W.G. BABY AND THE BIRD. [Illustration: BABY AND THE BIRD.] Baby is looking out of the window. Jane is holding him up so that he will not fall out. What does he see that makes him jump up and down with joy? He sees a dear little bird. It has come for its daily meal of seed and crumbs. It is not afraid of baby? Why should it be? How could any bird be afraid of such a dear child? When the bird has had its dinner, I think it will sing. A.B.C. [Illustration: Chapter header] A NEW YEAR'S DIALOGUE. HARRY. Loud from the north the wild wind blows; It sweeps the blue sky clear, And parts, amid the drifting snows, The path of the New Year; The glad New Year that always brings So many bright delightful things, Gay holidays and merry plays, And loving wishes from our friends. A "Happy New Year" let us make, And keep it "happy" till it ends. By trying every day to see What good, good children we can be. KATE. Last year, when any thing went wrong, I used to fret the whole day long, And sometimes sob and cry aloud, Dark-looking as a thunder-cloud; But, even in a gloomy place, I now must keep a sunny face; For, all this year, I mean to see How bright and cheerful I can be. MARY. Last year, the flitting butterfly Was not so idle as was I; I liked my sports and frolic well, But would not learn to read and spell: Now I must change my ways at once, Or I shall surely be a dunce. This glad New Year that has begun, Must leave me wiser when 'tis done. JAMES. Last year, my temper was so quick, My angry words came fast and thick, And brother Tom I'd scold and strike When he did what I did not like. I am so sorry! Loving words Are sweeter than the song of birds; And, all this year, I mean to see If I a gentle child can be. ALL. (_Four or more._) The past is past; the year is new: We will be patient, brave, and true; When we are bidden, quick to mind; Unselfish, courteous, and kind; And try in every place to see What good, good children we can be. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration: Tail piece] [Illustration: Chapter header] THE SHEEP FOLLOW THE SHEPHERD. The tenth chapter of St. John says, "He calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. He goeth before them, and the sheep follow him; for they know his voice. And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him; for they know not the voice of strangers." But may it not be the form or dress of the shepherd that the sheep know, and follow him? To test this, a traveller, who had put the question, once exchanged dresses with a shepherd, and went amongst the sheep. The traveller in the shepherd's dress called the sheep, and tried to lead them; but "they knew not his voice," and did not move. But when the shepherd called them, though he was in the traveller's dress, they ran at once to him, thus proving that it was the voice that led them. I have a dog that will sometimes bark at me when I put on an overcoat which he has not seen me wear before. But, the moment he hears my voice, he seems ashamed of not having known me, and will whine, as if he would say, "Pardon me, good master. It was very stupid in me not to know you. It was your coat I did not know. I will try to be wiser the next time." DORA BURNSIDE * * * * * "A FRIEND IN NEED." Henry lived in the great city of London. He was known as "the boy at the crossing." He used to sweep one of the crossings in Oxford Street. In wet weather these crossings are very muddy. Now and then some one would give him a penny for his work. He did not make much in a day; but what he got was a great help to his mother. That thought kept him daily at his work. One day he saw a little girl trying to lead her little brother across the street. The carts and the horses made her afraid, and she ran back timidly. "What's the matter, little girl?" asked Henry. "I am afraid we shall be run over," said the girl. "I'll help you across," said Henry. Then, lifting the little boy in his arms, he took the girl by the hand, and led her safely to the other side of the street. [Illustration: A friend in need.] "Thank you!" said the little girl; and "Thank you!" said her little brother, as plainly as he could speak it. I went up and asked the boy with the broom if he knew the children. "I never saw them before in my life," said he; "but such little ones can't get across without help." "You are a good boy," said I. "I think you must have a good father." "I had one once," said he; "but now I have only a good mother." "Well, Henry," said I, "give her this shilling, and tell her I send it to her for teaching her boy to do good when he can get a chance." Tears came to the boy's eyes. A shilling seemed a good deal of money to him, and it pleased him all the more because it was given him for his mother. "Thank you, sir; thank you!" said he, and he ran back to his work one of the happiest boys in London, I think, at that moment. JANE OLIVER. * * * * * "IN A MINUTE." If you asked Dora to do any thing, she would reply, "In a minute." It was a bad habit she had. "Dora, please bring me a drink of water."--"In a minute."--"Dora, go up stairs, and bring me down my comb."--"Yes, mother, in a minute."--"Dora, come to your dinner."--"In a minute." One day the bird was hopping about on the floor. Somebody went out, leaving the door open, just as "somebody" is always doing. Dora's mother said, "Dora, shut the door, or the cat will be after your bird." "Yes, mother, in a minute," said Dora. "I just want to finish this line in my drawing." But the cat did not wait till this was done. In he popped, and with one dart he had the bird in his mouth. Down went the slate on the floor, and away went cat, bird, and Dora. There was a wild chase on the lawn. "In a minute" Dora came back weeping, with the poor bird in her hand, but, oh! the life had all been shaken out of him. [Illustration: Dora and the bird.] How Dora cried! Mamma was sorry for her, but said, "A great many things may happen 'in a minute,' Dora. I hope the next time you are told to do a thing, you will do it at once." MARY ADDISON. THE CHRISTMAS TREE [Illustration: THE CHRISTMAS TREE] Spring and Summer and russet Fall Come and go with a varied cheer; Each has something, and none has all, Of the good things of the year. Winter laughs, though the trees are bare, With a kindly laugh that is good to see; For of all the forest is none so rare As his merry Christmas-tree. It blooms with many a taper's flame; And hidden under the leaves of green Are fruits of every shape and name, The funniest ever seen,-- [Illustration: Another Christmas Tree] Book and bundle, and scarf, and shawl, Picture and peanuts, skate and saw, Candy and album, and bat and ball, Hatchet, and doll, and taw, Games and frames, and comical dames With walnut faces wrinkled and old, Fillets rare for the sunny hair, And jewels of pearl and gold. For the good St. Nicholas blest this tree, And it blooms and bears for every one, With a gift of love to you and me, For beauty, or use, or fun. Poorer than any the Child whose name Has given a name to our Christmas-tree; Yet kingly gifts to his cradle came, And kingly gifts gave He. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. DOWN THE RIVER AFTER THE BOY. Walter Dale was a little boy six years old, who lived with his parents on the bank of the River Thames in England. One day, after dinner, he went to the water's edge to play. Seeing a small boat tied to a big stone by a rope, he pulled the boat up to the shore. "What a nice little boat!" said he. "I will get into it, and rock it, as I once saw a big boy do." So he got into the boat, and began to rock it. The boat got loose, and drifted down the river. Walter did not notice this until he was quite a distance from the shore; then, turning round, he saw what had happened. Every moment the current was carrying him further from home. Walter was not a timid boy, and, instead of crying, he began to reason in this way: "The boat does not leak. It is safe and sound. There are no waves to make me afraid. The wind does not blow. Here on a seat is a thick blanket. In this box is a loaf of bread and a knife. The water of the river is good to drink, and here is a tin mug. I think I will not cry, but hope for the best." So he sat down. He called to some people on the shore; but they did not hear him. He stood up, and waved his hat to a man in a passing boat, and cried, "Help, help!" But the man thought it was some little fellow making fun of him. Meanwhile Walter's mother had become anxious. She ran down to the river, and followed his foot-tracks to the edge of the water. Then she ran back to her husband; but he was not in the house. In about an hour he came back, and she said, "Quick, quick! Get a boat, and call John to help you. Walter is drifting down the river in that little green boat, I am sure." Mr. Dale ran out of the house, called his man John, and they went down to the bank. Here they took a good fast boat, pulled it out into the stream, and began to row with the current. It was getting late. A mist was creeping over the great city of London. They could hardly see the tall stores, the masts and steeples on one side. But on they went, rowing swiftly with their good oars, as if for dear life. [Illustration: Searching for Walter.] They looked out sharply on both sides to catch a sight of the little green boat. At last, when they had rowed about two miles, with the tide in their favor, Mr. Dale cried out, "I see it! I see it! But, ah! it is empty. I see no sign of a boy in it. What can have become of poor Walter?" On they rowed, and at last, came up with the boat. Still no Walter was to be seen. The poor father was in despair, when all at once Walter started up from under the great blanket, where he had been hiding. He cried out, "Here I am, papa, safe and sound!" "Oh, you little rogue! Come here and let me pull your ears!" They all got back to their home in time for a late tea, which mother had kept warm for them. Walter was kissed and then cuffed; but the cuffs were so tender, that they made him laugh even more than the kisses. ALFRED STETSON. * * * * * "FLUTTER, FLUTTER!" Flutter, flutter, with never a stop, All the leaves have begun to drop; While the wind, with a skip and a hop, Goes about gathering in his crop. Flutter, flutter, on bustling-wings, All the plump little feathered things: Thrush and bobolink, finch and jay, Follow the sun on his holiday. Flutter, flutter, the snowflakes all Jostle each other in their fall. Crowd and push into last year's nest, And hide the seeds from robin-redbreast. Flutter, flutter, the hours go by; Nobody sees them as they fly; Nobody hears their fairy tread, Nor the rustle of their wings instead. MARY N. PRESCOTT. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.] CHRISTMAS BELLS [Illustration: CHRISTMAS BELLS.] "Are you waking?" shout the breezes To the tree-tops waving high, "Don't you hear the happy tidings Whispered to the earth and sky? Have you caught them in your dreaming, Brook and rill in snowy dells? Do you know the joy we bring you In the merry Christmas bells? Ding, dong! ding, dong, Christmas bells! "Are you waking, flowers that slumber In the deep and frosty ground? Do you hear what we are breathing To the listening world around? For we bear the sweetest story That the glad year ever tells: How He loved the little children,-- He who brought the Christmas bells! Ding, dong! ding, dong, Christmas bells! GEORGE COOPER. JACK THE MAGPIE. One day last summer, a man in Colorado found a magpie by the roadside. Its wings had been clipped, so that it could not fly. The man gave it to a little boy named Ernest Hart. He lived with his parents in a neat cottage near by a mountain stream. He ran home, and showed the bird to his sister Edith. They named it Jack. Jack was quite a large bird. His body was black as coal; his breast was white; and his wings and tail shaded off into a dark green. His bill was long and very strong. He had a shrewd, knowing look. As he was quite tame, he must have been some one's pet. He would hop and strut around in such a funny, pompous way, that one could not help laughing. He would take food from any one's hand, but would not let any one touch him, except Mr. Hart, the children's father. To Mr. Hart he seemed to take a great liking. He would hop on to his hand or shoulder: he would follow him all over the place. As soon as Mr. Hart came into the house, Jack would stand outside the door, and scream to him to come out. Indeed, Jack was almost too fond of him. One day when Mr. Hart was chopping wood, Jack kept laying his bill within two or three inches of the place where the axe fell. It seemed just as if he wanted his bill chopped off. Jack could talk a little. He could say "pretty," "what," and "yes, sir." When hungry, he would come round to the kitchen-door. There he would keep up a loud chattering, till food was given him to eat. Jack was shy of Marcus, the dog. But, while Marcus was eating his dinner, Jack would steal up, and seize a bone from the plate. Then he would run off and hide it. I believe that all magpies are thieves. I know that Jack was a sad thief. He would carry off almost any thing he saw lying about. One day he was caught in the act of carrying off the gardener's pipe. It was fun for Ernest and Edith to watch him at his mischief. All summer they made much of him. Now, in October, though the trees are still green and the wild flowers are not gone, we have had in our Colorado home a taste of winter. [Illustration: Jack the magpie and the dog.] The ground has been white with snow. Jack is still with us, and seems quite happy. Edith and Ernest may stay here all winter. Perhaps I may tell you something of their winter sports. Would you like to hear it? AUNT SADIE. PORTRAITS FOR LITTLE FOLKS. [Illustration: Master Baby] This is Master Baby, Paying a morning call, Sitting so good upon his chair, But speaking not at all. Listening to every word, The funny little man! Wondering at the news he hears, Thinking all he can. [Illustration: Miss Mary Vernon] This little lady, I'd have you know, Is Miss Mary Vernon, With cheeks in a glow. She has a doll Bella, Quite dear to her heart, And takes her to ride In a nice little cart. [Illustration: Tommy Trip] This is Tommy Trip: Bubbles he can blow; When a bubble breaks too soon, Tommy cries, "Don't go!" Older folks I know, Who their fine schemes make, And, when any fine scheme fails, Cry, "Oh, do not break!" [Illustration: Susan] 'Tis the winter cold, All the ponds are ice; Susan loves the winter cold, Calls the weather nice. Warm with muff and coat, She can go and skate; She can glide along the ice At a merry rate. [Illustration: Mary Jane] This is Mary Jane, See! she has a saucer: To her cat she says, "Give me up your paw, sir. I've some fresh, nice milk You will relish greatly." Pussy then put up her paw; All this happened lately. [Illustration: Baby May] This is Baby May: She looks out to spy If her own dear papa comes On the road near by. Yes, she sees him now, He is coming fast; For he loves his Baby May, Loves her first and last. K.G. THE BASKET OF APPLES. [Illustration: THE BASKET OF APPLES.] I. Albert is a bright little fellow. He is not three years old; but he can read ten words in "The Nursery." These words are, cat, dog, cow, horse, bird, mother, father, brother, sister, apple. One day, John the gardener left a basket of apples at the top of the garden-steps. Albert saw it, and knew it was meant for the house. "I will take it in," said he. "I am strong." [Illustration: Albert II] II. But the basket was not so light as he had thought. Indeed it was quite heavy. Perhaps this was because it was full of apples. The gardener had just picked them from a fine old tree in the orchard. Albert was a stout little fellow; but the basket was too much for him. In trying to lift it, he upset it; and some of the apples rolled out down the steps as fast as they could go. Perhaps they saw it was a good chance to run away. [Illustration: Albert III] III. Albert did not cry. He knew that crying would do no good. What was now the first thing to be done? Albert thought for a while, and said to himself, "The first thing to do is to set the basket upright." He did not find it hard work to do this. All the apples had not run out. Some were still in the basket. Albert picked up one, smelt of it, and then put it back. He next placed the basket upright. [Illustration: Albert IV] IV. Having done this so that the basket stood firm, he said, "What is the next thing to do? The next thing to do is to put back the apples; and I am the boy that can do it." And he did it well. He did not once think of keeping any of the apples for himself; nor did he even take a bite of one of them. He was a good boy, and too honest for that. If any one had said to him, "Give me an apple," Albert would have said, "The apples are not mine to give." [Illustration: Albert V] V. "Now it is all right again," said Albert. "What next? If the basket will not let me carry it, the basket shall carry me. That would be fair play." So he mounted the basket, as you see, took hold of the handle with his left hand, and cried out, "Get up, sir!" He made believe it was a horse. "Get up, sir!" he cried. But the horse would not move. [Illustration: Albert VI] VI. Albert then began to shake the basket, as if to urge it on. Ah, me! who would have thought to see it play the gay horse in earnest? It seemed so gentle! Who would have thought to see it shy, and kick up, and throw Albert off? But so it did. Albert put out both hands to save himself, but he could not keep his seat. Over he went. [Illustration: Albert VII] VII. Over went the basket. Albert, apples, and all rolled down the steps. "Help!" he cried. The gardener ran up to see what was the matter. "Where are my apples?" said he. "Here!" said Albert, jumping up, for the lucky rogue was not hurt a bit. UNCLE SAM. CHRISTMAS. Words by ALFRED SELWYN.[A] Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. Christmas is coming, ho, ho, and ho, ho! Now bring on your holy and do not move slow; We'll deck the whole house with the branches so green, On wall and on picture the leaves shall be seen. Oh! merry the time when we all meet together In spite of the cold, the wind, and the weather, When grandparents, uncles, and cousins we see, All gather'd around the mahogany tree. 2. It stands in the hall, the mahogany tree; And very nice fruit it will bear, you'll agree; The turkeys and capons, the puddings and pies, On Christmas day feed something more than the eyes. The poor and the needy then come to our door, And carry off with them a bountiful store Of all the good things that we have for ourselves, In cupboard and cellar, on table and shelves. 3. When dinner is ended, what sound do we hear From holly-deck'd parlor ring merry and clear? 'Tis Uncle Tom's fiddle! the tune is a call To all the good people to come to our ball. They come, young and old, and partake of our cheer, For old Christmas comes only once in a year! Then hand up the holly, and let us prepare The house for the pleasure in which all can share. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Nursery, Vol. XXIV.] =The best Holiday Gift for a Child is a Subscription to "The Nursery."= _ADVERTISEMENTS_. [Illustration: ADVERTISEMENTS] GOLD MEDAL, PARIS, 1878. =BAKER'S Breakfast Cocoa.= Warranted _absolutely pure Cocoa_, from which the excess of oil has been removed. It is a delicious drink, nourishing and strengthening; easily digested; admirably adapted for invalids as well as persons in health. Sold by Grocers everywhere. =W. BAKER & CO.,= _Dorchester, Mass_. * * * * * 50 All Gold, Chromo, & Lit'g Cards, (no 2 Alike), name on, 10c. Clinton Bros., Clintonville, Ct. 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Washington, N.J. * * * * * The Bound Volumes of "The Nursery" for 1880 are now ready. $1.75 postpaid. * * * * * =Choicest Books for Children= =SUPERBLY ILLUSTRATED.= =Bound Volumes of "The Nursery."=--Half-Yearly Volumes, $1.00; yearly, $1.75 =The Beautiful Book.=--A collection of the choicest Poems ... $.75 =The Easy Book.=--In large Old English Type. Full cloth, .75; half-cloth, .50 =The Nursery Primer.=--A superb book of 64 pages, elegantly bound, .30 =The Nursery Reader.=--Nos. 1, 2, and 3, each .30 ="The Nursery" for Primary Schools.=--Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4, each, .30 =Nursery Stories in Prose and Rhyme= 1.00 _Sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by_ THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass. =THE NURSERY. PREMIUM-LIST FOR 1881.= =For Two Subscribers and $3.00,= we will give any one of the following articles:--any Half-Yearly Volume of The Nursery, Oxford's Junior Speaker, The Easy Book, The Beautiful Book, an English Pocket Bible (gilt clasp), any book worth $1.00, a Rubber Pencil Case with gold tips, a Silver Fruit Knife, a Pocket Tool-Holder, a beautiful Wallet, a Toy Cannon, a Box of Alphabet Blocks, a nice Pocket-Knife, a Dissected Map of the United States, a Checker-Board, Gold Sleeve Buttons, Ladies' Cuff-Pins. =For Three Subscribers and $4.50,= we will give any one of the following: any Yearly Volume of The Nursery, Oxford's Senior Speaker, Sargent's Original Dialogues, a nice gilt Shakspeare, any one of the Standard Poets, any book worth $1.50, a Backgammon-Board, a Travelling Bag, a Microscope. =For Four Subscribers and $6.00,= we will give any one of the following: a superb English Bible (extra gilt), Webster's Dictionary, any one of the Household Edition of the Poets, (Longfellow, Tennyson, Whittier, etc.), any book worth $2.00, a beautiful Photograph Album, Six Plated Tea Spoons, a Gold Ring. * * * * * =Any other article transmissible by mail may be selected as a premium, its value being in proportion to the number of subscribers sent. Thus, we will give for Two Subscribers, at $1.50 each, an article worth $1.00; for Three, an article worth $1.50; for Four, an article worth, $2.00; and so on. But take notice that this is not an offer to give money. Books for Premiums may be selected from any publisher's catalogue, and we can always supply them at catalogue prices. Under this offer, subscriptions to any periodical or newspaper are included.= * * * * * Take notice that our offers of premiums apply only to subscriptions paid at the full price: viz., $1.50 a year. We do not offer premiums for subscriptions supplied at club-rates. We offer no premiums for _one_ subscription only. We offer no premiums in money. Do not wait to make up the whole list before sending. Send the subscriptions as you get them, stating that they are to go to your credit for a premium; and, when your list is completed, select your premium, and it will be forthcoming. Remittances may be made with absolute safety by Postal Money Order, or by a Bank Check on Boston, New York, or Philadelphia. Money may be sent by mail without much risk. Postage Stamps may be used for odd change. Letters can be Registered at any Post Office. _All remittances are at the risk of the sender_. Direct all communications to =THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO.,= 36 _Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass_. THE NURSERY TERMS----1881. =SUBSCRIPTIONS.=--$1.50 a year, in advance. Two copies for $2.75 a year; three for $3.50; four for $4.50; five for $5.50; six for $6.00; each additional copy $1.00, always in advance. Subscriptions received for any period not less than six months. =A Single Number= will be mailed for 15 cents. =Volumes= begin with January and July. Subscriptions may commence with any month, but unless the time is specified, will date from the beginning of the current volume. =Back Numbers= can always be supplied. THE MAGAZINE COMMENCED JAN., 1867. =Bound Volumes,= each containing the numbers for six months, will be sent by mail, postpaid, for $1.00 per volume; yearly volumes for $1.75. =Covers= for half-yearly volumes, postpaid, 35 cents; covers for yearly volume, 40 cents. =Prices Of Binding.=--In the regular half-yearly volume, 40 cents; in one yearly volume (12 Nos. in one), 50 cents. If the volumes are to be returned by mail, add 10 cents for the half-yearly, and 15 cents for the yearly volume, to pay postage. =Remittances= should be made, if possible, by Bank-check or Postal money-order. Currency by mail is at the risk of sender. Postage Stamps may be used as currency. =Notice to Subscribers.=--The number of the magazine with which the subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, the subscription ends wih [Transcriber's note: Misspelled in original] the current year. No notice of discontinuance need be given. The sending of "The Nursery" will be regarded as a sufficient receipt. In changing the direction, the OLD as well as NEW address should be given. Any one not receiving it will notify us at once, giving date of remittance. * * * * * _IN CLUB WITH OTHER PERIODICALS_. Price With Nursery Harper's Monthly........$4.00 $4.50 Harpers Weekly...........4.00 4.50 Harper's Bazar...........4.00 4.50 Harper's Young People....1.50 2.50 Atlantic Monthly.........4.00 4.50 Scribner's Monthly.......4.00 4.50 Youth's Companion........1.75 3.00 Appleton's Journal.......3.00 3.75 Demorest's Monthly.......3.00 3.75 The Living Age...........8.00 8.50 Arthur's Home Magazine...2.50 3.00 St. Nicholas.............3.00 3.75 Wide-Awake...............2.00 3.00 Godey's Lady's Book......2.00 3.00 Domestic Monthly.........1.50 2.50 Journal of Chemistry.....1.00 2.25 American Agriculturist...1.50 2.50 Ladies' Floral Cabinet...1.30 2.50 The Household............1.00 2.25 Boston Weekly Transcript 2.00 3.00 N.B.--To obtain the benefit of the above rates, it must be distinctly understood that a copy of "The Nursery" should be ordered with _each_ magazine clubbed with it. Both magazines must be subscribed for at the _same time_; but they need not be to the same address. We furnish our own magazine, and agree to pay the subscription of the other. Beyond this we take no responsibility. _The publisher of each magazine is responsible for its prompt delivery; and complaints must be addressed accordingly_. Address THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO., 36 _Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass_. 
21047	----	No. 109. JANUARY, 1876. Vol. XIX. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 BROMFIELD STREET. AMERICAN NEWS CO., 119 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK. NEW-ENGLAND NEWS CO., 41 COURT ST., BOSTON. CENTRAL NEWS CO., PHILADELPHIA. WESTERN NEWS CO., CHICAGO. $1.60 a Year, in advance. A single copy, 15 cents. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by JOHN L. SHOREY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE. * * * * * PAGE CHRISTMAS AT THE NORTH By _Alfred Selwyn_ 1 POMPEY GUARDING BABY By _Master John_ 3 THE PARROT FEEDING ITS YOUNG By _Uncle Charles_ 4 LITTLE RUTH'S PRAYER By _Dora Burnside_ 7 PUSSY GETS A WARNING By _Frank_ 9 "PROUD AS A PEACOCK" By _Anna Livingston_ 10 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY By _Jane Oliver_ 12 CHRISTMAS AT THE SOUTH By _Uncle Harry_ 16 THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS By _D._ 18 THE PROPER TIME By _Emily Carter_ 19 OUR DOG MILO (_From the German_) 20 THE THREE CALVES By _A. B. C._ 23 "WHY?" By _the author of "Dick and I."_ 25 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW 27 A MORNING CALL By _M. L. B. Branch_ 28 "HE DID IT FIRST." By _the author of "Dick and I."_ 30 THE CATS AND THE MOUSE (_Music by T. Crampton_) 32 * * * * * EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. ... A happy New year to all friends and subscribers, old and young! They are sending us such an amount of encouragement, notwithstanding the hard times, that, instead of growing older the coming year, we think we shall grow younger. So do not fear, little ones, that we shall talk too learnedly for you yet awhile. ... See the capital articles by the author of "Dick and I" in this number. They are written in words of one syllable, and are as witty as they are wise and good. Read them, and then hear your little ones read them. ... We need not commend to lovers of art the fine original drawings in this number. That of "Christmas at the North," by Merrill, and that of "Christmas at the South." by Sheppard, of Richmond, are excellent. The drawing of the two dogs by Harrison Weir is also capital. ... The little boys in all parts of the country, who have been asking us so urgently to give a picture of a train of cars, will be glad to learn that Mr. Merrill has drawn a capital one which will appear in our next number. ... There is a great rush for THE NURSERY PRIMER. We can hardly get the books from the binder fast enough to supply the demand. It is no wonder; for no cheaper or better present for a child can be found. ... THE EASY BOOK and the THE BEAUTIFUL BOOK are also in great demand for holiday Gifts. ... Unaccepted articles will be returned to the writers _if stamps are sent with them_ to pay return postage. Manuscripts not so accompanied will not be preserved, and subsequent requests for their return cannot be complied with. * * * * * [Illustration: Hand] ~We want a special agent in every town in the United States. Persons disposed to act in that capacity, are invited to communicate with the publisher.~ * * * * * ~THE NURSERY.~ ~TERMS--1876.~ ~SUBSCRIPTIONS~,--$1.60 a year, in advance. Three copies for $4.30 a year; four for $5.40; five for $6.50; six for $7.60; seven for $8.70; eight for $9.80; nine for $10.90; each additional copy for $1.20; twenty copies for $22.00, always in advance. ~Postage is included in the above rates. All magazines are sent postpaid.~ A SINGLE NUMBER will be mailed for 15 cents. _One sample number will be mailed for 10 cents._ VOLUMES begin with January and July. Subscriptions may commence with any month, but, unless the time is specified, will date from the beginning of the current volume. BACK NUMBERS can always be supplied. _The Magazine commenced January, 1867._ BOUND VOLUMES, each containing the numbers for six months, will be sent by mail, postpaid, for $1.00 per volume; yearly volumes for $1.75. COVERS, for half-yearly volume, postpaid, 35 cents; covers for yearly volume, 40 cents. PRICES OF BINDING.--In the regular half-yearly volume, 40 cents; in one yearly volume (12 Nos. in one), 50 cents. If the volumes are to be returned by mail, add 14 cents for the half-yearly, and 22 cents for the yearly volume, to pay postage. REMITTANCES should be made, if possible, by Bank-check or by Postal money-order. Currency by mail is at the risk of the sender. * * * * * IN CLUB WITH OTHER PERIODICALS. _Price_ _With Nursery_ Harper's Monthly $4.00 $4.75 Harper's Weekly 4.00 4.75 Harper's Bazar 4.00 4.75 Atlantic Monthly 4.00 4.75 Scribner's Monthly 4.00 4.75 Galaxy 4.00 4.75 Lippincott's Magazine 4.00 4.75 Appleton's Journal 4.00 4.75 Leslie's Illustrated Weekly 4.00 4.75 Leslie's Lady's Journal 4.00 4.75 Demorest's Monthly 3.10 4.25 The Living Age 8.00 9.00 St. Nicholas 3.00 4.00 Arthur's Home Magazine 2.50 3.60 Wide-Awake 2.00 3.20 Godey's Lady's Book 3.00 4.00 Hearth and Home 3.00 4.00 The Horticulturist 2.10 3.20 American Agriculturist 1.50 2.70 Ladies' Floral Cabinet 1.30 2.90 Golden Rule (weekly) 2.00 3.20 The Household 1.00 2.20 The Sanitarian 3.00 4.00 Phrenological Journal 3.10 4.00 N. B.--To obtain the benefit of the above rates, it must be distinctly understood that a copy of "The Nursery" should be ordered with _each_ magazine clubbed with it. Both Magazines must be subscribed for at the _same time_; but they need not be to the same address. We furnish our own Magazine, and agree to pay the subscription for the other. Beyond this we take no responsibility. The publisher of each Magazine is responsible for its prompt delivery; and complaints must be addressed accordingly. * * * * * ~NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS.~ The number of the Magazine with which your subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, it will be understood that the subscription ends with the current year. ~No notice of discontinuance need be given, as the Magazine is never sent after the term of subscription expires.~ Subscribers will oblige us by sending their renewals promptly. State always that your payment is for a _renewal_, when such is the fact. In changing the direction, the _old_ as well as the _new_ address should be given. The sending of "The Nursery" will be regarded as a sufficient receipt. ~Any one not receiving it will please notify us immediately, giving date of remittance.~ Address ~JOHN L. SHOREY,~ ~36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ ~THE NURSERY.~ PREMIUM-LIST FOR 1876. For ~three~ new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following articles: a heavily gold-plated pencil-case, a rubber pencil-case with gold tips, silver fruit-knife, a pen-knife, a beautiful wallet, any book worth $1.50. For ~five~, at $1.60 each, any one of the following: globe microscope, silver fruit-knife, silver napkin-ring, book or books worth $2.50. For ~six~, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following: a silver fruit-knife (marked), silver napkin-ring, pen-knives, scissors, backgammon board, note-paper and envelopes stamped with initials, books worth $3.00. For ~ten~, at 1.60 each, select any one of the following: morocco travelling-bag, stereoscope with six views, silver napkin-ring, compound microscope, lady's work-box, sheet-music or books worth $5.00. For ~twenty~, at $1.60 each, select any one of the following: a fine croquet-set, a powerful opera-glass, a toilet-case, Webster's Dictionary (unabridged), sheet-music or books worth $10.00. [Illustration: Hand] ~Any other articles equally easy to transport may be selected as premiums, their value being in proportion to the number of subscribers sent. Thus, we will give for three new subscribers, at $1.60 each, a premium worth $1.50; for four, a premium worth $2.00; for five, a premium worth $2.50; and so on.~ BOOKS for premiums may be selected from any publisher's catalogue: and we can always supply them at catalogue prices. Under this offer, subscriptions to any periodical or newspaper are included. * * * * * ~SPECIAL OFFERS~ ~BOOKS.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any _half-yearly_ volume of THE NURSERY; for ~three~, any _yearly_ volume: for two, OXFORD'S JUNIOR SPEAKER; for ~two~, THE EASY BOOK; for ~two~, THE BEAUTIFUL BOOK; for ~three~, OXFORD'S SENIOR SPEAKER; for ~three~, SARGENT'S ORIGINAL DIALOGUES; for ~three~, an elegant edition of SHAKSPEARE, complete in one volume, full cloth, extra gilt, and gilt-edge; or any one of the standard BRITISH POETS, in the same style. ~GLOBES.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, we will give a beautiful GLOBE three inches in diameter; for ~three~, a GLOBE four inches in diameter; for ~five~, a GLOBE six inches in diameter. ~PRANG'S CHROMOS~ will be given as premiums at publisher's prices. Send stamp for a catalogue. ~GAMES, &c.~--For ~two~ new subscribers, we will give any one of the following: ~The Checkered Game Of Life~, ~Alphabet and Building Blocks~, ~Dissected Maps, &c. &c.~ For ~three~ new subscribers, any one of the following: ~Japanese Backgammon or Kakeba~, ~Alphabet and Building Blocks~ (extra). ~Croquet~, ~Chivalrie~, and any other of the popular games of the day may be obtained on the most favorable terms, by working for "The Nursery." Send stamp to us for descriptive circular. ~MARSHALL'S ENGRAVED PORTRAITS OF LINCOLN AND GRANT.~ Either of these large and superbly executed steel engravings will be sent, postpaid, as a premium for three new subscribers at $1.60 each. * * * Do not wait to make up the whole list before sending. Send the subscriptions as you get them, stating that they are to go to your credit for a premium; and, when your list is completed, select your premium, and it will be forthcoming. * * * _Take notice that our offers of premiums apply only to subscriptions paid at the full price: viz., $1.60 a year. We do not offer premiums for subscriptions supplied at club-rates. We offer no premiums for one subscription only. We offer no premiums in money._ Address ~JOHN L. SHOREY~ ~36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ * * * * * NOTICE. Any of the following articles will be sent by mail, postpaid on receipt of the price named:-- [Illustration] PRICE ~Fret, or Jig-Saw~, for fancy wood-carving. With 50 designs, 6 saw-blades, Impression-paper, &c. ~$1.25~ ~Fuller's Jig-Saw Attachment~ by the aid of which the use of the Saw is greatly facilitated. (See advertisement on another page) ~1.50~ ~Hollywood Designs~ for Amateur Wood-Carvers, ready for cutting, twenty patterns in a box, for ~.75~ ~New Spelling Blocks~ ~1.00~ ~Picture Cubes~, For the Playroom ~1.50~ ~Initial Note-Paper and Envelopes~ ~.50~ " " " ~.75~ " " " ~1.00~ " " " ~1.50~ ~Boys and Girls Writing-Desk~ ~1.00~ ~The Kindergarten Alphabet and Building Blocks~, Painted: Roman Alphabets, large and small letters, numerals, and animals ~.75~ " " " " ~1.00~ " " " " ~1.50~ ~Crandall's Acrobat or Circus Blocks~, with which hundreds of queer, fantastic figures may be formed by any child ~1.15~ ~Table-Croquet~. This can be used on any table--making a Croquet-Board, at trifling expense ~1.50~ ~Game of Bible Characters and Events~ ~.50~ ~Dissected Map of the United States~ ~1.00~ ~Household Elegancies~. A splendid new book on Household Art, devoted to a multitude of topics, interesting to ladies everywhere. Among the subjects are Transparencies on Glass, Leaf work, Autumn Leaves, Wax Work, Painting, Leather Work, Fret Work, Picture Frames, Brackets, Wall Pockets, Work Boxes and Baskets, Straw Work, Skeleton Leaves, Hair Work, Shell Work, Mosaic, Crosses, Cardboard Work, Worsted Work, Spatter Work, Mosses, Cone Work, etc. Hundreds of exquisite Illustrations decorate the pages, which are full to overflowing with devices to ornament a home cheaply, tastefully, and delightfully. 300 pages ~1.50~ ~Window Gardening~. An elegant book, with 250 fine Engravings and 300 pages, containing a Descriptive List of all Plants suitable for Window Culture, Directions for their treatment, and practical information about Plants and Flowers for the Parlor, Conservatory, Wardian Case, Fernery, or Window Garden. Tells all about Bulbs for House Culture, Geraniums, Hanging Baskets, Insects, Plant Decoration of Apartments ~1.50~ ~Silk Book-Marks~ in great variety. (For full description and prices, see advertisement on another page.) Books of all kinds will be sent at publishers' prices. ~JOHN L. SHOREY,~ Publisher of "The Nursery." ~36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.~ * * * * * SOMETHING NEW AND CHOICE! * * * * * ~SILK BOOK-MARKS, OR TEXTILOGRAPHS.~ [Illustration] These New and Beautiful Productions of the Loom are the wonder and admiration of all. They are not only useful as Book Registers, but elegant and tasteful as presents. Each design is woven in silk in various colors, and the views and likenesses are remarkably clear and correct. The engraving here given is a careful reproduction of one of them on a reduced scale, and will give a faint outline of their beauty. From the large list of mottoes and designs we have made the following selections, which we specially recommend: ~SERIES No. 1. Price 50 Cents Each.~ NO The Busy Bee 76 Little Red Riding-Hood 85 I Love Little Pussy 87 For a Good Girl 88 For a Good Boy 89 Little Boy Blue 90 Little Bo Peep 91 Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star 93 Mistress Mary 94 To my Darling 96 To my Pet 98 To my Favorite 99 Love's Emblem 51 To my dear Cousin 52 Birthday Wish 54 Happy may thy Birthday be 62 A Birthday Blessing 64 Dearest, I love but Thee 66 Forget me not 67 The Lily 68 True Love 69 Compliments of the Season 70 God is Good 73 The Lord my Pasture 74 A Tribute of Affection 77 A Blessing 78 To my dear Brother 79 A Wish 80 Remember Me 81 Unchanging Love 82 To my dear Sister 83 To my dear Father 84 To my dear Mother 86 With best Wishes 100 To one I Love 101 ~SERIES No. 2. Price $1.00 Each.~ NO A Birthday Gift 251 Hope the Anchor of the Soul 252 Remember now thy Creator 257 The Ascension 258 A Happy New Year 260 Family Worship 262 The Beatitudes 265 Birthday Blessing 266 Many Happy Returns of the Day 269 Home, Sweet Home 277 I Love Thee 278 The Old Arm Chair 280 The last Rose of Summer 282 The Priceless Gem 288 Unchanging Love 289 True Love 293 A Birthday Wish 295 Remember Me 352 Thy Will be Done 358 Compliments of the Season 359 Forget me not 364 A Happy New Year 367 The above will be sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price, by ~JOHN L. SHOREY,~ PUBLISHER OF "THE NURSERY," ~36 Bromfield Street, Boston.~ * * * * * ~SPECIAL OFFERS TO SUBSCRIBERS.~--Any subscriber now on our list, who shall send us ~$3.20~, in payment for his own renewal and ~one new~ subscription, may select as a premium, any one of the Book-Marks described above in Series No. 1. Or, for ~$4.80~, and ~two new~ subscribers, any Book-Mark in Series No. 2. [Illustration: CHRISTMAS AT THE NORTH.] CHRISTMAS AT THE NORTH. Hark! the bells are sounding; Christmas draweth nigh; Now let joy abounding Bid all trouble fly. Ye who pine in sorrow, Come, be cheered to-day; Of our gladness borrow, As you freely may. First give your attention To our Christmas-tree; But pray do not mention All the things you see: These are for surprises To the children dear,-- To the Anns, Elizas, Johnnys, Charleys here. Are you hale and hearty, And still young enough? Come, then, join our party, And play blind man's buff. But if with the coasters You would rather be, See them there, the boasters! Join them: you are free. Hark! the sleigh-bells tinkle: Do you wish a ride? Will it smooth a wrinkle Just to have a slide? See, the road invites you; See, the ponds entice: Take, then, what delights you: Whether snow or ice. If the path to glory Best your mood befits, If you'd live in story, And can brave hard hits, See, where heroes yonder Storm the fort with balls; Do not stop to ponder: Go where glory calls! Or, perhaps, the skaters Now attract you most: We are patient waiters-- Will you skate, or coast? Do not fear a tumble; See poor Tommy there! Up, without a grumble, He will never care. Welcome to our pleasures And our Christmas cheer! We'll not stint the measures: Would you all were here! Boys and girls together,-- From all parts and climes, To enjoy this weather, And these Christmas times! ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] POMPEY GUARDING BABY. My real name is Pompey; but Mr. John sometimes calls me Pompous. What he means by that I do not know. Perhaps it is a joke. Mr. John is the eldest brother of Dot, the baby. I am put here to keep watch over Dot. That is a picture of me as I appear seated on a chair by the side of the cradle where Dot is sleeping. I am very fond of babies. One reason of it, I think, is, that they cannot hurt me with their little hands. They pull my ears, but not so hard as to give me pain. Once, on a hot day, when my mouth was open, and my tongue was out, Dot took hold of my tongue, and pulled it as hard as he could. I did not even say _Bow-wow_. I let him pull away. I would have all people know that this baby is not to be touched while I am here. If you come near to disturb baby, I shall bark; but, if you try to touch him, I shall bite. So be careful. You must not even touch baby's rattle that lies on the floor. I hear my mistress tell people what a good dog I am, and how she can trust me to take care of baby. Yes, I am proud to say I do my duty. I hold my head up, and keep my eyes wide open. That drawing of me is from a photograph, and is a very good likeness. As I can't write, I have got Master John to write this down for me. MASTER JOHN. THE PARROT FEEDING ITS YOUNG. The parrot is a curious bird. Here is a picture of one feeding its young. It has a large hooked beak, and climbs trees by the aid of its beak and feet. The plumage of parrots varies in color. I have seen it of a bright green, also, red and gray. These birds were well known to the ancient Greeks and Romans, who got them mostly from India and Africa. The parrot, as every child knows, can be taught to talk. This power it shares with some other birds whose tongues are thick, round, and almost the same in form as that of the parrot. Starlings, blackbirds, jays, jackdaws, and ravens can imitate the human voice. The parrot imitates all the noises it hears--the mewing of cats, the barking of dogs, and the cries of birds--as easily as it imitates speech. The parrots brought from Africa seem to prefer imitating the voices of children, and, on that account, more easily receive their education from them. [Illustration] But the gray parrot imitates the grave tones of older persons. A parrot from Guinea, taught on the voyage by an old sailor, had caught up his hoarse voice and cough perfectly. Afterwards, owned and taught by a young girl, it did not forget the lessons of its first master. It was amusing to hear this bird pass from a soft, girlish voice to his hoarse and sailor-like tone. Not only has the parrot the power of imitating the human voice, but it seems to wish to do so. This is shown by its attention in listening, and by the efforts it makes to repeat every word. It will often repeat words or sounds that no one has taken the trouble to teach it. A parrot which had grown old with its master, and shared with him the pains of old age, being used to hear but little more than the words, "I am very ill," when asked, "What is the matter, Polly?" answered in a dismal tone, and stretching itself, "I am very ill." The language of the parrot is not wanting in ideas. When you ask one if it has breakfasted, it knows well how to answer you, if it has satisfied its hunger. It will not tell you that it has breakfasted when this is not the case: at least, you cannot force it to say "No" when it ought to say "Yes." I have heard of a parrot, which, when pleased, would laugh most heartily, and then cry out, "Don't make me laugh so! I shall die, I shall die." The bird would also mimic sobbing, and exclaim, "So bad, so bad! got such a cold!" If any one happened to cough, the parrot would remark, "What a bad cold!" UNCLE CHARLES. * * * * * [Illustration: THE SEA-SWALLOW.] * * * * * [Illustration] LITTLE RUTH'S PRAYER. Stormy and chilly had been the day; Drifts of snow on the sidewalk lay: All who were out in the wintry street Went shivering on with rapid feet; And some were poor, and thinly clad, And wished that a good warm home they had. But, gloomy without, it was bright within, In the house where our little Ruth had been: By the nursery fireside's cheerful blaze Merry had been her thoughts and plays; She had dressed her dolls for a fancy ball, And read her story-books one and all. But when, at the close of the happy day, She knelt, her one little prayer to say, She thought of the hungry, perishing poor, Of the children who cold and sorrow endure, And, laying her head on her mother's knee, Said, "Give them, O Father, _all_ you give _me_!" DORA BURNSIDE. ARTHUR'S MISHAP. I am a little boy, three years old, named Arthur; and I want to tell you what happened to me last summer. I went down to the seashore to visit my grandmamma, alone, without mamma, or Mary, my nurse. Grandpapa took me in the cars, and I staid almost a week. I had a good time; for they have horses and cows and pigs and chickens, and a swing. One day, Aunt Anna and I went to the duck-pond. I had a rod and line, and made believe fish. Aunt Anna turned away for a minute, and, when she looked around, all she could see of me was my hat, floating on the water. I had tumbled in, and was way down at the bottom of the pond. But I soon rose to the top; and Aunt Anna reached over, and pulled me out, and ran up to the house with me in her arms. I did not cry at all, but coughed and sputtered a little, and told her I didn't like that old duck-pond. Grandmamma took off all my wet clothes, and wrapped me in a blanket, and sang me to sleep. When I waked up, I felt all right. I got a good drink of water when I was in the pond; but I don't mean to go very near the edge next time. E. B. [Illustration] PUSSY GETS A WARNING. "Pussy, now that you are here, I wish to say a few words to you; and it will be for your peace of mind to give heed to them at once. I have seen you several times, of late, looking sharply at that little wren's nest in the pear-tree." "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!" "Yes, I know what you mean by that; but you need not plead innocence. You think, that, as soon as those eggs are hatched, you'll have a good feast on the little birds." "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!" "Oh, you needn't deny it. Now, old cat, take my advice, and, if you don't want to come to grief, shun temptation in season. If I find you harming those birds, do you know what will happen?" "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!" "Oh, you don't, eh? Well, I'll leave it to you to guess what will happen. I'll only say this: there will be a noise at the river-side one of these fine mornings, and a certain cat may get a ducking." "Mee-ow, mee-ow! Fitt! Fitt!" "You object to that, do you? Then, pussy, don't let me find you meddling with the little birds or watching their nests." FRANK. [Illustration] "PROUD AS A PEACOCK." A DIALOGUE. _Laura._--Why is it, Rachel, that you wear that old winter dress to church, this fine spring morning? Look at me. _Rachel._--What a pretty silk! And what a becoming hat and plume! _Laura._--I gave my mother no peace till she got them for me. Why don't you make your father buy you a new spring dress, Rachel? _Rachel._--He would have given me such a dress, if I had not told him I should like something else better. _Laura._--Indeed! Pray, what else would you like better than a beautiful spring dress? _Rachel._--I knew that if my father gave me a silk dress this spring, he could not afford to let me take music-lessons: so I told him I would rather study music than have a new dress. _Laura._--What a silly girl, to prefer music-lessons to a nice new dress! _Rachel._--Hark! What is that harsh noise? _Laura._--It is the cry of that foolish peacock from the balcony of the garden yonder. He wants us to admire him. _Rachel._--How he struts about, and arches his neck, and shows his fine feathers, bright with all the colors of the rainbow! _Laura._--I would not change my canary-bird for him. _Rachel._--And I would not change my music for your new silk dress, Laura. _Laura._--Why do you say that? But, first, who is that man standing there by the garden-gate? _Rachel._--That is Mr. Blunt, the clergyman who is to preach for us to-day. _Laura._--He looks at me, and now he looks at the peacock, and now at me again, and now, with a smile, at the peacock, and now--O Rachel! this is too bad. I know what he is thinking of. _Rachel._--Let us hurry on to church. The bell has begun to toll. _Laura._--Ah, Rachel, he says to me, as plainly as looks can say, that I am as vain as yonder peacock. _Rachel._--Why, Laura, how you blush! Do you think you deserve such a reproof? _Laura._--I do, I do. Here, this Sunday morning, I have been thinking more of my new summer silk than of any thing else. Like that screeching peacock, I have been vain of my fine feathers. Yes, let us hurry on to church. One sermon I have had already. It was all given in a look. _Rachel._--You are quick to take a hint, I see. _Laura._--I hope I may be as quick to profit by it. "Pride shall have a fall," says the proverb; and my pride has fallen. _Rachel._--I shall not try to help it up, my dear. ANNA LIVINGSTON. GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. One summer afternoon, when grandmother was sitting in her old arm-chair, just outside of the door, little Jane looked fondly up in her face, and said,-- "Tell us a story, grandma." "A story, child!" said grandma. "Why, I never made up a story in my life." "But you can tell a true story," said Ruth, who was seated on the doorstep,--"about something that happened when you were a little girl." While they were talking, George and Charles and Snap, the dog, had come running up to join the group. Grandma stopped in her knitting, thought a moment, and said,-- "Well, children, sit down, all of you, and I will tell you a true story." So the children all took seats; and grandma began:-- When I was a little girl, about the age of Ruth, my father was preceptor of the Hingham Academy. You have all been in Hingham. It is only fifteen miles from Boston. We go there now, by rail or by steamboat, in less than an hour; but, in those days, we used to go by a sailing-packet; and it was sometimes a whole day's journey. Well, in our family there was a French boy, named Bernard Trainier. His mother was not living. His father lived in Toulon, France. At that time, France, under the great Napoleon, was continually at war, and all her young men were forced into the army. I suppose it was to save Bernard from this fate, that he was sent to America. Mr. Trainier was acquainted with a French gentleman, Mr. Duprez, who then lived in Boston; and, through him, Bernard was placed in my father's care to be educated. Well, he was a bright, pleasant boy. He soon learned to speak English; and I and my sisters and brothers became very fond of him. He would have been very happy, but for one thing. He longed to see his little brother John, whom he had parted with at Toulon. One day, to his great delight, Bernard received a letter from his father, telling him that John was also to be sent to America, and that he would take passage from Marseilles by the first vessel bound for Boston. [Illustration] At that time there were no steamships and no regular packets from Europe. The only way of coming was by a merchant-vessel. So Bernard, who was looking and longing for the arrival of his brother, did not think it strange when six weeks passed away without bringing him. But when two months passed, and he did not appear, poor Bernard began to be anxious. Four months, five months, six months, passed. Nothing was heard of John. Not a word came from Mr. Trainier. More than a year passed away, and still there was no news. Bernard was in despair. One August day (it must have been, I think, in the year 1805), when my father had occasion to visit Boston, he took Bernard with him; and, while there, went with him to call on Mr. Duprez, from whom they hoped to hear some good news. But there was no comfort for poor Bernard in what Mr. Duprez had to tell. He had learned from friends in Toulon that Mr. Trainier, soon after sending his youngest son to America, had gone to St. Domingo to look after some estates. St. Domingo was then in a state of insurrection. The slaves had risen against their masters. When last heard from, Mr. Trainier had been taken prisoner, and it was feared that he had been put to death. As to John Trainier, all that could be learned was that he had been put on board a vessel bound from Marseilles to Boston, but the name of the vessel or what had become of her nobody knew. You may imagine the distress of Bernard at hearing this, and how sad my father was when he took the poor boy's hand to return with him to Hingham. The packet station was at the head of Long Wharf. They reached it long before the vessel was ready to sail: so, to pass away the time, they walked slowly down the wharf,--my father still holding Bernard by the hand. They stopped a few minutes at the end of the wharf, then walked back again. They had got about half way up the wharf when they heard a shout behind them. They looked around. The voice seemed to come from the water side. As they looked, a boy about eleven years old, dressed in rough sailor-clothes, jumped ashore from a brig at the wharf, and came running towards them, calling, "Bernard! Bernard!" again and again. Bernard stood a moment as if amazed; then, suddenly letting go of my father's hand, he gave a cry of joy, sprang forward and caught the little sailor in his arms. It was his brother John. Here grandma stopped. There was silence a few minutes. Then the questions began to come thick and fast. "Where had John been all this time?" "And why didn't he get to Boston before?" "Well," said grandma, "I must tell that in a few words; for my story is getting long." The captain of the brig had promised Mr. Trainier that he would see the little boy safely landed at the house of Mr. Duprez in Boston. But the captain was a bad man. Instead of treating John as a passenger, he forced him to do duty as a cabin-boy. Then, instead of going to Boston, the brig went to New York, and from there on a long voyage to some foreign port. At last she had come to Boston; but the captain had no idea of letting John go even then. He meant to carry him away again, and would have done so but for the accidental meeting of the two brothers on Long Wharf. "The captain _had_ to let him go after that, didn't he, grandma?" said little Jane. "Of course he did," said grandma. "My father soon settled that point. He took John on board the packet, and brought him to Hingham. I well remember the time when the brothers came home, and how John told the story of his hardships, and how we all cried when we heard it, and then laughed with joy to see Bernard so happy." "And was not John happy too?" asked Ruth. "Yes, indeed," said grandma. "And yet both the boys were sad when they thought of their father's fate, and felt that they were orphans with no means of support. We all did our best to cheer them up, and my father told them they should have a home with us till they were old enough to take care of themselves." "And what became of them? Are they living now? Tell us all about them," said the children. "Ah! I must save that for another story. This is enough for to-day." JANE OLIVER. * * * * * [Illustration: SCENE ON THE HUDSON RIVER.] * * * * * CHRISTMAS AT THE SOUTH. Christmas at the South is usually a much milder day than it is at the North. The ponds are not often frozen, and there is little or no snow on the ground: so there is no skating, or coasting, or throwing of snow-balls, or merry jingle of sleigh-bells. But we have very good times at the South notwithstanding. The boys go out with their guns, and sometimes shoot a wild turkey; but often they shoot just for the sake of making a noise. Their traps are set, too, about this time, for squirrels, as you may see in the picture. Games of foot-ball and base-ball are not uncommon; and I have known it mild enough for girls and boys to play croquet on the lawn, or to row in a boat on the river. What is that little girl doing in the central part of the picture? She is making a present of a sack to her good old nurse, who now has a baby of her own. The sack is for the baby. How glad they all are--the mother, the aunt, and the little boy, who, I think, must be the baby's brother! As for the Christmas feast at the South, it may be very much like that at the North. In the picture we get a glimpse of a roast pig and a plum pudding. There is often a wild turkey and a plenty of other game. "But is there a Christmas-tree? And does Santa Claus come with his trinkets, and his picture-books, as at the North?" Yes, in many families there is a Christmas tree, and Santa Claus does not forget that there are little children at the South also. In the evening, the little ones play blind-man's-bluff, or hunt-the-slipper. Sometimes Jack Frost steals down from the North, and pinches them. But he does not stay long. He likes his northern home best. UNCLE HARRY. [Illustration: CHRISTMAS AT THE SOUTH.] THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. Mr. D. had promised to give his wife a beautiful rattan rocking-chair as a Christmas present. It was his employment to sell these articles. In due time, Mrs. D. called at his place of business, and selected a chair; but, as she sat enjoying it for a few minutes, a new idea came into her mind, and she told her husband that she would gladly do without her present, if he would give Jennie and Alice (their two little daughters) each a chair. Her husband agreed to this; and on Christmas Eve he took home with him two elegant little rocking-chairs. Leaving them in his garden, he went in to tea, and, after taking his seat at the table, said to his children, "I have a story to tell you, and it is a true story. Would you like to hear it?" Of course they were all eager to do so. So he said, "There was a lady in my store to-day, whose husband had promised to make her a Christmas present of a rocking-chair. After she had selected a very nice one, she turned to her husband, and said, 'If you will give each of our children a chair, I will forego the pleasure of having mine.' Now, wasn't she truly kind?" The children were much interested in the story; and both exclaimed, "Yes, sir!" Then he added, "I liked the lady very much." Here, little Alice, growing slightly jealous, exclaimed, "Did you like her better than you do mamma?" "Oh, no! not _better_, but _full as well_," answered her father. After supper, the chairs were brought in, much to the surprise and delight of Jennie and Alice, who both joyfully exclaimed, "O papa! you meant us!" D. [Illustration] THE PROPER TIME. "Will you play with me? Will you play with me?" A little girl said to the birds on a tree. "Oh, we have our nests to build," said they: "There's a time for work, and a time for play." Then, meeting a dog, she cried, "Halloo! Come play with me, Jip, and do as I do." Said he, "I must watch the orchard to-day: There's a time for work, and a time for play." A boy she saw; and to him she cried, "Come, play with me, John, by the greenwood side." "Oh, no!" said John, "I've my lesson to say: There's a time for work, and a time for play." Then thoughtful a while stood the little miss, And said, "It is hard, on a day like this, To go to work; but, from what they all say, 'Tis a time for work, and not for play." So homeward she went, and took her book, And first at the pictures began to look; Then said, "I think I will study to-day: There's a time for work, and a time for play." EMILY CARTER. OUR DOG MILO. Milo was the name of a fine Spanish pointer. He had such an expressive face, such delicate ears, and such wise eyes, that you could not help looking at him. And then he could stand up so cleverly on his hind-legs, dressed in his little red coat and cap! An old beggar-woman, whose eyesight was not very good, once took him for a boy, and thanked the "little man," as she called him, for a present which we boys had trained him to go through the form of offering. He had belonged to a travelling company of jugglers and rope-dancers, by whom he had been taught various tricks, though he had been made to undergo much hard treatment. He could fire off a pistol, stand on guard as a sentinel, beat a drum, and serve as a horse for the monkeys of the show. This last piece of work poor Milo did not at all like. The monkeys would scratch and plague him; and, if he resented it, he would be whipped. His worst enemy was a little monkey named Jocko, who delighted to torment him. [Illustration] At last, we boys talked so much to our good papa about Milo, that he bought him of the jugglers. How happy we were when we got possession of him! Poor Milo seemed to be aware of our kind act. After that, it seemed as if he could not do too much to show his gratitude. How patiently he would stand on his legs, or march with us in our mimic ranks as a soldier, when we went forth to battle! In all our plays we could not do without Milo. He would stand on guard beside our camp; and he it was who always had to fire the pistol when a deserter was to be shot. Sometimes we would play going through the woods, where the Indians were likely to waylay us. Then Milo was our pathfinder. With his nice sense of smell he must find out where the cunning redskins were lying in wait. There was no end to the uses to which we put the dear little dog in our plays. Never did he snarl, or lose his temper. He saw that we loved him; and he repaid our love by taking all the pains he could to please us. But a dark time came for Milo and for us. A fright about mad dogs broke out in our town. A bad fellow said he had seen another dog, who was known to be mad, bite Milo. This was untrue; for Milo was at home at the time. But all our prayers were of no use. We must bring Milo to the town-hall to have him shot. How we children wept and took on! Poor Milo, our dear little playmate! Must we lose him forever? We could not bear the thought. The little dog himself saw that something was the matter, and whined at seeing us all so sad. All at once up started our eldest brother, Robert, and declared it should not be. He would rescue the little dog. [Illustration] He did so without letting any one know of his plan. He took Milo, at night, in the cars, to the nearest great city. Here one of our cousins lived. Placing Milo in his charge, Robert came back; and when the town-officer came after the little dog, to kill him, he was told that Milo had stepped out, and, if the town-folks wanted him, they must find him. In a few months, the outcry about mad dogs was hushed; and then we had Milo home again. What rejoicing there was! And how glad was Milo himself to get back, and greet all his little friends with barks and leaps! FROM THE GERMAN. [Illustration] THE THREE CALVES. My little friend Max was on a farm, a whole week last May, and he likes to talk of the good time he had there. He says there were no less than three calves in the great field; and he used to watch them and feed them two or three times a day. They grew to be so tame that they would let him come up and pat them on the back, and feel of their budding horns. He gave them each a name. One he called Daisy; one, Pink; and one, Rose. He said if he had been with them three weeks, he should have taught them to know their names. He hopes to see them again next May; but I think they will be good sized cows by that time, for they grow very fast. A. B. C. [Illustration] "WHY?" "You must not go in there!" said an old dog to a young pup who stood on the white steps of a large house. "You must stay out now." "Why?" asked the young pup. For it was a trick (and a bad trick) of his to say, "Why?" when he was told to do, or not to do, a thing. "Why?" said the old dog: "I cannot say why. Old as I am, I do not know why. But I do know, that, if you go in when it is a wet day like this, the maid will drive you out." "But why?" went on the pup. "It is not fair. There is no sense in it. I have been in the house some days, and no one turned me out; so why should they now?" "Those were fine, sunny days," said the old dog. "Well, it is on the wet days that I most want to be in the house," said the pup. "And I don't see why I should stay out. So here I go." And so he did; but he soon found, that, though no one stopped to tell him "why" he must not come in, it was quite true that he might not. The first who saw him was the cook, who had a broom in her hand. "That vile pup!" cried she. "Look at his feet!" "What is wrong with my feet?" barked the pup. But she did not wait to tell him. She struck him with the broom; and he fled with a howl up the stairs. "Oh, that pup!" cried the maid, as she saw the marks of his feet. "He ought not to come into the house at all, if he will not keep out on wet days." "But why?" yelped the pup, as the maid threw a hearth-brush at his head. Still no one told him why. But a man just then came up stairs. "Why, what a mess!" he said. "Oh, I see! It is that pup. I thought he knew he must not come in!" "So I did; but I did not know _why_," growled the pup, as, with sore back and lame foot, he crept under a chair. "Come out, come out!" cried the man. "I will not have you in the house at all. Out with you!" And he seized him with a strong hand, and chained him in a stall. "You might have stopped out, and played on the grass, if you had staid there," the man said. "But, as you will come into the house when you ought not to, you must be kept where you cannot do so." And so the young pup had to stay in the dull stall. And when, at last, he was let out, he did not ask, "Why?" if he was told to do, or not to do, a thing, but did as he ought at once, like a wise dog. AUTHOR OF "DICK AND I." [Illustration] THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. "Good-by, Old Year!" "Good by, good-by!" he replies, as he goes out into the cold and snow. "Be good children!" "Who comes? who comes?" "This is I, the glad New Year!" "What have you brought?" "A plenty of good wishes. Oh! you must all be good children!" A MORNING CALL. Baby Nan has company, Baby Nell has come a-calling In her carriage riding gay: Nan sits on a great soft shawl With two pillows, lest she fall. Nan, here's little Nell come calling! Haven't you a word to say? "_Gar goo, ghee! gar ghee, argoo!_" Nell, she's saying, "How d'ye do?" Pillows bring for baby Nell; On the soft shawl seat her grandly, With her mouth set rose-bud way, And her grave blue eyes surveying This strange room she's so astray in. Nell, dear Nell, don't cry! see Nannie! Haven't you a word to say? "_Ar-goo, dah, dah! dah dah, goo!_" "I am pretty well, are you?" Baby Nan has not a fear; Up and down her small fists flying, Bright eyes dancing, laughing gay! Nell, she's showing you her socks; Now she shakes her rattlebox; Hands and feet she keeps a-flying; She has something more to say: "_Bab, bab, bab! kee-ee, bab, er!_" I cannot interpret her. [Illustration] Baby Nell can. See her laugh! Forth her dimpled hand she stretches. Pass your rattle, Nan, that way; She, you see, can shake it too. Now look out, she's seizing you; Eagerly your toes she reaches! Both the baby voices say, "_Goo, goo, bab, bab! argoo ghee!_" They're great friends so soon, you see. They have secrets, Nell and Nan, Laugh and coo, and crow together; Nan wants Nell to stop all day Playing with her on the shawl. Must she go? How short the call! Come again this sunny weather. Hear the little darling say, "_Argoo, kee ee! gar goo, gay!_" Shake your hand, Nan, too, "_Day-day!_" MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH. "HE DID IT FIRST." There were once two sheep who lived in a field. One was black, and one was white. In the same field lived a horse and a cow. Now, the black sheep was not at all good. But, where he chose to go, the white sheep would go; and, what he did the white sheep would do. So they both did what they ought not. And when the white sheep was asked why he did what he ought not, he would say, "The black sheep did it first!" One day, a boy went through the field, and did not shut the gate. The black sheep saw it, and ran out of the field with great glee. The white sheep saw it too, and they both went some way. But soon they met a large dog, who knew that they ought not to be out in the road. He ran at them, and bit them, and tore some wool off their backs. They were glad to run back to the field; and the white sheep was quite ill with fright all the rest of the day. "But why did you go?" said the old cow. "The black sheep went," said the white one. "He did it first." Well, the gate was shut; but one day the black sheep found a way out of the field through a hole in the fence. He crept through the gap; and, of course, the white sheep crept through as well. They got out on the moor, and thought it fine fun to be there, with no one in sight. Soon the black sheep, who was first, came to the edge of a deep pit. He gave a great jump, and leaped in. The white sheep did not stop to think. He gave a great jump, and leaped in too. Down, down, down he fell, on to a heap of great sharp stones. Both he and the black sheep were much hurt. They could not get out, and were forced to lie there in great pain. By and by some men came by, and saw the sheep in the pit. The men got them out, and took them back to the field, and sent for some one to see what could be done for them. The horse and the cow, in great grief, came and stood by the side of the white sheep as he lay on the grass. They were fond of him in spite of all his faults. "Oh, why!" cried the cow, with tears in her eyes (and the bell that was hung round her neck shook and rang as she leaned over him),--"why did you leave the field with the black sheep?" "He did it first," said the white one in a faint voice. "Then why did you jump down that steep place? Could you not see that it was a pit?" "I did not stop to see. He did it first," said the white sheep. Then, with a groan, he went on to ask, "How _is_ the black sheep? Is he here too? And what does the man think who comes to see us?" "I grieve to say," said the cow, "that he thought you were both far too much hurt to live. The poor black sheep has just died, and I fear that you must die too." "He did it first," said the white sheep. And with those words he died. AUTHOR OF "DICK AND I." [Illustration: Musical Score.] THE CATS AND THE MOUSE. T. CRAMPTON. 1. All the cats con-sult-ed, What was it a-bout? How to catch a lit-tle mouse Running in and out. The cat with the black nose, She made this re-mark;-- I will eat the mouse up, Be-cause my nose is dark. 2. Pus-sy with the long claws, Curl'd with pride her lip-- You can on-ly snip snap; I'm the one to grip, And I'll stretch my long claws, And hold mous-ey tight; Then within my strong jaws, Whisk him out of sight. 3. Lit-tle mous-ey listen'd. Heard all that was said; Felt her limbs shake with af-fright; Thought she'd soon be dead. But time may be wast-ed. If cats have much to say; And while they con-sult-ed, Mous-ey ran away. [Illustration: COLGATE & CO. NEW YORK] ~VIOLET TOILET WATER.~ ~CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT.~ ~CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap.~ * * * * * ~THE BEST PRESENT~ For a lady is a "_Broadway Adjustable Table_"; and for a little girl a "_Broadway Toy Table_." New designs; unique, _perfect_, and ~VERY CHEAP~. Adjustable to ~any height~. A child can fold it up and carry it from room to room or hide it behind a sofa. 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During the coming year, the serial and short stories of the ~LEADING FOREIGN AUTHORS~ will be given, together with an amount ~unapproached by any other periodical in the world~, of the best literary and scientific matter of the day from the pens of the above-named, and many other _foremost living Essayists, Scientists, Critics, Discoverers, and Editors_, representing every department of Knowledge and Progress. The importance of The Living Age to every American reader, as the only satisfactorily fresh and ~COMPLETE~ compilation of an indispensable current literature,--_indispensable_ because it embraces the productions of ~THE ABLEST LIVING WRITERS~ in all branches of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics,--is sufficiently indicated by the following recent ~OPINIONS.~ "Ought to find a place in every American Home."--_N. Y. Times._ "In no other single publication can there be found so much of sterling literary excellence."--_N. Y. 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19821	----	No. 103. JULY, 1875. Vol. XVIII THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 BROMFIELD STREET. AMERICAN NEWS CO., 119 NASSAU ST., NEW YORK. NEW-ENGLAND NEWS CO., 41 COURT ST., BOSTON. CENTRAL NEWS CO., PHILADELPHIA. WESTERN NEWS CO., CHICAGO. $1.60 a Year, in advance, Postage included. A single copy, 15 cts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by JOHN L. SHOREY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE. PAGE THE LOST RABBIT By _Aunt Emma's Niece_ 1 A TUG EXCURSION By _Aunt Nellie_ 3 TIT, TAT, TOE! By _Olive A. Wadsworth_ 5 THE KEEPER PUNISHED By _Uncle Charles_ 7 NEDDY'S SAND-BANK By _S. B. T._ 9 SURF-BATHING AT CONEY ISLAND By _F. H. W._ 13 A FUNNY FACT By _M. A. C._ 14 AN EXCITING SCENE By _Mr. Periwinkle_ 15 'MAKE A PIE' By _Mary's Mamma_ 16 A DRAWING LESSON 17 A BIG DOG By _Bouncer_ 18 THE BUTTERFLY By _Marian Douglas_ 19 THE YOUNG CRITIC By _Arthur Selwyn_ 20 PLAYING HORSE By _A. B. C._ 22 JACK By _A._ 25 A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA By _Daisy_ 27 THE PARROT WHO PLAYED MASTER By _Victor Bluthgen_ 29 CATSKILL-MOUNTAIN HOUSE By _Anna Livingston_ 31 SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE (_Music by Robert Mills_) 32 EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO. The present number begins the eighteenth half-yearly volume of "The Nursery;" and we are happy to inform our friends that the magazine was never so successful as it is to-day. Thus far, we have entered upon every new volume with an increased circulation. We look for a still larger increase in the future; for there are thousands and thousands of children not yet supplied with the work, for whom no other magazine can take its place. We have something in preparation for coming numbers which will make the eyes of our little readers sparkle with delight. Now is the time for canvassers to go to work with a will. The illustration by Merrill of the "Three Little Culprits" who were kept after school to study their spelling-lesson, is one of those happy touches of nature that every one can appreciate. The poem by Miss Wadsworth is worthy of the picture. Children who are trying to learn to draw, will be pleased with the beautiful subject in our present number. By giving half-an-hour a day to drawing now, they will acquire a facility and a skill that will not only be of service to them, but a great pleasure to them, all their lives. If parents or teachers would like to know of two books by the use of which teaching may be made a pleasure instead of a task to children, they cannot do better than order "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful Book;" the former containing pieces in prose, and the latter, pieces in verse, and both of them richly and copiously illustrated with appropriate pictures. These books are published at "The Nursery" office by John L. Shorey. Children who enjoy making paper dolls, will find an advertisement at the end of this number which is worthy of attention. [Illustration] THE LOST RABBIT. Bunny was a little rabbit, the youngest of a large family. His home was in an old wood, where the trees were very high, and wild-flowers grew in great abundance. His mother had given him to understand that he must not stray away from her, lest he should get lost, and not be able to find her. But Bunny, like some young children, was self-willed. He thought his mother was over-careful; and so, one day, when nobody was watching him, he slipped away from her, and sat down amid the grass, under two high beech-trees. He heard his mother calling him, but took no notice of her call. It was a warm summer day, and he fell asleep. Soon he was startled by the loud barking of dogs. He woke up, and, oh, how frightened he was! Luckily for him, the dogs did not come where he lay crouching; for their masters were shooting birds, not rabbits. Bunny thought the best thing he could do now was to scamper back to his mother, his brothers and sisters as fast as he could. But it was not quite so easy to find them again. No sooner had he got into the open path than a troop of boys caught sight of him; and at once there was a volley of stones from their hands. By rare good luck he was not hit by the stones. But he had not gone many paces farther, when a man with a gun shot at him. Happily the man missed his aim, and the shot went into some bushes. Having escaped this new danger, Bunny leaped swiftly over the high grass, till he came to the fallen trunk of a tree. Here he hoped to find his mother; but, ah! there was no trace of her to be seen. Night came on; and poor Bunny had to lie down all alone and go to sleep. The next morning it rained heavily; and Bunny crept into the hollow trunk of the tree, where he could keep warm and dry. But before noon the sun came out beautifully; and the little rabbit, being very hungry, ran out. The first thing he saw was his mother and the rest of the family eating their dinner. Oh, how glad he was! His mother did not scold him, but gave him plenty to eat; and he made up his mind, that he never would run away again from so good a mother. AUNT EMMA'S NIECE. [Illustration] A TUG EXCURSION. It was just after dinner when papa said, "Put on your hats quickly, and we will go down to the dock, and perhaps we shall find a tug going out." Ralph had something beside his hat to put on; for, contrary to mamma's orders, he had taken off his shoes and stockings. But, with good Maggie's help, that wrong was speedily righted, and we were soon on our way to the dock. There we found the stanch tug "Williams" just ready to leave. We jumped on board. The ropes were cast off; and a few turns of the wheel took us out on the broad expanse of Lake Michigan. How delighted we all were with the beautiful picture there spread out before us!--the broad blue waters, dotted here and there with white sails; far away to the right, the smoke arising from a huge steamer on her way from Chicago to Buffalo; and away, away, straight ahead of us, two white specks, which Captain Charley told us were the vessels he was going out for. A look through the glass proved that the "specks" were _really_ vessels, and huge ones too. While we were looking and talking, what do you suppose one of the men brought forward for Ralph's amusement?--A dog? No. A kitty? No. A parrot? No. I think you will have to give it up. A bear! Just the cunningest little bear any one ever saw. He was just about the size of a tan-terrier, and so full of play, that he got himself into all sorts of shapes, and performed all the antics imaginable. But the most laughable thing was to see him as a tight-rope performer. I am sure he outdid any circus actor who ever travelled. Ralph thought it jolly to play with a live bear. As one would suppose, the bear was a great pet with all on board the tug. He had always been handled with kindness; and the captain told us he had never yet bitten any one. All this time, we are nearing the vessels we are to tow back. See what a huge cable is thrown out to join the vessels to the tug. Here we go, homeward bound. We must not forget to tell of the nice race we had with the steam barge "Reitz," and how Ralph shouted when we came out ahead; nor about Ralph's getting hungry, and going down into the cabin, and making friends with the cook, and coming up with his pockets full of crackers and cookies, which were so much better than any he ever ate before. Don't you think just as we do, that we had a jolly time? Ralph says he should like to live on board the tug; but I think he would want to come home every night. AUNT NELLIE. [Illustration] TIT, TAT, TOE! Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row! The heavy schoolroom clock strikes loud and slow. "Now every little one May go and take his fun," The gentle teacher cries, "for the school is done." Tit, tat, toe! All in a row! Out through the open door the merry children go, Leaving only three, Sad as sad can be,-- Wretched little culprits with their Spellers, as you see! Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row!-- Billy Bumble, Benny Bell, and little Kitty Coe. Little Kitty sighs; Little Benny cries; And little Billy Bumble pokes his fingers in his eyes. Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row! That's the game they played upon their slate, you know: The 0's were made by Kate; The crosses, by her mate; While Billy kept the tally at the bottom of the slate. When their class was heard, They couldn't spell a word: They put an "i" in burly, and they put a "u" in bird! So, according to the rule, They must study after school, Or by and by they'll have to sit upon the dunce's stool. Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row! The teacher's pencil taps on the desk broad and low. "Now come," she says, "and spell; I'm sure you'll do it well; By the brightening of your faces, I readily can tell." Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row! Straight to the teacher's desk the willing children go: They say their lesson o'er, Not missing as before, Then fly away, determined to be idle never more. Tit, tat, toe! Three in a row! Is a fascinating pastime the little people know; But oh! it never pays To walk in folly's ways; For pleasure quickly passes, while pain much longer stays. OLIVE A. WADSWORTH. THE KEEPER PUNISHED. Elephants, when kindly treated, become very much attached to their keepers, and will obey their orders as readily as good children obey their parents. But sometimes the keepers are cruel men, and, instead of managing the elephants by kindness, will goad them, and treat them badly. One day a new keeper was set over an elephant named Tippoo, that had been accustomed to good treatment. This new keeper, if he had been wise, would have won the elephant's love by kindness. Instead of that, the man kept thrusting his goad at the elephant, and hurting him without any good cause. Tippoo bore it patiently for some time; but at last, with his great trunk seizing his tormentor, he ran with him down to the river that was near by. Here, after ducking the man several times in the water, he laid him down gently on the dry ground, as much as to say, "Now, sir, behave yourself, and treat me like a gentleman, or I will give you a worse ducking than that." Finding that Tippoo was not to be trifled with, the man began to treat him well, and the elephant soon forgave him, and at last grew quite fond of him. Love wins love. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration: THE KEEPER PUNISHED.] NEDDY'S SAND-BANK. On lovely summer afternoons, when the sky is blue, and the sea bluer, I take my books or work, and go out to sit under a great oak-tree that stands at the top of a sand-bank, which slopes gently down to a broad, white, beach. [Illustration] This sand-bank is a wonderful place for the children. Every fine day Neddy takes his box of playthings, and marches off to the sand-bank; and I think, as I kiss his dear rosy cheeks, what a nice, clean boy he is in his linen blouse, broad-brimmed hat with blue ribbons, white stockings, and neat buttoned boots. He returns after a few hours, looking like a little savage. "Just fit to go into the wash-tub," Dinah says; and she is right. What do they play on the sand-bank? I will tell you what they did yesterday, while I sat under the oak-tree and worked, and listened to their prattle. "Let's build cities to-day," said Tommy Abbott. "Oh, yes!" said Jamie Newton. "I will build Boston," chimed in Neddy: "I don't know much about other places." After each had selected a city to build, they were silent for some time. But by and by Neddy looked up, and called to me, "Oh, do come down here, mamma, and see my Boston!" So I climbed down the bank to visit his city. He had scooped a hole in the sand, lined it with clay, filled it with sea-water, and stocked it with his shining tin fish. Of course I knew at once this was the pond on Boston Common. [Illustration] Jamie Newton, who studies geography, and knows all about great cities everywhere, made a model Philadelphia, with its long, wide streets. Jamie's streets were so clean, and so beautifully shaded with sprigs of evergreen, that Mary Whitman said her grandest doll, Arabella Rosetta, should take a nice ride through them. So Rosetta was set up in her carriage, and one tucked the crimson afghan about her dainty feet, while another opened her _very best_ sky-blue parasol, (for Rosetta is particular about her complexion), and Mary put on her hat with the blue plumes, and pink roses, smoothed down her flounces, and said, "Be a good girl, Rosy. Don't stay out after dark, for the dew will spoil your clothes." [Illustration] By and by it grew late. The sun sank down into the sea; while the moon, broad and full, rose from behind the hill; and I said, "Come, Neddy, we must run home to tea." But Tommy Abbott, who had built a most wonderful Chicago, begged for a match to burn his city with. So the children gathered a heap of sticks and dry leaves; and Tommy set fire to the pile, and up and away flamed the beautiful city. Then we all went up to the hotel together, and very soon tea was ready; and it was a wonderful thing to see how the children disposed of bread and milk, baked sweet apples, and gingerbread. After we went up to our room, I wrote this story, and read it to Neddy. How his eyes sparkled with delight! "It's just as true as I live, every word of it," he said as I finished. [Illustration] "But, mamma, you forgot little Rose Ellsworth's town. She made a real hill, and covered it with grass, and dotted it all over with violets; and Daisy lent her a cow from her 'Noah's Ark;' and we made it stand up under a tree, and, if it had only whisked its tail, it would have looked almost alive. "I think, mamma," he continued, "that Rose is the nicest little girl here. I've painted her picture in my album." So I was not surprised, while looking over Neddy's pictures, to see that he had wasted a great deal of paint in trying to display Rose's pink cheeks and lovely golden hair: He had painted her cheeks redder than the reddest cherries you ever saw. S. B. T. [Illustration] SURF-BATHING AT CONEY ISLAND. Coney Island, about eight miles from the city of New York, is four and a half miles long and about half a mile in width. It is quite a resort in summer for those who want to breathe the briny air of the ocean. Charles and Laura had long been promised a visit to this famous bathing-place, and one warm day in June their father drove them down to the island; for there is a bridge connecting it with the main land. As they drove along the beach, they saw the bathers in the water, and Charles was very desirous of having a dip in the salt sea himself; but he had no bathing-dress, and so he had to give it up. It is very pleasant on a fine day in summer to stand on the beach, and watch the waves as they come foaming up. The children were much entertained at seeing a Newfoundland dog rush into the water after a stick which his master would throw far out. They will long remember their pleasant visit to Coney Island; but the next time they go, they mean to take their bathing-dresses and have a swim. F. H. W. [Illustration] A FUNNY FACT. Taddy Pole and Polly Wogg Lived together in a bog: Here you see the very pool Where they went to swimming-school. [Illustration] By and by (it's true, but strange) O'er them came a wondrous change: Here you have them on a log, Each a most decided frog. M. A. C. AN EXCITING SCENE. Early last spring, Mistress Jenny Wren took possession of the little box nailed to a tree immediately in front of Mr. Philip's house. She had not really moved in, when who should peep in but Mr. English-Sparrow. He was abroad house hunting, and never mistrusted that any one had got this house before him. He was thinking how well it would suit himself and mate, when _whir-r-r-r_! _whir-r-r-r_! up came Mrs. Jenny; and before he could offer a word of excuse, she began with, "Fie, fie! I took you for a gentleman! What business have you here?" "My dear madam," began Mr. Sparrow; but Jenny would not hear him. "Out, out with you, you saucebox, you interloper!" she screamed; and she dashed at him and pecked him till he beat a speedy retreat. The next day, however, he came round again; whether to express his regrets in due form, or to buy her off, I cannot say; but Mrs. Jenny was unwilling to accept anything but the most humble apology. One look convinced her that he didn't want her pardon, but her house; and out she flew at his very eyes, and on she chased as far as Mr. Philip, who was sitting at the window, could see. But Mr. Sparrow was seen no more. I knew Jenny Wren was spirited; but I should hardly have thought that of her; should you! MR. PERIWINKLE. "MAKE A PIE." The summer before our Mary was two years old, she and her brother used to make pies in the sand, cutting them out with the cover of a little tin pail, always using water to mix them, if they could obtain it. About this time, Bertie was learning,-- "Little drops of water, little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land." One day, Mary thought she would say it with him, so she began,-- "Little drops of water, little grains of sand, Make _a pie_." "Make the mighty ocean, Mary," said her brother. "No, _make a pie_," said Mary; and she could not be induced to say it right till months afterwards. MARY'S MAMMA. [Illustration: From SIR EDWIN LANDSEER'S painting. In outline by MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson. VOL. XVIII.--No. 1] A BIG DOG. I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from the baby's hand. For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of sight. Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps, when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly; for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk together; then he takes himself off. By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him. Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm, and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off. Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him. I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of BOUNCER. [Illustration] THE BUTTERFLY. Again, beside the roadside, blows The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose; Its purple head the clover raises; And all the fields are full of daisies; And in the sunshine flutters by A little white-winged butterfly. From flower to flower I watch him go; He seems a floating flake of snow: Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging; There on a buttercup he's swinging; And now he makes a little stop Upon a scented thistle-top. Could we change places, he and I, And I should turn a butterfly, How gayly, then, I'd hover over The elder-flowers and tufts of clover! I'd feast on honey all the day, With nobody to say me nay. But, could I only honey eat, 'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet: The pretty flowers would quickly wither; And, all day flying hither, thither, My wings would ache: I'm glad that I Am not that little butterfly. MARIAN DOUGLAS. THE YOUNG CRITIC. Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much. Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in the building. Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for a quarter of an hour at a time. One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton," said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than the other?" Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as I'm alive! We must make a painter of you." [Illustration] Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one. He thinks it must be a charming occupation to make molasses-candy, and be able to eat as much as he wants. He must live and learn. ARTHUR SELWYN. PLAYING HORSE. Among Ellen's playthings, there is none that pleases her more than the bright worsted reins which her aunt bought for her at the May fair. "Reins!--what does a girl do with reins?" I think I hear somebody ask. Why, she plays horse with them, to be sure. She has a brother Charles. He is the horse sometimes; and sometimes he is the driver, and Ellen is the horse. Either way, it is good fun. One fine June day, her elder brother, Ned, took part in the play. He said there should be a span of horses. He and Charles would be the span, and Ellen should drive. "No," said Ellen, "I would rather be one of the horses." [Illustration] So Nelly and Ned were harnessed together, and Charley took the reins. "Get up!" said he, and away they went. As they crossed the lawn, they passed a lawn-mower, and the horse Ned shied badly. If he had not had such a steady horse as Nell by his side, there might have been an accident. As it was, Charles held him in with a tight rein, and the two horses came trotting back to the starting-point at full speed. If Charles had had a watch to time them by, I think he would have found that they made a mile in less than three minutes. A. B. C. [Illustration] [Illustration] JACK. Jack was not a handsome dog. His best friends could not call him a beauty; but as he was a very wise, good dog, we were all very fond of him. One afternoon, some of the younger members of the family were sitting on the piazza, waiting for papa, who was expected home on the five-o'clock train. Jack was lying beside them. At last, the whistle sounded in the distance; and the little four-year-old "flower of the family" said, "Run, Jack, to meet papa at the station." Jack looked up, listened intently for a moment, and then lay down again with a sigh of disappointment. "Oh, what a lazy fellow!" said six-year-old Annie. "If mamma would only trust us to go to the station, we would not wait, or play sleepy." But the train passed on, and papa had not come. In a little while, another whistle sounded; and this time, without a word of command, Jack sprung off the steps, dashed down the street, and returned in a few moments, escorting his master. How did Jack know that the time-table had been changed that day, and a freight-train had taken the place of his master's train? Another time, an uncle, who was visiting the family, had occasion to stay in town until the last train. Jack refused to be shut up, and, at eleven o'clock at night, went in the dark to the station, and escorted our guest up to the house. How did he know what train to meet? and what instinct impelled him to do his part towards keeping up the courtesy of the family? [Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, LONDON.] [Illustration] A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA. Here we are in Santa Cruz, in a hotel right on the beach. We had such a lovely stage-ride over the mountains, and enjoyed the mountain air so much, that I was almost sorry when we arrived. I wish you could see the great madroña-trees on the mountains with their dark-red wood and beautiful green leaves. I do not believe you have any Eastern trees so beautiful. On the top of the Santa Cruz mountains, where we stopped to water the horses, there is a little house, and while we waited there, out from the house came a man whose face was all scarred and seamed. After we drove away, the stage-driver told us that the man was a hunter, known as "Mountain Charley," and that his scars were made by a grisly-bear. Well, we have now been at Santa Cruz a week, and I have had a good time. Every morning we go in bathing. It is a funny sight to see everybody racing down into the waves, and catching hold of a big rope that is stretched from the shore a good distance into the water. The undertow here is so strong, that it is not safe to venture away from the rope. Yesterday we all went to Moore's Beach to have a "clam-bake." We rode in a big wagon; and the first thing we did, when we got to the beach, was to pull off our shoes and stockings, and wade in the water. Papa and Uncle John dug the clams; while the rest of us ran about hunting for sea-urchins and shells. As soon as the clams were boiled, we sat down on the beach, and unpacked the lunch-baskets. Oh, how hungry we were! and how good every thing tasted. There was one lady in the party, who sat up high on the rocks, with her kid gloves on, and her sunshade over her, while the rest of us were running about with bare feet, and skirts tucked up. But at lunch-time she came down from her high place, and I saw her eating clams with as good a relish as any of us. Next week we are going to Pescadero, and, perhaps, I will write to you again from there. DAISY. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PARROT WHO PLAYED THE MASTER. A STORY WITH A MORAL. The master of the house had gone out on business. As he shut the door, the parrot, whose place was on a perch in the room, thought to himself, "Hi! Now I am master in this house, and I'll let people know it." He thereupon threw his head proudly on one side, and spread himself in a very pompous manner; then, as he had seen his master do, broke the finest rose from the bush, and put the stem in his bill; then looked at his gay-colored coat in the glass, and felt as grand as a born nobleman. Near by, on the rug, two dogs, Ami and Finette, lay asleep. They were well-trained, obedient dogs, clean-limbed and civil, expert in many clever tricks, but not quite a match for the parrot in cleverness and cunning. As soon as the latter spied them, he cried out, imitating his master's tones, "Finette, attention! Ami, make ready!" Whereupon Ami stood up on his hind-legs, straight as a sentinel; while Finette hurried up, expecting to have something thrown for him to bring back. There stood and stood the poor simpletons, steadfastly looking up, while Master Poll cried sternly all the while, "Ami, make ready! Finette, attention!" Finette became almost wild with eagerness; and poor Ami could hardly stand on his hind-legs any longer. At last the master came home, and put an end to the torture of the poor dogs. The moral of my story is this: whenever a simpleton puts on airs and plays the master, there are always other simpletons ready to obey his commands. VICTOR BLUTHGEN. [Illustration] [Illustration] CATSKILL-MOUNTAIN HOUSE. My little friend Mabel is passing the summer amid the Catskill Mountains. These mountains are in the State of New York, on the west side of the Hudson River. Round Top and High Peak, two of the highest summits, are about thirty-eight hundred feet above the level of the sea. They are well covered with forests, and in autumn, when the leaves begin to change, they make a very brilliant show. The Catskill-Mountain House is finely situated on a rocky terrace, twenty-two hundred feet above the river. It is twelve miles from the village of Catskill, and is much resorted to in the summer season. The prospect from this house is quite extensive. Mabel writes me that the view of the sunrise is grand; the air is cool and bracing; and the sight of the tops of trees rolling below, like a sea, for miles and miles, is a thing to remember. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration] SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE. [Illustration: Music] Words by MATTHIAS BARR. Music by ROBERT MILLS. 1. Sleeping in the sunshine, Fie, fie, fie! While the birds are soar-ing, High, high, high! While the birds are op'-ning sweet And the blossoms at your feet, Look a smil-ing face to greet. Fie, fie, fie! 2. Sleeping in the sunshine, Fie, fie, fie! While the bee goes humming, By, by, by! Is there no small task for you,-- Nought for lit-tle hands to do; Shame to sleep the morning through! Fie, fie, fie! * * * * * [Illustration] VIOLET TOILET WATER. CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap. * * * * * SEEDS AND BULBS. ILLUSTRATED SPRING CATALOGUE FOR 1875. NOW READY. Sent, with a specimen copy of THE AMERICAN GARDEN, a new Illustrated Journal of Garden Art, edited by James Hogg, on receipt of ten cents. BEACH, SON & CO., Seedsmen, 76 Fulton St., Brooklyn, N. Y. * * * * * $5 to $20 per day. Agents wanted. All classes of working people of both sexes, young and old, make more money at work for us, in their own localities, during their spare moments, or all the time, than at anything else. We offer employment that will pay handsomely for every hour's work. Full particulars, terms, &c., sent free. Send us your address at once. Don't delay. Now is the time. Don't look for work or business elsewhere, until you have learned what we offer. G. 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C. W. JENCKS & BRO., Providence, R. I. * * * * * THE BEAUTIFUL ART OF DECALCOMANIA. 20 Transfer Pictures and 1 Beautiful Gem Chromo, with full instructions and Catalogue containing 2000 valuable articles, including Price List of Wax Flower Materials, Instructions without a Teacher, etc., sent for 10 cents. These beautiful pictures consist of Heads, Landscapes, Flowers, Autumn Leaves, Animals, Birds, Insects, Grotesque and Comic Figures, etc., and are easily transferred to any article, so as to imitate the most beautiful oil painting. Also 5 beautiful Gem Chromos for ten cents, 30 for 50 cents, or a full family portfolio of assorted varieties for $1.00. Address, enclosing price, and a three cent stamp, B. Alexander & Co., Agents Wanted. The Trade supplied. 66 Fulton Street, New York. * * * * * [Illustration] The Mother's Helper! The Baby's Joy! The Centennial Baby Walking-Table. This Walking-Table is the best article of the kind ever offered to the mothers of America. The time saved to be given to other duties, aside from personal relief to the mother or nurse, will more than pay the price of the table. Any child that can stand a moment by a chair without falling, can, by one day's practice, and sometimes at once, walk where it pleases about the room. It is so constructed that it is impossible for the child to fall or get injured in any way. Prices.--Metal, very fine, $5. Black-Walnut, $5. Imitation Walnut, $3.50. Sent to any address on receipt of price, or C.O.D. Send for circular. IRVING D. CLARK, Manufacturer, Gloversville, Fulton Co., New York. [Illustration] WHAT SPLENDID TEETH! Is the exclamation that a perfect, even, and brilliant set of teeth elicits. Brush the gleaming ivory every day with FRAGRANT SOZODONT! And thus render its charm imperishable. Keep the ENAMEL SPOTLESS and the GUMS HEALTHY with SOZODONT, and your teeth, however uneven, will always be admired. No other dentrifice makes the teeth so WHITE, and yet none is so entirely FREE from every OBJECTIONABLE INGREDIENT. It neutralizes all impurities that are destructive to the teeth, and which defile the BREATH. It has been endorsed by the most eminent Physicians, Dentists and Divines. Sold by all Druggists. * * * * * FEEBLE-MINDED YOUTH Private Institution at Barre, Mass. GEO. BROWN, M.D., Sup't. * * * * * $25 A DAY guaranteed using our WELL AUGER & DRILLS. $100 a month paid to good agents. Auger book free. Jilz Auger Co., St. Louis, Mo. * * * * * CONSTANTINES PINE TAR SOAP For Toilet, Bath and Nursery, Cures Diseases of Skin Scalp and Mucous Coating. SOLD BY DRUGGISTS AND GROCERS. * * * * * AGENTS WANTED, Men or Women, $50 per week. Address AMERICAN GOLD MINING CO., Laramie City, Wyoming. LADIES can make $5 a day in their own city or town Address ELLIS M'F'G CO. Waltham, Mass. * * * * * YOUNG AMERICA PRESS. The most simple, effective, and durable printing press ever made. Circulars sent free on application to JOSEPH WATSON, 53 Murray St., New York, and 73 Cornhill, Boston. * * * * * [Illustration] TO PEOPLE WHO REASON. It is because TARRANT'S EFFERVESCENT SELTZER APERIENT reduces the heat of the blood by creating perspiration, as well as through its purgative operation, that it produces such marvelous effect in ferbile diseases. SOLD BY ALL DRUGGISTS. * * * * * Fathers and Mothers!) Sons and Daughters! ) In these hard times get the most you can for your money. Then subscribe at once for THE DEW DROP, the _best_ and _cheapest_ paper for the YOUNG, MIDDLE-AGED, and OLD, now published. Full of splendid Stories, Sketches, Incidents, Anecdotes, Scientific Articles, and Puzzles. A Brilliant Serial Story now commencing. Only 40 cents a year, postpaid. Specimen copies 5 cents. Address "DEW DROP" PUBLISHING CO., P. O. Box 2448. Boston, Mass. A CARD.--We offer a cash prize of $5.00 for the best--we have not space to give full particulars, but there are ten articles for competition, for _each_ of which we shall give $5 cash. A splendid chance for boys and girls to earn a little pocket money. Send 5 cents for full particulars and a specimen copy of "THE DEW DROP." THE NURSERY. PREMIUM-LIST for 1875. For three new subscribers, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following articles: a heavily-plated gold pencil-case, a rubber pencil-case with gold tips, silver fruit-knife, a pen-knife, a beautiful wallet, any book worth $1.50. For FIVE, at $1.60 each, any one of the following: globe microscope, silver fruit-knife, silver napkin-ring, book or books worth $2.50. For SIX, at $1.60 each, we will give any one of the following: a silver fruit-knife (marked), silver napkin-ring, pen-knives, scissors, backgammon-board, note-paper and envelopes stamped with initials, books worth $3.00. For TEN, at $1.60 each, select any one of the following: morocco travelling-bag, stereoscope with six views, silver napkin-ring, compound microscope, lady's work-box, sheet-music or books worth $5.00. For TWENTY, at $1.60 each, select any one of the following: a fine croquet-set, a powerful opera-glass, a toilet case, Webster's Dictionary (unabridged), sheet-music or books worth $10.00. ***Any other articles equally easy to transport may be selected as premiums, their value being in proportion to the number of subscribers sent. Thus, we will give for three new subscribers, at $1.60 each, a premium worth $1.50; for four, a premium worth $2.00; for five, a premium worth $2.50; and so on. BOOKS for premiums may be selected from any publisher's catalogue; and we can always supply them at catalogue prices. 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[Hand-->] _Take notice that our offers of premiums apply only to subscriptions paid at the full price: viz., $1.60 a year. We do not offer premiums for subscriptions supplied at club-rates. We offer no premiums for one subscription only. We offer no premiums in money._ Address, JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield St., Boston. The Nursery. TERMS--1875. SUBSCRIPTIONS,--$1.60 a year, in advance. Three copies for $4.30 a year; four for $5.40; five for $6.50; six for $7.60: seven for $8.70; eight for $9.80; nine for $10.90; each additional copy for $1.20; twenty copies for $22.00, always in advance. POSTAGE is included in the above rates. All magazines are sent postpaid. A SINGLE NUMBER will be mailed for 15 cents. _One sample number will be mailed for 10 cents._ VOLUMES begin with January and July. Subscriptions may commence with any month, but, unless the time is specified, will date from the beginning of the current volume. BACK NUMBERS can always be supplied. _The Magazine commenced January, 1867._ BOUND VOLUMES, each containing the numbers for six months, will be sent by mail, postpaid, for $1.00 per volume; yearly volumes for $1.75. COVERS, for half-yearly volume, postpaid, 35 cents; covers for yearly volume, 40 cents. PRICES OF BINDING.--In the regular half-yearly volume, 40 cents; in one yearly volume (12 Nos. in one), 50 cents. If the volumes are to be returned by mail, add 14 cents for the half-yearly, and 22 cents for the yearly volume, to pay postage. REMITTANCES may be made at our risk, if made by check, or money-order. * * * * * IN CLUB WITH OTHER PERIODICALS. (ALL POSTPAID.) Scribner's Monthly $4.00, and The Nursery, $4.75 Harper's Monthly 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Harper's Weekly 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Harper's Bazar 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Atlantic Monthly 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Galaxy 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Old and New 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Lippincott's Magazine 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Appleton's Journal 4.00, and The Nursery, 4.75 Living Age 8.00, and The Nursery, 9.00 Phrenological Journ'l 3.10, and The Nursery, 4.00 The Science of Health 2.00, and The Nursery, 3.10 The Sanitarian 3.00, and The Nursery, 4.00 St. Nicholas 3.00, and The Nursery, 4.00 The Household 1.00, and The Nursery, 2.20 Mother's Journal 2.00, and The Nursery, 3.25 Demorest's Monthly 3.10, and The Nursery, 4.25 Amer. 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The publisher of each Magazine is responsible for its prompt delivery; and complaints must be addressed accordingly. * * * * * NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS The number of the Magazine with which your subscription _expires_ is indicated by the number annexed to the address on the printed label. When no such number appears, it will be understood that the subscription ends with the current year. NO NOTICE OF DISCONTINUANCE NEED BE GIVEN, AS THE MAGAZINE IS NEVER SENT AFTER THE TERM OF SUBSCRIPTION EXPIRES. Subscribers will oblige us by sending their renewals promptly. State always that your payment is for a _renewal_, when such is the fact. In changing the direction, the _old_ as well as the _new_ address should be given. The sending of "The Nursery" will be regarded as a sufficient receipt. [Hand-->] Any one not receiving it will please notify us immediately, giving date of remittance. ADDRESS JOHN L. SHOREY, 36 Bromfield St., Boston, Mass. 
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17857	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17857-h.htm or 17857-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/8/5/17857/17857-h/17857-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/8/5/17857/17857-h.zip) Transcriber's note: A number of typographical errors have been maintained in the current version of this book. A complete list is found at the end of the text. FORGOTTEN BOOKS OF THE AMERICAN NURSERY A History of the Development of the American Story-Book by ROSALIE V. HALSEY [Illustration: _The Devil and the Disobedient Child_] Boston Charles E. Goodspeed & Co. 1911 Copyright, 1911, by C.E. Goodspeed & Co. Of this book seven hundred copies were printed in November 1911, by D.B. Updike, at The Merrymount Press, Boston TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Introductory 3 II. The Play-Book in England 33 III. Newbery's Books in America 59 IV. Patriotic Printers and the American Newbery 89 V. The Child and his Book at the End of the Eighteenth Century 121 VI. Toy-Books in the early Nineteenth Century 147 VII. American Writers and English Critics 191 Index 233 ILLUSTRATIONS _The Devil and the Disobedient Child_ Frontispiece From "The Prodigal Daughter." Sold at the Printing Office, No. 5, Cornhill, Boston. [J. and J. Fleet, 1789?] Facing Page _The Devil appears as a French Gentleman_ 26 From "The Prodigal Daughter." Sold at the Printing Office, No. 5, Cornhill, Boston. [J. and J. Fleet, 1789?] _Title-page from "The Child's New Play-thing"_ 44 Printed by J. Draper; J. Edwards in Boston [1750]. Now in the New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations _Title-page from "A Little Pretty Pocket-Book"_ 47 Printed by Isaiah Thomas, Worcester, MDCCLXXXVII. Now in the New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations _A page from "A Little Pretty Pocket-Book"_ 49 Printed by Isaiah Thomas, Worcester, MDCCLXXXVII. Now in the New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations _John Newbery's Advertisement of Children's Books_ 60 From the "Pennsylvania Gazette" of November 15, 1750 _Title-page of "The New Gift for Children"_ 70 Printed by Zechariah Fowle, Boston, 1762. Now in the Library of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania _Miss Fanny's Maid_ 74 Illustration from "The New Gift for Children," printed by Zechariah Fowle, Boston, 1762. Now in the Library of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania _A page from a Catalogue of Children's Books printed by Isaiah Thomas_ 106 From "The Picture Exhibition," Worcester, MDCCLXXXVIII _Illustration of Riddle XIV_ 110 From "The Puzzling-Cap," printed by John Adams, Philadelphia, 1805 _Frontispiece from "The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes"_ 117 From one of _The First Worcester Edition_, printed by Isaiah Thomas in MDCCLXXXVII. Now in the Library of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania _Sir Walter Raleigh and his Man_ 125 Copper-plate illustration from "Little Truths," printed in Philadelphia by J. and J. Crukshank in 1800 _Foot Ball_ 126 Copper-plate illustration from "Youthful Recreations," printed in Philadelphia by Jacob Johnson about 1802 _Jacob Johnson's Book-Store in Philadelphia about 1800_ 155 _A Wall-paper Book-Cover_ 165 From "Lessons for Children from Four to Five Years Old," printed in Wilmington (Delaware) by Peter Brynberg in 1804 _Tom the Piper's Son_ 170 Illustration and text engraved on copper by William Charles, of Philadelphia, in 1808 _A Kind and Good Father_ 172 Woodcut by Alexander Anderson for "The Prize for Youthful Obedience," printed in Philadelphia by Jacob Johnson in 1807 _A Virginian_ 174 Illustration from "People of all Nations," printed in Philadelphia by Jacob Johnson in 1807 _A Baboon_ 174 Illustration from "A Familiar Description of Beasts and Birds," printed in Boston by Lincoln and Edmands in 1813 _Drest or Undrest_ 176 Illustration from "The Daisy," published by Jacob Johnson in 1808 _Little Nancy_ 182 Probably engraved by William Charles for "Little Nancy, or, the Punishment of Greediness," published in Philadelphia by Morgan & Yeager about 1830 _Children of the Cottage_ 196 Engraved by Joseph I. Pease for "The Youth's Sketch Book," published in Boston by Lilly, Wait and Company in 1834 _Henrietta_ 200 Engraved by Thomas Illman for "The American Juvenile Keepsake," published in Brockville, U.C., by Horace Billings & Co. in 1835 _A Child and her Doll_ 206 Illustration from "Little Mary," Part II, published in Boston by Cottons and Barnard in 1831 _The Little Runaway_ 227 Drawn and engraved by J.W. Steel for "Affection's Gift," published in New York by J.C. Riker in 1832 CHAPTER I _Introductory_ Thy life to mend This _book_ attend. _The New England Tutor_ London (1702-14) To be brought up in fear And learn A B C. FOXE, _Book of Martyrs_ _Forgotten Books of the American Nursery_ CHAPTER I _Introductory_ A shelf full of books belonging to the American children of colonial times and of the early days of the Republic presents a strangely unfamiliar and curious appearance. If chronologically placed, the earliest coverless chap-books are hardly noticeable next to their immediate successors with wooden sides; and these, in turn, are dominated by the gilt, silver, and many colored bindings of diminutive dimensions which hold the stories dear to the childish heart from Revolutionary days to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Then bright blue, salmon, yellow, and marbled paper covers make a vivid display which, as the century grows older, fades into the sad-colored cloth bindings thought adapted to many children's books of its second quarter. An examination of their contents shows them to be equally foreign to present day ideas as to the desirable characteristics for children's literature. Yet the crooked black type and crude illustrations of the wholly religious episodes related in the oldest volumes on the shelf, the didactic and moral stories with their tiny type-metal, wood, and copper-plate pictures of the next groups; and the "improving" American tales adorned with blurred colored engravings, or stiff steel and wood illustrations, that were produced for juvenile amusement in the early part of the nineteenth century,--all are as interesting to the lover of children as they are unattractive to the modern children themselves. The little ones very naturally find the stilted language of these old stories unintelligible and the artificial plots bewildering; but to one interested in the adult literature of the same periods of history an acquaintance with these amusement books of past generations has a peculiar charm and value of its own. They then become not merely curiosities, but the means of tracing the evolution of an American literature for children. To the student desiring an intimate acquaintance with any civilized people, its lighter literature is always a great aid to personal research; the more trivial, the more detailed, the greater the worth to the investigator are these pen-pictures as records of the nation he wishes to know. Something of this value have the story-books of old-fashioned childhood. Trivial as they undoubtedly are, they nevertheless often contain our best sketches of child-life in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries,--a life as different from that of a twentieth century child as was the adult society of those old days from that of the present time. They also enable us to mark as is possible in no other way, the gradual development of a body of writing which, though lagging much behind the adult literature, was yet also affected by the local and social conditions in America. Without attempting to give the history of the evolution of the A B C book in England--the legitimate ancestor of all juvenile books--two main topics must be briefly discussed before entering upon the proper matter of this volume. The first relates to the family life in the early days of the Massachusetts Commonwealth, the province that produced the first juvenile book. The second topic has to do with the literature thought suitable for children in those early Puritan days. These two subjects are closely related, the second being dependent upon the first. Both are necessary to the history of these quaint toy volumes, whose stories lack much meaning unless the conditions of life and literature preceding them are understood. When the Pilgrim Fathers, seeking freedom of faith, founded their first settlements in the new country, one of their earliest efforts was directed toward firmly establishing their own religion. This, though nominally free, was eventually, under the Mathers, to become a theocracy as intolerant as that faith from which they had fled. The rocks upon which this religion was builded were the Bible and the Catechism. In this history of toy-books the catechism is, however, perhaps almost the more important to consider, for it was a product of the times, and regarded as indispensable to the proper training of a family. The Puritan conception of life, as an error to be rectified by suffering rather than as a joy to be accepted with thanksgiving, made the preparation for death and the dreadful Day of Judgment the chief end of existence. The catechism, therefore, with its fear-inspiring description of Hell and the consequences of sin, became inevitably the chief means of instructing children in the knowledge of their sinful inheritance. In order to insure a supply of catechisms, it was voted by the members of the company in sixteen hundred and twenty-nine, when preparing to emigrate, to expend "3 shillings for 2 dussen and ten catechismes."[6-A] A contract was also made in the same year with "sundry intended ministers for catechising, as also in teaching, or causing to be taught the Companyes servants & their children, as also the salvages and their children."[6-B] Parents, especially the mothers, were continually exhorted in sermons preached for a century after the founding of the colony, to catechize the children every day, "that," said Cotton Mather, "you may be continually dropping something of the _Catechism_ upon them: Some Honey out of the Rock"! Indeed, the learned divine seems to have regarded it as a soothing and toothsome morsel, for he even imagined that the children cried for it continuously, saying: _"O our dear Parents, Acquaint us with the Great God.... Let us not go from your Tender Knees, down to the Place of Dragons. Oh! not Parents, but Ostriches: Not Parents, but Prodigies."_[6-C] Much dissension soon arose among the ministers of the settlements as to which catechism should be taught. As the result of the discussion the "General Corte," which met in sixteen hundred and forty-one, "desired that the elders would make a catechism for _the instruction of youth in the grounds of religion_."[6-D] To meet this request, several clergymen immediately responded. Among them was John Cotton, who presumably prepared a small volume which was entitled "_Milk for Babes_. Drawn out of the Breast of Both Testaments. Chiefly for the spiritual nourishment of _Boston_ Babes in either England: But may be of like use for any children." For the present purpose the importance of this little book lies in the supposition that it was printed at Cambridge, by Daye, between sixteen hundred and forty-one and sixteen hundred and forty-five, and therefore was the first book of any kind written and printed in America for children;--an importance altogether different from that attached to it by the author's grandson, Cotton Mather, when he asserted that "Milk for Babes" would be "valued and studied and improved till New England cease to be New England."[7-A] To the little colonials this "Catechism of New England" was a great improvement upon any predecessor, even upon the Westminster Shorter Catechism, for it reduced the one hundred and seven questions of that famous body of doctrine to sixty-seven, and the longest answer in "Milk for Babes" contained only eighty-four words.[7-B] As the century grew older other catechisms were printed. The number produced before the eighteenth century bears witness to the diverse views in a community in which they were considered an essential for every member, adult or child. Among the six hundred titles roughly computed as the output of the press by seventeen hundred in the new country, eleven different catechisms may be counted, with twenty editions in all; of these the titles of four indicate that they were designed for very little children. In each community the pastor appointed the catechism to be taught in the school, and joined the teacher in drilling the children in its questions and answers. Indeed, the answers were regarded as irrefutable in those uncritical days, and hence a strong shield and buckler against manifold temptations provided by "yt ould deluder Satan." To offset the task of learning these doctrines of the church, it is probable that the mothers regaled the little ones with old folk-lore tales when the family gathered together around the great living-room fire in the winter evening, or asked eagerly for a bedtime story in the long summer twilight. Tales such as "Jack the Giant Killer," "Tom Thumb," the "Children in the Wood," and "Guy of Warwick," were orally current even among the plain people of England, though frowned upon by many of the Puritan element. Therefore it is at least presumable that these were all familiar to the colonists. In fact, it is known that John Dunton, in sixteen hundred and eighty-six, sold in his Boston warehouse "The History of Tom Thumb," which he facetiously offered to an ignorant customer "in folio with Marginal notes." Besides these orally related tales of enchantment, the children had a few simple pastimes, but at first the few toys were necessarily of home manufacture. On the whole, amusements were not encouraged, although "In the year sixteen hundred and ninety-five Mr. Higginson," writes Mrs. Earle, "wrote from Massachusetts to his brother in England, that if toys were imported in small quantity to America, they would sell." And a venture of this character was certainly made by seventeen hundred and twelve in Boston. Still, these were the exception in a commonwealth where amusements were considered as wiles of the Devil, against whom the ministers constantly warned the congregations committed to their charge. Home in the seventeenth century--and indeed in the eighteenth century--was a place where for children the rule "to be seen, not heard," was strictly enforced. To read Judge Sewall's diary is to be convinced that for children to obtain any importance in life, death was necessary. Funerals of little ones were of frequent occurrence, and were conducted with great ceremony, in which pomp and meagre preparation were strangely mingled. Baby Henry Sewall's funeral procession, for instance, included eight ministers, the governor and magistrates of the county, and two nurses who bore the little body to the grave, into which, half full of water from the raging storm, the rude coffin was lowered. Death was kept before the eyes of every member of the colony; even two-year-old babies learned such mournful verse as this: "I, in the Burying Place may See Graves Shorter than I; From Death's Arrest no age is free Young Children too may die; My God, may such an awful Sight Awakening be to me! Oh! that by Grace I might For Death prepared be." When the younger members of the family are otherwise mentioned in the Judge's diary, it is perhaps to note the parents' pride in the eighteen-months-old infant's knowledge of the catechism, an acquirement rewarded by the gift of a red apple, but which suggests the reason for many funerals. Or, again, difficulties with the alphabet are sorrowfully put down; and also deliquencies at the age of four in attending family prayer, with a full account of punishments meted out to the culprit. Such details are, indeed, but natural, for under the stern conditions imposed by Cotton and the Mathers, religion looms large in the foreground of any sketch of family life handed down from the first century of the Massachusetts colony. Perhaps the very earliest picture in which a colonial child with a book occupies the centre of the canvas is that given in a letter of Samuel Sewall's. In sixteen hundred and seventy-one he wrote with pride to a friend of "little Betty, who though Reading passing well, took Three Moneths to Read the first Volume of the Book of Martyrs" as she sat by the fire-light at night after her daily task of spinning was done. Foxe's "Martyrs" seems gruesome reading for a little girl at bedtime, but it was so popular in England that, with the Bible and Catechism, it was included in the library of all households that could afford it. Just ten years later, in sixteen hundred and eighty-one, Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" was printed in Boston by Samuel Green, and, being easily obtainable, superseded in a measure the "Book of Martyrs" as a household treasure. Bunyan's dream, according to Macaulay, was the daily conversation of thousands, and was received in New England with far greater eagerness than in the author's own country. The children undoubtedly listened to the talk of their elders and gazed with wide-open eyes at the execrable plates in the imported editions illustrating Christian's journey. After the deaths by fire and sword of the Martyrs, the Pilgrim's difficulties in the Slough of Despond, or with the Giant Despair, afforded pleasurable reading; while Mr. Great Heart's courageous cheerfulness brought practically a new characteristic into Puritan literature. To Bunyan the children in both old and New England were indebted for another book, entitled "A Book for Boys and Girls: or, Country Rhimes for Children. By J.B. Licensed and Entered according to Order."[11-A] Printed in London, it probably soon made its way to this country, where Bunyan was already so well known. "This little octavo volume," writes Mrs. Field in "The Child and his Book," "was considered a perfect child's book, but was in fact only the literary milk of the unfortunate babes of the period." In the light of modern views upon juvenile reading and entertainment, the Puritan ideal of mental pabulum for little ones is worth recording in an extract from the preface. The following lines set forth this author's three-fold purpose: "To show them how each Fingle-fangle, On which they doting are, their souls entangle, As with a Web, a Trap, a Gin, or Snare. While by their Play-things, I would them entice, To mount their Thoughts from what are childish Toys To Heaven for that's prepar'd for Girls and Boys. Nor do I so confine myself to these As to shun graver things, I seek to please, Those more compos'd with better things than Toys: Tho thus I would be catching Girls and Boys." In the seventy-four Meditations composing this curious medley--"tho but in Homely Rhimes"--upon subjects familiar to any little girl or boy, none leaves the moral to the imagination. Nevertheless, it could well have been a relaxation, after the daily drill in "A B abs" and catechism, to turn the leaves and to spell out this: UPON THE FROG The Frog by nature is both damp and cold, Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold, She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be Croaking in gardens tho' unpleasantly. _Comparison_ The hypocrite is like unto this frog; As like as is the Puppy to the Dog. He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide To prate, and at true Goodness to deride. Doubtless, too, many little Puritans quite envied the child in "The Boy and the Watchmaker," a jingle wherein the former said, among other things: "This Watch my Father did on me bestow A Golden one it is, but 'twill not go, Unless it be at an Uncertainty; I think there is no watch as bad as mine. Sometimes 'tis sullen, 'twill not go at all, And yet 'twas never broke, nor had a fall." The same small boys may even have enjoyed the tedious explanation of the mechanism of the time-piece given by the _Watchmaker_, and after skipping the "Comparison" (which made the boy represent a convert and the watch in his pocket illustrative of "Grace within his Heart"), they probably turned eagerly to the next Meditation _Upon the Boy and his Paper of Plumbs_. Weather-cocks, Hobby-horses, Horses, and Drums, all served Bunyan in his effort "to point a moral" while adorning his tales. In a later edition of these grotesque and quaint conceptions, some alterations were made and a primer was included. It then appeared as "A Book for Boys and Girls; or Temporal Things Spiritualized;" and by the time the ninth edition was reached, in seventeen hundred and twenty-four, the book was hardly recognizable as "Divine Emblems; or Temporal Things Spiritualized." At present there is no evidence that these rhymes were printed in the colonies until long after this ninth edition was issued. It is possible that the success attending a book printed in Boston shortly after the original "Country Rhimes" was written, made the colonial printers feel that their profit would be greater by devoting spare type and paper to the now famous "New England Primer." Moreover, it seems peculiarly in keeping with the cast of the New England mind of the eighteenth century that although Bunyan had attempted to combine play-things with religious teaching for the English children, for the little colonials the first combination was the elementary teaching and religious exercises found in the great "Puritan Primer." Each child was practically, if not verbally, told that "This little Catechism learned by heart (for so it ought) The Primer next commanded is for Children to be taught." The Primer, however, was not a product wholly of New England. In sixteen hundred and eighty-five there had been printed in Boston by Green, "The Protestant Tutor for Children," a primer, a mutilated copy of which is now owned by the American Antiquarian Society. "This," again to quote Mr. Ford, "was probably an abridged edition of a book bearing the same title, printed in London, with the expressed design of bringing up children in an aversion to Popery." In Protestant New England the author's purpose naturally called forth profound approbation, and in "Green's edition of the Tutor lay the germ of the great picture alphabet of our fore-fathers."[14-A] The author, Benjamin Harris, had immigrated to Boston for personal reasons, and coming in contact with the residents, saw the latent possibilities in "The Protestant Tutor." "To make it more salable," writes Mr. Ford in "The New England Primer," "the school-book character was increased, while to give it an even better chance of success by an appeal to local pride it was rechristened and came forth under the now famous title of 'The New England Primer.'"[14-B] A careful examination of the titles contained in the first volume of Evans's "American Bibliography" shows how exactly this infant's primer represented the spirit of the times. This chronological list of American imprints of the first one hundred years of the colonial press is largely a record in type of the religious activity of the country, and is impressive as a witness to the obedience of the press to the law of supply and demand. With the Puritan appetite for a grim religion served in sermons upon every subject, ornamented and seasoned with supposedly apt Scriptural quotations, a demand was created for printed discourses to be read and inwardly digested at home. This demand the printers supplied. Amid such literary conditions the primer came as light food for infants' minds, and as such was accepted by parents to impress religious ideas when teaching the alphabet. It is not by any means certain that the first edition of this great primer of our ancestors contained illustrations, as engravers were few in America before the eighteenth century. Yet it seems altogether probable that they were introduced early in the next century, as by seventeen hundred and seventeen Benjamin Harris, Jr., had printed in Boston "The Holy Bible in Verse," containing cuts identical with those in "The New England Primer" of a somewhat later date, and these pictures could well have served as illustrations for both these books for children's use, profit, and pleasure. At all events, the thorough approval by parents and clergy of this small school-book soon brought to many a household the novelty of a real picture-book. Hitherto little children had been perforce content with the few illustrations the adult books offered. Now the printing of this tiny volume, with its curious black pictures accompanying the text of religious instruction, catechism, and alphabets, marked the milestone on the long lane that eventually led to the well-drawn pictures in the modern books for children. It is difficult at so late a day to estimate correctly the pleasure this famous picture alphabet brought to the various colonial households. What the original illustrations were like can only be inferred from those in "The Holy Bible in Verse," and in the later editions of the primer itself. In the Bible Adam (or is it Eve?) stands pointing to a tree around which a serpent is coiled. By seventeen hundred and thirty-seven the engraver was sufficiently skilled to represent two figures, who stand as colossal statues on either side of the tree whose fruit had such disastrous effects. However, at a time when art criticism had no terrors for the engraver, it could well have been a delight to many a family of little ones to gaze upon "The Lion bold The Lamb doth hold" and to speculate upon the exact place where the lion ended and the lamb began. The wholly religious character of the book was no drawback to its popularity, for the two great diaries of the time show how absolutely religion permeated the atmosphere surrounding both old and young. Cotton Mather's diary gives various glimpses of his dealing with his own and other people's children. His son Increase, or "Cressy," as he was affectionately called, seems to have been particularly unresponsive to religious coercion. Mather's method, however, appears to have been more efficacious with the younger members of his family, and of Elizabeth and Samuel (seven years of age) he wrote: "My two younger children shall before the Psalm and prayer answer a Quæstion in the catechism; and have their Leaves ready turned unto the proofs of the Answer in the Bible; which they shall distinctly read unto us, and show what they prove. This also shall supply a fresh matter for prayer." Again he tells of his table talk: "Tho' I will have my table talk facetious as well as instructive ... yett I will have the Exercise continually intermixed. I will set before them some sentence of the Bible, and make some useful Remarks upon it." Other people's children he taught as occasion offered; even when "on the Road in the Woods," he wrote on another day, "I, being desirous to do some Good, called some little children ... and bestowed some Instruction with a little Book upon them." To children accustomed to instruction at all hours, the amusement found in the pages of the primer was far greater than in any other book printed in the colonies for years. Certain titles indicate the nature of the meagre juvenile literary fare in the beginning of the new eighteenth century. In seventeen hundred Nicholas Boone, in his "Shop over against the old Meeting-house" in Boston, reprinted Janeway's "Token for Children." To this was added by the Boston printer a "Token for the children of New England, or some examples of children in whom the fear of God was remarkably budding when they dyed; in several parts of New England." Of course its author, the Reverend Mr. Mather, found colonial "examples" as deeply religious as any that the mother country could produce; but there is for us a grim humor in these various incidents concerning pious and precocious infants "of thin habit and pale countenance," whose pallor became that of death at so early an age. If it was by the repetition of such tales that the Puritan divine strove to convert Cressy, it may well be that the son considered it better policy, since Death claimed the little saints, to remain a sinner. By seventeen hundred and six two juvenile books appeared from the press of Timothy Green in Boston. The first, "A LITTLE BOOK for children wherein are set down several directions for little children: and several remarkable stories both ancient and modern of little children, divers whereof are lately deceased," was a reprint from an English book of the same title, and therefore has not in this chronicle the interest of the second book. The purpose of its publication is given in Mather's diary: [1706] 22d. Im. Friday. About this Time sending my little son to School, Where ye Child was Learning to Read, I did use every morning for diverse months, to Write in a plain Hand for the Child, and send thither by him, _a Lesson in Verse_, to be not only _read_, but also _Gott_ by Heart. My proposal was to have the Child improve in goodness, at the same time that he improved in _Reading_. Upon further Thoughts I apprehended that a Collection of some of them would be serviceable to ye Good Education of other children. So I lett ye printer take them & print them, in some hope of some Help to thereby contributed unto that great Intention of a _Good Education_. The book is entituled _Good Lessons for Children_; or Instruction provided for a little Son to learn at School, when learning to Read. Although this small book lives only by record, it is safe to assume from the extracts of the author's diary already quoted, that it lacked every quality of amusement, and was adapted only to those whom he described, in a sermon preached before the Governor and Council, as "verie Sharpe and early Ripe in their capacities." "Good Lessons" has the distinction of being the first American book to be composed, like many a modern publication, for a particular young child; and, with its purpose "to improve in goodness," struck clearly the keynote of the greater part of all writing for children during the succeeding one hundred and seventy-five years. The first glimpse of the amusement book proper appears in that unique "History of Printing in America," by Isaiah Thomas. This describes, among other old printers, one Thomas Fleet, who established himself in Boston about 1713. "At first," wrote Mr. Thomas, "he printed pamphlets for booksellers, small books for children and ballads" in Pudding Lane.[19-A] "He owned several negroes, one of which ... was an ingenious man and cut on wooden blocks all the pictures which decorated the ballads and small books for his master."[19-B] As corroborative of these statements Thomas also mentions Thomas Fleet, Sr., as "the putative compiler of Mother Goose Melodies, which he first published in 1719, bearing the title of 'Songs for the Nursery.'" Much discussion has arisen as to the earliest edition of Mother Goose. Thomas's suggestion as to the origin of the first American edition has been of late years relegated to the region of myth. Nevertheless, there is something to be said in favor of the existence of some book of nonsense at that time. The Boston "News Letter" for April 12-19, 1739, contained a criticism of Tate and Brady's version of the Psalms, in which the reviewer wrote that in Psalm VI the translators used the phrase, "a wretch forlorn." He added: "(1) There is nothing of this in the original or the English Psalter. (2) 'Tis a low expression and to add a low one is the less allowable. But (3) what I am most concerned for is, that it will be apt to make our Children think of the line in their vulgar Play song; much like it, 'This is the maiden all forlorn.'" We recognize at once a reference to our nursery friend of the "House that Jack Built;" and if this and "Tom Thumb" were sold in Boston, why should not other ditties have been among the chap-books which Thomas remembered to have set up when a 'prentice lad in the printing-house of Zechariah Fowle, who in turn had copied some issued previously by Thomas Fleet? In further confirmation of Thomas's statement is a paragraph in the preface to an edition of Mother Goose, published in Boston in 1833, by Monroe & Francis. The editor traces the origin of these rhymes to a London book entitled, "Rhymes for the Nursery or Lullabies for Children," "that," he writes, "contained many of the identical pieces handed down to us." He continues: "The first book of the kind known to be printed in this country _bears_ [_the italics are mine_] the title, '_Songs for the Nursery: or Mother Goose's Melodies for Children_.' Something probably intended to represent a goose, with a very long neck and mouth wide open, covered a large part of the title-page; at the bottom of which was: 'Printed by T. Fleet, at his printing house, Pudding Lane (Boston) 1719.' Several pages were missing, so that the whole number could not be ascertained." The editor clearly writes as if he had either seen, or heard accurately described, this piece of _Americana_, which the bibliophile to-day would consider a treasure trove. Later writers doubt whether any such book existed, for it is hardly credible that the Puritan element which so largely composed the population of Boston in the first quarter of the eighteenth century would have encouraged the printing of any nonsensical jingles. Boston, however, was not at this time the only place in the colonies where primers and religious books were written and printed. In Philadelphia, Andrew Bradford, famous as the founder of the "American Weekly Mercury," had in 1714 put through his press, probably upon subscription, the "Last Words and Dyeing Expressions of Hannah Hill, aged 11 years and near three Months." This morbid account of the death of a little Quakeress furnished the Philadelphia children with a book very similar to Mather's "Token." Not to be outdone by any precocious example in Pennsylvania, the Reverend Mr. Mather soon found an instance of "Early Piety in Elizabeth Butcher of Boston, being just 8 years and 11 months old," when she died in 1718. In two years two editions of her life had been issued "to instruct and to invite little children to the exercise of early piety." Such mortuary effusions were so common at the time that Benjamin Franklin's witty skit upon them is apropos in this connection. In 1719, at the age of sixteen, under the pseudonym of Mrs. Dogood, he wrote a series of letters for his brother's paper, "The New England Courant." From the following extract, taken from these letters, it is evident that these children's "Last Words" followed the prevailing fashion: _A Receipt_ to make a _New England_ Funeral _Elegy_. _For the title of your Elegy_. Of these you may have enough ready made at your Hands: But if you should chuse to make it yourself you must be sure not to omit the Words _Aetatis Suae_, which will beautify it exceedingly. _For the subject of your Elegy_. Take one of your neighbors who has lately departed this life; it is no great matter at what age the Party Dy'd, but it will be best if he went away suddenly, being _Kill'd_, _Drown'd_ or _Froze to Death_. Having chosen the Person, take all his Virtues, Excellencies, &c. and if he have not enough, you may borrow some to make up a sufficient Quantity: To these add his last Words, dying Expressions, &c. if they are to be had: mix all these together, and be sure you strain them well. Then season all with a Handful or two of Melancholy Expressions, such as _Dreadful, Dreadly, cruel, cold, Death, unhappy, Fate, weeping Eyes_, &c. Having mixed all these Ingredients well, put them in an empty Scull of some _young Harvard_; (but in case you have ne'er a One at Hand, you may use your _own_,) then let them Ferment for the Space of a Fortnight, and by that Time they will be incorporated into a Body, which take out and having prepared a sufficient Quantity of double Rhimes, such as _Power, Flower; Quiver, Shiver; Grieve us, Leave us; tell you, excel you; Expeditions, Physicians; Fatigue him, Intrigue him_; &c. you must spread all upon Paper, and if you can procure a Scrap of Latin to put at the _End_, it will garnish it mightily: then having affixed your Name at the bottom with a _Maestus Composuit_, you will have an Excellent Elegy. N.B. This Receipt will serve when a Female is the subject of your Elegy, provided you borrow a greater Quantity of Virtues, Excellencies &c. Of other original books for children of colonial parents in the first quarter of that century, "A Looking-glass" did but mirror more religious episodes concerning infants, while Mather in his zeal had also published "An Earnest Exhortation" to New England children, and "The A, B, C, of religion. Fitted unto the youngest and lowest capacities." To this, taking advantage of the use of rhymes, he appended further instruction, including "The Body of Divinity versified." With our knowledge of the clergyman's methods with his congregation it is not difficult to imagine that he insisted upon the purchase of these godly aids for every household. In attempting to reproduce the conditions of family life in the early settlements and towns of colonial days, we turn quite naturally to the newspapers, whose appearance in the first quarter of the eighteenth century was gladly welcomed by the people of their time, and whose files are now eagerly searched for items of great or small importance. Indeed, much information can be gathered from their advertisements, which often filled the major part of these periodicals. Apparently shop-keepers were keen to take advantage of such space as was reserved for them, as sometimes a marginal note informed the public that other advertisements must wait for the next issue to appear. Booksellers' announcements, however, are not too frequent in Boston papers, and are noticeably lacking in the early issues of the Philadelphia "Weekly Mercury." This dearth of book-news accounts for the difficulty experienced by book-lovers of that town in procuring literature--a lack noticed at once by the wide-awake young Franklin upon his arrival in the city, and recorded in his biography as follows: "At the time I established myself in Pennsylvania [1728] there was not a bookseller's shop in any of the colonies to the southward of Boston. In New York and Phil'a the printers were indeed stationers; they sold only paper, etc., ballads, and a few books. Those who lov'd reading were obliged to send for their books from London." Franklin undertook to better this condition by opening a shop for the sale of foreign books. Both he and his rival in journalism, Andrew Bradford, had stationer's shops, in which were to be had besides "Good Writing Paper; Cyphering Slates; Ink Powders, etc., Chapmens Books and Ballads." Bradford also advertised in seventeen hundred and thirty that all persons could be supplied with "Primers and small Histories of many sorts." "Small histories" were probably chap-books, which, hawked about the country by peddlers or chapmen, contained tales of "Fair Rosamond," "Jane Grey," "Tom Thumb" or "Tom Hick-a-Thrift," and though read by old and young, were hardly more suitable for juvenile reading than the religious elegies then so popular. These chap-books were sold in considerable quantities on account of their cheapness, and included religious subjects as well as tales of adventure. One of the earliest examples of this chap-book literature, thought suitable for children, was printed in the colonies by the press of Thomas Fleet, already mentioned as a printer of small books. This book of 1736, being intended for ready sale, was such as every Puritan would buy for the family library. Entitled "The Prodigal Daughter," it told in Psalm-book metre of a "proud, vain girl, who, because her parents would not indulge her in all her extravagances, bargained with the devil to poisen them." The parents, however, were warned by an angel of her intentions: "One night her parents sleeping were in bed Nothing but troubled dreams run in their head, At length an angel did to them appear Saying awake, and unto me give ear. A messenger I'm sent by Heaven kind To let you know your lives are both design'd; Your graceless child, whom you love so dear, She for your precious lives hath laid a snare. To poison you the devil tempts her so, She hath no power from the snare to go: But God such care doth of his servants take, Those that believe on Him He'll not forsake. "You must not use her cruel or severe, For though these things to you I do declare, It is to show you what the Lord can do, He soon can turn her heart, you'll find it so." The daughter, discovered in her attempt to poison their food, was reproached by the mother for her evil intention and swooned. Every effort failed to "bring her spirits to revive:" "Four days they kept her, when they did prepare To lay her body in the dust we hear, At her funeral a sermon then was preach'd, All other wicked children for to teach.... But suddenly they bitter groans did hear Which much surprized all that then were there. At length they did observe the dismal sound Came from the body just laid in the ground." The Puritan pride in funeral display is naïvely exhibited in the portrayal of the girl when she "in her coffin sat, and did admire her winding sheet," before she related her experiences "among lonesome wild deserts and briary woods, which dismal were and dark." But immediately after her description of the lake of burning misery and of the fierce grim Tempter, the Puritan matter-of-fact acceptance of it all is suggested by the concluding lines: "When thus her story she to them had told, She said, put me to bed for I am cold." The illustrations of a later edition entered thoroughly into the spirit of the author's intent. The contemporary opinion of the French character is quaintly shown in the portrait of the Devil dressed as a French gentleman, his cloven foot discovering his identity. Whatever deficiencies are revealed in these early attempts to illustrate, they invariably expressed the artist's purpose, and in this case the Devil, after the girl's conversion, is drawn in lines very acceptable to Puritan children's idea of his personality. Almanacs also were in demand, and furnished parents and children, in many cases, with their entire library for week-day reading. "Successive numbers hung from a string by the chimney or ranked by years and generations on cupboard shelves."[26-A] But when Franklin made "Poor Richard" an international success, he, by giving short extracts from Swift, Steele, Defoe, and Bacon, accustomed the provincial population, old and young, to something better than the meagre religious fare provided by the colonial press. Such, then, were the literary conditions for children when an advertisement inserted in the "Weekly Mercury" gave promise of better days for the little Philadelphians.[26-B] Strangely enough, this attempt to make learning seem attractive to children did not appear in the booksellers' lists; but crowded in between Tandums, Holland Tapes, London Steel, and good Muscavado Sugar,--"Guilt horn books" were advertised by Joseph Sims in 1740 as "for sale on reasonable Terms for Cash." [Illustration: _The Devil appears as a French Gentleman_] Horn-books in themselves were only too common, and not in the least delightful. Made of thin wood, whereon was placed a printed sheet of paper containing the alphabet and Lord's Prayer, a horn-book was hardly, properly speaking, a book at all. But when the printed page was covered with yellowish transparent horn, secured to the wooden back by strips of brass, it furnished an economical and practically indestructible elementary text-book for thousands of English-speaking children on both sides of the Atlantic. Sometimes an effort was also made to guard against the inconvenient faculty of children for losing school-books, by attaching a cord, which, passing through a hole in the handle of the board, was hung around the scholar's neck. But since nothing is proof against the ingenuity of a schoolboy, many were successfully disposed of. Although printed by thousands, few in England or in America have survived the century that has elapsed since they were used. Occasionally, in tearing down an old building, one of these horn-books has been found; dropped in a convenient hole, it has remained secure from parents' sight, until brought to light by workmen and prized as a curiosity by grown people of the present generation. This notice of little gilt horn-books was inserted in the "Weekly Mercury" but once. Whether the supply was quickly exhausted, or whether they did not prove a successful novelty, can never be known; but at least they herald the approach of the little gilt story-books which ten years later were to make the name of John Newbery well known in English households, and hardly less familiar in the American colonies. So far the only attractions to induce children to read have been through the pictures in the Primer of New England, and by the gilding of the horn-book. From further south comes the first note of amusement in reading, as well as the first expression of pleasure from the children themselves in regard to a book. In 1741, in Virginia, two letters were written and received by R.H. Lee and George Washington. These letters, which afford the first in any way authentic account of tales of real entertainment, are given by Mr. Lossing in "The Home of Washington," and tell their own tale: [_Richard Henry Lee to George Washington_] PA brought me two pretty books full of pictures he got them in Alexandria they have pictures of dogs and cats and tigers and elefants and ever so many pretty things cousin bids me send you one of them it has a picture of an elefant and a little indian boy on his back like uncle jo's Sam pa says if I learn my tasks good he will let uncle jo bring me to see you will you ask your ma to let you come to see me. RICHARD HENRY LEE. [_G. Washington to R.H. Lee_] DEAR DICKEY--I thank you very much for the pretty picture book you gave me. Sam asked me to show him the pictures and I showed him all the pictures in it; and I read to him how the tame Elephant took care of the Master's little boy, and put him on his back and would not let anybody touch his master's little son. I can read three or four pages sometimes without missing a word.... I have a little piece of poetry about the picture book you gave me but I mustn't tell you who wrote the poetry. G.W.'s compliments to R.H.L. And likes his book full well, Henceforth will count him his friend And hopes many happy days he may spend. Your good friend GEORGE WASHINGTON. In a note Mr. Lossing states that he had copies of these two letters, sent him by a Mr. Lee, who wrote: "The letter of Richard Henry Lee was written by himself, and uncorrected sent by him to his boy friend George Washington. The poetical effusion was, I have heard, written by a Mr. Howard, a gentleman who used to visit at the house of Mr. Washington." It would be gratifying to know the titles of these two books, so evidently English chap-book tales. It is probable that they were imported by a shop-keeper in Alexandria, as in seventeen hundred and forty-one there was only one press in Virginia, owned by William Sharps, who had moved from Annapolis in seventeen hundred and thirty-six. Luxuries were so much more common among the Virginia planters, and life was so much more roseate in hue than was the case in the northern colonies, that it seems most natural that two southern boys should have left the earliest account of any real story-books. Though unfortunately nameless, they at least form an interesting coincidence. Bought in seventeen hundred and forty-one, they follow just one hundred years later than the meeting of the General Court, which was responsible for the preparation of Cotton's "Milk for Babes," and precede by a century the date when an American story-book literature was recognized as very different from that written for English children. FOOTNOTES: [6-A] _Records of Mass. Bay_, vol. i, p. 37 h. [6-B] _Ibid._, vol. i, p. 37 e. [6-C] Ford, _The New England Primer_, p. 83. [6-D] _Records of Mass. Bay_, vol. i, p. 328. [7-A] Ford, _The New England Primer_, p. 92. [7-B] _Ibid._ [11-A] In the possession of the British Museum. [14-A] Ford, _The New England Primer_, p. 38. [14-B] _Ibid._ [19-A] Thomas, _History of Printing in America_, vol. iii, p. 145. [19-B] _Ibid._, vol. i, p. 294. [26-A] Sears, _American Literature_, p. 86. [26-B] Although this appears to be the first advertisement of gilt horn-books in Philadelphia papers, an inventory of the estate of Michael Perry, a Boston bookseller, made in seventeen hundred, includes sixteen dozen gilt horn-books. CHAPTER II 1747-1767 He who learns his letters fair, Shall have a coach and take the air. _Royal Primer_, Newbery, 1762 Our king the good No man of blood. _The New England Primer_, 1762 CHAPTER II 1747-1767 _The Play-Book in England_ The vast horde of story-books so constantly poured into modern nurseries makes it difficult to realize that the library of the early colonial child consisted of such books as have been already described. The juvenile books to-day are multiform. The quantities displayed upon shop-counters or ranged upon play-room shelves include a variety of subjects bewildering to all but those whose business necessitates a knowledge of this kind of literature. For the little child there is no lack of gayly colored pictures and short tales in large print; for the older boys and girls there lies a generous choice, ranging from Bunny stories to Jungle Books, or they "May see how all things are, Seas and cities near and far. And the flying fairies' looks In the picture story-books." The contrast is indeed extreme between that scanty fare of dull sermons and "The New England Primer" given to the little people of the early eighteenth century, and this superabundance prepared with lavish care for the nation of American children. The beginning of this complex juvenile literature is, therefore, to be regarded as a comparatively modern invention of about seventeen hundred and forty-five. From that date can be traced the slow growth of a literature written with an avowed intention of furnishing amusement as well as instruction; and in the toy-books published one hundred and fifty years ago are found the prototypes of the present modes of bringing fun and knowledge to the American fireside. The question at once arises as to the reason why this literature came into existence; why was it that children after seventeen hundred and fifty should have been favored in a way unknown to their parents? To even the casual reader of English literature the answer is plain, if this subject of toy-books be regarded as of near kin to the larger body of writing. It has been somewhat the custom to consider children's literature as a thing wholly apart from that of adults, probably because the majority of the authors of these little tales have so generally lacked the qualities indispensable for any true literary work. In reality the connection between the two is somewhat like that of parent and child; the smaller body, though lacking in power, has closely imitated the larger mass of writing in form and kind, and has reflected, sometimes clearly, sometimes dimly, the good or bad fashions that have shared the successive periods of literary history, like a child who unconsciously reproduces a parent's foibles or excellences. It is to England, then, that we must look to find the conditions out of which grew the necessity for this modern invention--the story-book. The love of stories has been the splendid birthright of every child in all ages and in all lands. "Stories," wrote Thackeray,--"stories exist everywhere; there is no calculating the distance through which the stories have come to us, the number of languages through which they have been filtered, or the centuries during which they have been told. Many of them have been narrated almost in their present shape for thousands of years to the little copper-coloured Sanscrit children, listening to their mothers under the palm-trees by the banks of the yellow Jumna--their Brahmin mother, who softly narrated them through the ring in her nose. The very same tale has been heard by the Northern Vikings as they lay on their shields on deck; and the Arabs couched under the stars on the Syrian plains when their flocks were gathered in, and their mares were picketed by the tents." This picturesque description leads exactly to the point to be emphasized: that children shared in the simple tales of their people as long as those tales retained their freshness and simplicity; but when, as in England in the eighteenth century, the literature lost these qualities and became artificial, critical, and even skeptical, it lost its charm for the little ones and they no longer cared to listen to it. Fashion and taste were then alike absorbed in the works of Dryden, Pope, Addison, Steele, and Swift, and the novels from the pens of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett had begun to claim and to hold the attention of the English reading public. The children, however, could neither comprehend nor enjoy the witty criticism and subtle treatment of the topics discussed by the older men, although, as will be seen in another chapter, the novels became, in both the original and in the abridged forms, the delight of many a "young master and miss." Meanwhile, in the American colonies the people who could afford to buy books inherited their taste for literature as well as for tea from the Puritans and fashionables in the mother country; although it is a fact familiar to all, that the works of the comparatively few native authors lagged, in spirit and in style, far behind the writings of Englishmen of the time. The reading of one who was a boy in the older era of the urbane Addison and the witty Pope, and a man in the newer period of the novelists, is well described in Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. "All the little money," wrote that book-lover, "that came into my hands was laid out in books. Pleased with the Pilgrim's Progress, my collection was of John Bunyan's works in separate volumes. I afterwards sold them to buy R. Burton's Historical Collections; they were Chapmen's books, and cheap, 40 or 50 in all." Burton's "Historical Collections" contained history, travels, adventures, fiction, natural history, and biography. So great was the favor in which they were held in the eighteenth century that the compiler, Nathaniel Crouch, almost lost his identity in his pseudonym, and like the late Mr. Clemens, was better known by his nom-de-plume than by his family name. According to Dunton, he "melted down the best of the English histories into twelve-penny books, which are filled with wonders, rarities and curiosities." Although characterized by Dr. Johnson as "very proper to allure backward readers," the contents of many of the various books afforded the knowledge and entertainment eagerly grasped by Franklin and other future makers of the American nation. The scarcity of historical works concerning the colonies made Burton's account of the "English Empire in America" at once a mine of interest to wide-awake boys of the day. Number VIII, entitled "Winter Evenings' Entertainment," was long a source of amusement with its stories and riddles, and its title was handed down to other books of a similar nature. To children, however, the best-known volume of the series was Burton's illustrated versification of Bible stories called "The Youth's Divine Pastime." But the subjects chosen by Burton were such as belonged to a very plain-spoken age; and as the versifier was no euphuist in his relation of facts, the result was a remarkable "Pastime for Youth." The literature read by English children was, of course, the same; the little ones of both countries ate of the same tree of knowledge of facts, often either silly or revolting. To deliver the younger and future generations from such unpalatable and indigestible mental food, there was soon to appear in London a man, John Newbery by name, who, already a printer, publisher, and vendor of patent medicines, seized the opportunity to issue stories written especially for the amusement of little children. While Newbery was making his plans to provide pleasure for young folks in England, in the colonies the idea of a child's need of recreation through books was slowly gaining ground. It is well to note the manner in which the little colonists were prepared to receive Newbery's books as recreative features crept gradually into the very few publications of which there is record. In seventeen hundred and forty-five native talent was still entirely confined to writing for little people lugubrious sermons or discourses delivered on Sunday and "Catechize days," and afterwards printed for larger circulation. The reprints from English publications were such exotics as, "A Poesie out of Mr. Dod's Garden," an alluring title, which did not in the least deceive the small colonials as to the religious nature of its contents. In New York the Dutch element, until the advent of Garrat Noel, paid so little attention to the subject of juvenile literature that the popularity of Watts's "Divine Songs" (issued by an Englishman) is well attested by the fact that at present it is one of the very few child's books of any kind recorded as printed in that city before 1760. But in Boston, old Thomas Fleet, in 1741, saw the value of the element of some entertainment in connection with reading, and, when he published "The Parents' Gift, containing a choice collection of God's judgments and Mercies," lives of the Evangelists, and other religious matter, he added a "variety of pleasant Pictures proper for the Entertainment of Children." This is, perhaps, the first printed acknowledgment in America that pictures were commendable to parents _because_ entertaining to their offspring. Such an idea put into words upon paper and advertised in so well-read a sheet as the "Boston Evening Post," must surely have impressed fathers and mothers really solicitous for the family welfare and anxious to provide harmless pleasure. This pictorial element was further encouraged by Franklin, when, in 1747, he reprinted, probably for the first time in this country, "Dilworth's New Guide to the English Tongue." In this school-book, after the alphabets and spelling lessons, a special feature was introduced, that is, illustrated "Select Fables." The cuts at the top of each fable possess an added interest from the supposition that they were engraved by the printer himself; and the constant use of the "Guide" by colonial school-masters and mistresses made their pupils unconsciously quite ready for more illustrated and fewer homiletic volumes. Indeed, before the middle of the century pictures had become an accepted feature of the few juvenile books, and "The History of the Holy Jesus" versified for little ones was issued by at least two old Boston printers in 1747 and 1748 with more than a dozen cuts. Among the rare extant copies of this small chap-book is one that, although torn and disfigured by tiny fingers and the century and a half since it pleased its first owner, bears the personal touch of this inscription "Ebenezer ... Bought June ... 1749 ... price 0=2=d." Was the price marked upon its page as a reminder that two shillings was a large price to pay for a boy's book? Perhaps for this reason it received the careful handling that has enabled us to examine it, when so many of its contemporaries and successors have vanished. The versified story, notwithstanding its quaintness of diction, begins with a dignified directness: "The glorious blessed Time had come, The Father had decreed, Jesus of _Mary_ there was born, And in a Manger laid." At the end are two _Hymns_, entitled "Delight in the Lord Jesus," and "Absence from Christ intolerable." The final stanza is typical of one Puritan doctrine: "The Devil throws his fiery Darts, And wicked Ones do act their parts, To ruin me when Christ is gone, And leaves me all alone." The woodcuts are not the least interesting feature of this old-time duodecimo, from the picture showing the mother reading to her children to the illustration of the quaking of the earth on the day of the crucifixion. Crude and badly drawn as they now seem, they were surely sufficient to attract the child of their generation. About the same time old Zechariah Fowle, who apprenticed Isaiah Thomas, and both printed and vended chap-books in Back Street, Boston, advertised among his list of books "Lately Publish'd" this same small book, together with "A Token for Youth," the "Life and Death of Elizabeth Butcher," "A Preservative from the Sins and Follies of Childhood and Youth," "The Prodigal Daughter," "The Happy Child," and "The New Gift for Children with Cuts." Of these "The New Gift" was certainly a real story-book, as one of a later edition still extant readily proves. Thus the children in both countries were prepared to enjoy Newbery's miniature story-books, although for somewhat different reasons: in England the literature had reached a point too artificial to be interesting to little ones; in America the product of the press and the character of the majority of the juvenile importations, the reprints, or home-made chap-books, has been shown to be such as would hardly attract those who were to be the future arbiters of the colonies' destiny. The reasons for the coming to light of this new form of infant literature have been dwelt upon in order to show the necessity for some change in the kind of reading-matter to be put in the hands of the younger members of the family. The natural order of consideration is next to point out the phase it assumed upon its appearance in England,--a phase largely due to the influence of one man,--and once there, the modifications effected by the fashions in adult fiction. Although there was already much interest in the education and welfare of children still in the nursery, the character of the first play-books was probably due to the esteem in which the opinions of the philosopher, John Locke, were held. He it was who gradually moved the vane of public opinion around to serious consideration of recreation as a factor in the well-being of these nursery inmates. Although it took time for Locke's ideas upon the subject to sink into the public mind, it is impossible to compare one of the first attempts to produce a play-book, "The Child's New Play-thing," with the advice written to his friend, Edward Clarke, without feeling that the progress from the religious books to primers and readers (such as "Dilworth's Guide"), and then onward to story-books, was largely the result of the publication of his letters under the title of "Thoughts on Education." In these letters Locke took an extraordinary course: he first made a quaint plea for the _general welfare_ of Mr. Clarke's little son. "I imagine," he wrote, "the minds of children are as easily turned this or that way as Water itself, and though this be the principal Part, and our main Care should be about the inside, yet the Clay Cottage is not to be neglected. I shall therefore begin with the case, and consider first the _Health_ of the body." Under Health he discussed clothing, including thin shoes, "that they may leak and let in Water." A pause was then made to show the benefits of wet feet as against the apparent disadvantages of filthy stockings and muddy boots; for mothers even in that time were inclined to consider their floors and steps. Bathing next received attention. Bathing every day in cold water, Locke regarded as exceedingly desirable; no exceptions were to be made, even in the case of a "puleing and tender" child. The beneficial effects of air, sunlight, the establishment of good conduct, diet, sleep, and "physick" were all discussed by the doctor and philosopher, before the development of the mind was touched upon. "Education," he wrote, "concerns itself with the forming of Children's Minds, giving them that seasoning early, which shall influence their Lives later." This seasoning referred to the training of children in matters pertaining to their general government and to the reverence of parents. For the Puritan population it was undoubtedly a shock to find Locke interesting himself in, and moreover advocating, dancing as a part of a child's education; and worst of all, that he should mention it before their hobby, LEARNING. In this connection it is worth while to make mention of a favorite primer, which, published about the middle of the eighteenth century, was entitled "The Hobby Horse." Locke was quite aware that his method would be criticised, and therefore took the bull by the horns in the following manner. He admitted that to put the subject of learning last was a cause for wonder, "especially if I tell you I think it the least part. This may seem strange in the mouth of a bookish man, and this making usually the chief, if not only bustle and stir about children; this being almost that alone, which is thought on, when People talk about Education, make it the greater Paradox." An unusual piece of advice it most surely was to parents to whose children came the task of learning to read as soon as they were given spoon-food. Even more revolutionary to the custom of an eighteenth century mother was the admonition that reading "be never made a Task." Locke, however, was not the man to urge a cure for a bad habit without prescribing a remedy, so he went on to say that it was always his "Fancy that Learning be made a Play and Recreation to Children"--a "Fancy" at present much in vogue. To accomplish this desirable result, "Dice and Play-things with the Letters on them" were recommended to teach children the alphabet; "and," he added, "twenty other ways may be found ... to make this kind of Learning a Sport to them." Letter-blocks were in this way made popular, and formed the approved and advanced method until in these latter days pedagogy has swept aside the letter-blocks and syllabariums and carried the sport to word-pictures. This theory had a practical result in the introduction to many households of "The Child's New Play-thing." This book, already mentioned, was printed in England in seventeen hundred and forty-three, and dedicated to Prince George. In seventeen hundred and forty-four we find through the "Boston Evening Post" of January 23 that the third edition was sold by Joseph Edwards, in Cornhill, and it was probably from this edition that the first American edition was printed in seventeen hundred and fifty. From the following description of this American reprint (one of which is happily in the Lenox Collection), it will be seen that the "Play-thing" was an attempt to follow Locke's advice, as well as a connecting link between the primer of the past and the story-book of the near future. The title, which the illustration shows, reads, "The Child's New Play-thing being a spelling-book intended to make Learning to read a diversion instead of a task. Consisting of Scripture-histories, fables, stories, moral and religious precepts, proverbs, songs, riddles, dialogues, &c. The whole adapted to the capacities of children, and divided into lessons of one, two, three and four syllables. The fourth edition. To which is added three dialogues; 1. Shewing how a little boy shall make every body love him. 2. How a little boy shall grow wiser than the rest of his school-fellows. 3. How a little boy shall become a great man. Designed for the use of schools, or for children before they go to school." [Illustration: _Title-page from "The Child's new Play-Thing"_] Coverless and faded, hard usage is written in unmistakable characters upon this play-thing of a whole family. Upon a fly-leaf are the autographs of "Ebenezer Ware and Sarah Ware, Their Book," and upon another page these two names with the addition of the signatures of "Ichabod Ware and Cyrus Ware 1787." One parent may have used it when it was fresh from the press of Draper & Edwards in Boston; then, through enforced economy, handed it down to the next generation, who doubtless scorned the dedication so eminently proper in seventeen hundred and fifty, so thoroughly out of place thirty-seven years later. There it stands in large black type: To his ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE GEORGE This Little Play-thing is most humbly dedicated By His ROYAL HIGHNESS'S Devoted Servant Of especial interest are the alphabets in "Roman, Italian, and English Names" on the third page, while page four contains the dear old alphabet in rhyme, fortunately not altogether forgotten in this prosaic age. We recognize it as soon as we see it. "A Apple-Pye B bit it C cut it," and involuntarily add, D divided it. After the spelling lessons came fables, proverbs, and the splendid "Stories proper to raise the Attention and excite the Curiosity of Children" of any age; namely, "St. George and the Dragon," "Fortunatus," "Guy of Warwick," "Brother and Sister," "Reynard the Fox," "The Wolf and the Kid." "The Good Dr. Watts," writes Mrs. Field, "is supposed to have had a hand in the composition of this toy book especially in the stories, one of which is quite in the style of the old hymn writer." Here it is: "Once on a time two dogs went out to walk. Tray was a good dog, and would not hurt the least thing in the world, but Snap was cross, and would snarl and bite at all that came in his way. At last they came to a town. All the dogs came round them. Tray hurt none of them, but Snap would grin at one, snarl at the next, and bite a third, till at last they fell on him and tore him limb from limb, and as poor Tray was with him, he met with his death at the same time. _Moral_ "By this fable you see how dangerous it is to be in company with bad boys. Tray was a quiet harmless dog, and hurt nobody, but, &c."[45-A] Thus we find that Locke sowed the seed, Watts watered the soil in which the seed fell, and that Newbery, after mixing in ideas from his very fertile brain, soon reaped a golden harvest from the crop of readers, picture-books, and little histories which he, with the aid of certain well-known authors, produced. According to his biographer, Mr. Charles Welsh, John Newbery was born in a quaint parish of England in seventeen hundred and thirteen. Although his father was only a small farmer, Newbury inherited his bookish tastes from an ancestor, Ralph or Rafe Newbery, who had been a great publisher of the sixteenth century. Showing no inclination toward the life of a farmer, the boy, at sixteen, had already entered the shop of a merchant in Reading. The name of this merchant is not known, but inference points to Mr. Carnan, printer, proprietor, and editor of one of the earliest provincial newspapers. In seventeen hundred and thirty-seven, at the death of Carnan, John Newbery, then about twenty-four years of age, found himself one of the proprietor's heirs and an executor of the estate. Carnan left a widow, to whom, to quote her son, Newbery's "love of books and acquirements as a printer rendered him very acceptable." The amiable and well-to-do widow and Newbery were soon married, and their youngest son, Francis Newbery, eventually succeeded his father in the business of publishing. [Illustration: _Title-page from "A Little Pretty Pocket-Book"_] Shortly after Newbery's marriage his ambition and enterprise resulted in the establishment of his family in London, where, in seventeen hundred and forty-four, he opened a warehouse at _The Bible and Crown_, near Devereux Court, without Temple Bar. Meanwhile he had associated himself with Benjamin Collins, a printer in Salisbury. Collins both planned and printed some of Newbery's toy volumes, and his name likewise was well-known to shop-keepers in the colonies. Newbery soon found that his business warranted another move nearer to the centre of trade. He therefore combined two establishments into one at the now celebrated corner of St. Paul's Churchyard, and at the same time decided to confine his attention exclusively to book publishing and medicine vending. Before his departure from Devereux Court, Newbery had published at least one book for juvenile readers. The title reads: "Little Pretty Pocket-Book, intended for the instruction and Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly, with an agreeable Letter to read from Jack the Giant Killer, as also a Ball and Pincushion, the use of which will infallibly make Tommy a good Boy, and Polly a good Girl. To the whole is prefixed a letter on education humbly addressed to all Parents, Guardians, Governesses, &c., wherein rules are laid down for making their children strong, healthy, virtuous, wise and happy." To this extraordinarily long title were added couplets from Dryden and Pope, probably because extracts from these poets were usually placed upon the title-page of books for grown people; possibly also in order to give a finish to miniature volumes that would be like the larger publications. A wholly simple method of writing title-pages never came into even Newbery's original mind; he did for the juvenile customer exactly what he was accustomed to do for his father and mother. And yet the habit of spreading out over the page the entire contents of the book was not without value: it gave the purchaser no excuse for not knowing what was to be found within its covers; and in the days when books were a luxury and literary reviews non-existent, the country trade was enabled to make a better choice. [Illustration: _A page from "A Little Pretty Pocket-Book"_] The manner in which the "Little Pretty Pocket-Book" is written is so characteristic of those who were the first to attempt to write for the younger generation in an amusing way, that it is worth while to examine briefly the topics treated. An American reprint of a later date, now in the Lenox Collection, will serve to show the method chosen to combine instruction with amusement. The book itself is miniature in size, about two by four inches, with embossed gilt paper covers--Newbery's own specialty as a binding. The sixty-five little illustrations at the top of its pages were numerous enough to afford pleasure to any eighteenth century child, although they were crude in execution and especially lacked true perspective. The first chapter after the "Address to Parents" and to the other people mentioned on the title-page gives letters to Master Tommy and Miss Polly. First, Tommy is congratulated upon the good character that his Nurse has given him, and instructed as to the use of the "Pocket-Book," "which will teach you to play at all those innocent games that good Boys and Girls divert themselves with." The boy reader is next advised to mark his good and bad actions with pins upon a red and black ball. Little Polly is then given similar congratulations and instructions, except that in her case a pincushion is to be substituted for a ball. Then follow thirty pages devoted to "alphabetically digested" games, from "The _great A Play_" and "The _Little_ _a Play_" to "The _great and little Rs_," when plays, or the author's imagination, give out and rhymes begin the alphabet anew. Modern picture alphabets have not improved much upon this jingle: "Great A, B and C And tumble down D, The Cat's a blind buff, And she cannot see." Next in order are four fables with morals (written in the guise of letters), for in Newbery's books and in those of a much later period, we feel, as Mr. Welsh writes, a "strong determination on the part of the authors to place the moral plainly in sight and to point steadily to it." Pictures also take a leading part in this effort to inculcate good behaviour; thus _Good Children_ are portrayed in cuts, which accompany the directions for attaining perfection. Proverbs, having been hitherto introduced into school-books, appear again quite naturally in this source of diversion, which closes--at least in the American edition--with sixty-three "Rules for Behaviour." These rules include those suitable for various occasions, such as "At the Meeting-House," "Home," "The Table," "In Company," and "When abroad with other Children." To-day, when many such rules are as obsolete as the tiny pages themselves, this chapter affords many glimpses of the customs and etiquette of the old-fashioned child's life. Such a direction as "Be not hasty to run out of Meeting-House when Worship is ended, as if thou weary of being there" (probably an American adaptation of the English original), recalls the well-filled colonial meeting-house, where weary children sat for hours on high seats, with dangling legs, or screwed their small bodies in vain efforts to touch the floor. Again we can see the anxious mothers, when, after the long sermon was brought to a close, they put restraining hands upon the little ones, lest they, in haste to be gone, should forget this admonition. The formalism of the time is suggested in this request, "Make a Bow always when come Home, and be instantly uncovered," for the ceremony of polite manners in these bustling days has so much relaxed that the modern boy does all that is required if he remembers to be "instantly uncovered when come Home." Among the numerous other requirements only one more may be cited--a rule which reveals the table manners of polite society in its requisite for genteel conduct: "Throw not anything under the Table. Pick not thy teeth at the Table, unless holding thy Napkin before thy mouth with thine other Hand." With such an array of intellectual and moral contents, the little "Pocket-Book" may appear to-day to be almost anything except an amusement book. Yet this was the phase that the English play-book first assumed, and it must not be forgotten that English prose fiction was only then coming into existence, except such germs as are found in the character sketches in the "Spectator" and in the cleverly told incidents by Defoe. In 1744, when Newbery published this duodecimo, Dr. Samuel Johnson was the presiding genius of English letters; four years earlier, fiction had come prominently into the foreground with the publication of "Pamela" by Samuel Richardson; and between seventeen hundred and forty and seventeen hundred and fifty-two, Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," Smollett's "Roderick Random" and "Peregrine Pickle," and Fielding's "Tom Jones" were published. This fact may seem irrelevant to the present subject; nevertheless, the idea of a veritable story-book, that is a book relating a tale, does not seem to have entered Newbery's mind until after these novels had met with a deserved and popular success. The result of Newbery's first efforts to follow Locke's advice was so satisfactory that his wares were sought most eagerly. "Very soon," said his son, Francis Newbery, "he was in the full employment of his talents in writing and publishing books of amusement and instruction for Children. The call for them was immense, an edition of many thousands being sometimes exhausted during the Christmas holidays. His friend, Dr. Samuel Johnson, who, like other grave characters, could now and then be jocose, had used to say of him, 'Newbery is an extraordinary man, for I know not whether he has read or written most Books.'"[51-A] The bookseller was no less clever in his use of other people's wits. No one knows how many of the tiny gilt bindings covered stories told by impecunious writers, to whom the proceeds in times of starvation were bread if not butter. Newbery, though called by Goldsmith "the philanthropic publisher of St. Paul's Churchyard," knew very well the worth to his own pocket of these authors' skill in story-writing. Between the years seventeen hundred and fifty-seven and seventeen hundred and sixty-seven, the English publisher was at the height of his prosperity; his name became a household word in England, and was hardly less well known to the little colonials of America. Newbery's literary associations, too, were both numerous and important. Before Oliver Goldsmith began to write for children, he is thought to have contributed articles for Newbery's "Literary Magazine" about seventeen hundred and fifty-eight, while Johnson's celebrated "Idler" was first printed in a weekly journal started by the publisher about the same time. For the "British Magazine" Newbery engaged Smollett as editor. In this periodical appeared Goldsmith's "History of Miss Stanton." When later this was published as "The Vicar of Wakefield," it contained a characterization of the bookseller as a good-natured man with red, pimpled face, "who was no sooner alighted than he was in haste to be gone, for he was ever on business of the utmost importance, and he was at that time actually compiling materials for the history of Mr. Thomas Trip."[52-A] With such an acquaintance it is probable that Newbery often turned to Goldsmith, Giles Jones, and Tobias Smollett for assistance in writing or abridging the various children's tales; even the pompous Dr. Johnson is said to have had a hand in their production--since he expressed a wish to do so. Newbery himself, however, assumed the responsibility as well as the credit of so many little "Histories," that it is exceedingly difficult to fix upon the real authors of some of the best-known volumes in the publisher's juvenile library. The histories of "Goody Two-Shoes" and "Tommy Trip" (once such nursery favorites, and now almost, if not quite, forgotten) have been attributed to various men; but according to Mr. Pearson in "Banbury Chap-Books," Goldsmith confessed to writing both. Certainly, his sly wit and quizzical vein of humor seem to pervade "Goody Two-Shoes"--often ascribed to Giles Jones--and the notes affixed to the rhymes of Mother Goose before she became Americanized. Again his skill is seen in the adaptation of "Wonders of Nature and Art" for juvenile admirers; and for "Fables in Verse" he is generally considered responsible. As all these tales were printed in the colonies or in the young Republic, their peculiarities and particularities may be better described when dealing with the issues of the American press. John Newbery, the most illustrious of publishers in the eyes of the old-fashioned child, died in 1767, at the comparatively early age of fifty-four. Yet before his death he had proved his talent for producing at least fifty original little books, to be worth considerably more than the Biblical ten talents. No sketch of Newbery's life should fail to mention another large factor in his successful experiment--the insertion in the "London Chronicle" and other newspapers of striking and novel advertisements of his gilt volumes, which were to be had for "six-pence the price of binding." An instance of his skill appeared in the "London Chronicle" for December 19, 1764-January 1, 1765: "The Philosophers, Politicians, Necromancers, and the learned in every faculty are desired to observe that on the 1st of January, being New Year's Day (oh, that we may all lead new lives!) Mr. Newbery intends to publish the following important volumes, bound and gilt, and hereby invites all his little friends who are good to call for them at the Bible and Sun in St. Paul's Churchyard, but those who are naughty to have none."[54-A] Christopher Smart, his brother-in-law, who was an adept in the art of puffing, possibly wrote many of the advertisements of new books--notices so cleverly phrased that they could not fail to attract the attention of many a country shop-keeper. In this way thousands were sold to the country districts; and book-dealers in the American commonwealths, reading the English papers and alert to improve their trade, imported them in considerable quantities. After Newbery's death, his son, Francis, and Carnan, his stepson, carried on the business until seventeen hundred and eighty-eight; from that year until eighteen hundred and two Edward Newbery (a nephew of the senior Newbery), who in seventeen hundred and sixty-seven had set up a rival establishment, continued to publish new editions of the same little works. Yet the credit of this experiment of printing juvenile stories belongs entirely to the older publisher. Through them he made a strong protest against the reading by children of the lax chap-book literature, so excellently described by Mr. John Ashton in "Chap-Books of the Eighteenth Century;" and although his stories occasionally alluded to disagreeable subjects or situations, these were unfortunately familiar to his small patrons. The gay little covers of gilt or parti-colored paper in which this English publisher dressed his books expressed an evident purpose to afford pleasure, which was increased by the many illustrations that adorned the pages and added interest to the contents. To the modern child, these books give no pleasure; but to those who love the history of children of the past, they are interesting for two reasons. In them is portrayed something of the life of eighteenth century children; and by them the century's difference in point of view as to the constituents of a story-book can be gauged. Moreover, all Newbery's publications are to be credited with a careful preparation that later stories sadly lacked. They were always written with a certain art; if the language was pompous, we remember Dr. Johnson; if the style was formal, its composition was correct; if the tales lacked ease in telling, it was only the starched etiquette of the day reduced to a printed page; and if they preached, they at least were seldom vulgar. The preaching, moreover, was of different character from that of former times. Hitherto, the fear of the Lord had wholly occupied the author's attention when he composed a book "proper for a child as soon as he can read;" now, material welfare was dwelt upon, and a good boy's reward came to him when he was chosen the Lord Mayor of London. Good girls were not forgotten, and were assured that, like Goody Two-Shoes, they should attain a state of prosperity wherein "Their Fortune and their Fame would fix And gallop in their Coach and Six." Goody Two-Shoes, with her particular method of instilling the alphabet, and such books as "King Pippin" (a prodigy of learning) may be considered as tiny commentaries upon the years when Johnson reigned supreme in the realm of learning. These and many others emphasized not the effects of piety,--Cotton Mather's forte,--but the benefits of learning; and hence the good boy was also one who at the age of five spelt "apple-pye" correctly and therefore eventually became a great man. At the time of Newbery's death it was more than evident that his experiment had succeeded, and children's stories were a printed fact. FOOTNOTES: [45-A] Field, _The Child and his Book_, p. 223. [51-A] Welsh, _Bookseller of the Last Century_, pp. 22, 23. [52-A] Foster, _Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i, p. 244. [54-A] Welsh, _Bookseller of the Last Century_, p. 109. CHAPTER III 1750-1776 Kings should be good Not men of blood. _The New England Primer_, 1791 If Faith itself has different dresses worn What wonder modes in wit should take their turn. POPE: _Essay on Man_ CHAPTER III 1750-1776 _Newbery's Books in America_ In the middle of the eighteenth century Thursdays were red-letter days for the residents of the Quaker town of Philadelphia. On that day Thomas Bradford sent forth from the "Sign of the Bible" in Second Street the weekly number of the "Pennsylvania Journal," and upon the same day his rival journalists, Franklin and Hall, issued the "Pennsylvania Gazette." On Thursday, the fifteenth of November, seventeen hundred and fifty, Old Style, the good people of the town took up their newspapers with doubtless a feeling of comfortable anticipation, as they drew their chairs to the fireside and began to look over the local occurrences of the past week, the "freshest foreign advices," and the various bits of information that had filtered slowly from the northern and more southern provinces. On this particular evening the subscribers to both newspapers found a trifle more news in the "Journal," but in each paper the same domestic items of interest, somewhat differently worded. The latest news from Boston was that of November fifth, from New York, November eighth, the Annapolis item was dated October tenth, and the few lines from London had been written in August. The "Gazette" (a larger sheet than the "Journal") occasionally had upon its first page some timely article of political or local interest. But more frequently there appeared in its first column an effusion of no local color, but full of sentimental or moral reflections. In this day's issue there was a long letter, dated New York, from one who claimed to be "Beauty's Votary." This expressed the writer's disappointment that an interesting "Piece" inserted in the "Gazette" a fortnight earlier had presented in its conclusion "an unexpected shocking Image." The shock to the writer it appears was the greater, because the beginning of the article had, he thought, promised a strong contrast between "Furious Rage in our rough Sex, and Gentle mildness adorn'd with Beauty's charms in the other." The rest of the letter was an apostrophe to the fair sex in the sentimental and florid language of the period. To the women, we imagine, this letter was more acceptable than to the men, who found the shipping news more to their taste, and noted with pleasure the arrival of the ship Carolina and the Snow Strong, which brought cargoes valuable for their various industries. Advertisements filled a number of columns. Among them was one so novel in its character that it must have caught the eye of all readers. The middle column on the second page was devoted almost entirely to an announcement that John Newbery had for "Sale to Schoolmasters, Shopkeepers, &c, who buy in quantities to sell again," "The Museum," "A new French Primer," "The Royal Battledore," and "The Pretty Book for Children." This notice--a reduced fac-simile of which is given--made Newbery's début in Philadelphia; and it must not be forgotten that but a short period had elapsed since his first book had been printed in England. [Illustration: _John Newbery's Advertisement of Children's Books_] Franklin had doubtless heard of the publisher in St. Paul's Churchyard through Mr. Strahan, his correspondent, who filled orders for him from London booksellers; but the omission of the customary announcement of special books as "to be had of the Printer hereof" points to Newbery's enterprise in seeking a wider market for his wares, and Franklin's business ability in securing the advertisement, as it is not repeated in the "Journal." This "Museum" was probably a newer book than the "Royal Primer," "Battledore," and "Pretty Book," and consequently was more fully described; and oddly enough, all of these books are of earlier editions than Mr. Welsh, Newbery's biographer, was able to trace in England. "The Museum" still clings to the same idea which pervaded "The Play-thing." Its second title reads: "A private TUTOR for little MASTERS and MISSES." The contents show that this purpose was carried out. It tutored them by giving directions for reading with eloquence and propriety; by presenting "the antient and present State of _Great Britain_ with a compendious History of _England_;" by instructing them in "the Solar System, geography, Arts and Sciences" and the inevitable "Rules for Behaviour, Religion and Morality;" and it admonished them by giving the "Dying Words of Great Men when just quitting the Stage of Life." As a museum it included descriptions of the Seven Wonders of the World, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Churchyard, and the Tower of London, with an ethnological section in the geographical department! All of this amusement was to be had for the price of "One Shilling," neatly bound, with, thrown in as good measure, "Letters, Tales and Fables illustrated with Cuts." Such a library, complete in itself, was a fine and most welcome reward for scholarship, when prizes were awarded at the end of the school session. Importations of "Parcels of entertaining books for children" had earlier in the year been announced through the columns of the "Gazette;" but these importations, though they show familiarity with Newbery's quaint phraseology in advertising, probably also included an assortment of such little chap-books as "Tom Thumb," "Cinderella" (from the French of Monsieur Perrault), and some few other old stories which the children had long since appropriated as their own property. In 1751 we find New York waking up to the appreciation of children's books. There J. Waddell and James Parker were apparently the pioneers in bringing to public notice the fact that they had for sale little novel-books in addition to horn-books and primers; and moreover the "Weekly Post-Boy" advertised that these booksellers had "Pretty Books for little Masters and Misses" (clearly a Newbery imitation), "with Blank Flourished Christmas pieces for Scholars." But as yet even Franklin had hardly been convinced that the old way of imparting knowledge was not superior to the then modern combination of amusement and instruction; therefore, although with his partner, David Hall, he without doubt sold such children's books as were available, for his daughter Sally, aged seven, he had other views. At his request his wife, in December, 1751, wrote the following letter to William Strahan: MADAM,--I am ordered by my Master to write for him Books for Sally Franklin. I am in Hopes She will be abel to write for herself by the Spring. 8 Sets of the Perceptor best Edit. 8 Doz. of Croxall's Fables. 3 Doz. of Bishop Kenns Manual for Winchester School. 1 Doz. Familiar Forms, Latin and Eng. Ainsworth's Dictionaries, 4 best Edit. 2 Doz. Select Tales and Fables. 2 Doz. Costalio's Test. Cole's Dictionarys Latin and Eng. 6 a half doz. 3 Doz. of Clarke's Cordery. 1 Boyle's Pliny 2 vols. 8vo. 6 Sets of Nature displayed in 7 vols. 12mo. One good Quarto Bibel with Cudes bound in calfe. 1 Penrilla. 1 Art of making Common Salt. By Browning. My Dafter gives her duty to Mr. Stroyhan and his Lady, and her compliments to Master Billy and all his brothers and Sisters.... Your humbel Servant DEBORAH FRANKLIN Little Sally Franklin could not have needed eight dozen copies of Aesop's Fables, nor four Ainsworth's Dictionaries, so it is probable that Deborah Franklin's far from ready pen put down the book order for the spring, and that Sally herself was only to be supplied with the "Perceptor," the "Fables," and the "one good Quarto Bibel." As far as it is now possible to judge, the people of the towns soon learned the value of Newbery's little nursery tales, and after seventeen hundred and fifty-five, when most of his books were written and published, they rapidly gained a place on the family book-shelves in America. By seventeen hundred and sixty Hugh Gaine, printer, publisher, patent medicine seller, and employment agent for New York, was importing practically all the Englishman's juvenile publications then for sale. At the "Bible and Crown," where Gaine printed the "Weekly Mercury," could be bought, wholesale and retail, such books as, "Poems for Children Three Feet High," "Tommy Trapwit," "Trip's Book of Pictures," "The New Year's Gift," "The Christmas Box," etc. Gaine himself was a prominent printer in New York in the latter half of the eighteenth century. Until the Revolution his shop was a favorite one and well patronized. But when the hostilities began, the condition of his pocket seems to have regulated his sympathies, and he was by turn Whig and Tory according to the possession of New York by so-called Rebels, or King's Servants. When the British army evacuated New York, Gaine, wishing to keep up his trade, dropped the "Crown" from his sign. Among the enthusiastic patriots this ruse had scant success. In Freneau's political satire of the bookseller, the first verse gives a strong suggestion of the ridicule to follow: "And first, he was, in his own representation, A printer, once of good reputation. He dwelt in the street called Hanover-Square, (You'll know where it is if you ever was there Next door to the dwelling of Mr. Brownjohn, Who now to the drug-shop of Pluto is gone) But what do I say--who e'er came to town, And knew not Hugh Gaine at the _Bible_ and _Crown_." A contemporary of, and rival bookseller to, Gaine in seventeen hundred and sixty was James Rivington. Mr. Hildeburn has given Rivington a rather unenviable reputation; still, as he occasionally printed (?) a child's book, Mr. Hildeburn's remarks are quoted: "Until the advent of Rivington it was generally possible to tell from an American Bookseller's advertisement in the current newspapers whether the work offered for sale was printed in America or England. But the books he received in every fresh invoice from London were 'just published by James Rivington' and this form was speedily adopted by other booksellers, so that after 1761 the advertisement of books is no longer a guide to the issues of the colonial press." Although Rivington did not set up a press until about seventeen hundred and seventy-three,--according to Mr. Hildeburn,--he had a book-shop much earlier. Here he probably reprinted the title-page and then put an elaborate notice in the "Weekly Mercury" for November 17, 1760, as follows: JAMES RIVINGTON _Bookseller and Stationer from London over against the Golden Key in Hanover Square._ This day is published, Price, seven Shillings, and sold by the said JAMES RIVINGTON, adorned with two hundred Pictures THE FABLES OF AESOP with a moral to each Fable in Verse, and an Application in Prose, intended for the Use of the youngest of readers, and proper to be put into the hands of Children, immediately after they have done with the Spelling-Book, it being adapted to their tender Capacities, the Fables are related in a short and lively Manner, and they are recommended to all those who are concerned in the education of Children. This is an entire new Work, elegantly printed and ornamented with much better Cuts than any other Edition of Aesop's Fables. Be pleased to ask for DRAPER'S AESOP. From such records of parents' care as are given in Mrs. Charles Pinckney's letters to her husband's agent in London, and Josiah Quincy's reminiscences of his early training, it seems very evident that John Locke's advice in "Thoughts on Education" was read and followed at this time in the American colonies. Therefore, in accordance with the bachelor philosopher's theory as to reading-matter for little children, the bookseller recommended the "Fables" to "those concerned in the education of children." It is at least a happy coincidence that one of the earliest books (as far as is known to the writer), aside from school and religious books, issued as published in America for children, should have been the one Locke had so heartily recommended. This is what he had said many years previously: "When by these gentle ways he begins to _read_, some easy pleasant Book, suited to his capacities, should be put into his Hands, wherein the Entertainment that he finds might draw him on, and reward his Pains in Reading, and yet not such as will fill his head with perfectly useless Trumpery, or lay the Principles of Vice and Folly. To this Purpose, I think Aesop's Fables the best which being Stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet afford useful Reflections to a grown Man.... If his Aesop has pictures in it, it will entertain him much better and encourage him to read." The two hundred pictures in Rivington's edition made it, of course, high priced in comparison with Newbery's books: but New York then contained many families well able to afford this outlay to secure such an acquisition to the family library. Hugh Gaine at this time, as a rule, received each year two shipments of books, among which were usually some for children, yet about 1762 he began to try his own hand at reprinting Newbery's now famous little duodecimos. In that year we find an announcement through the "New York Mercury" that he had himself printed "Divers diverting books for infants." The following list gives some idea of their character: _Just published by Hugh Gaine_ A pretty Book for Children; Or an Easy Guide to the English Tongue. The private Tutor for little Masters and Misses. Food for the Mind; or a new Riddle Book compiled for the use of little Good Boys and Girls in America. By Jack the Giant-Killer, Esq. A Collection of Pretty Poems, by Tommy Tag, Esq. Aesop's Fables in Verse, with the Conversation of Beasts and Birds, at their several Meetings. By Woglog the great Giant. A Little pretty Book, intended for the Amusement of Little Master Tommy and pretty Miss Polly, with two Letters from Jack the Giant-Killer. Be Merry and Wise: Or the Cream of the Jests. By Tommy Trapwit, Esq. The title of "Food for the Mind" is of special importance, since in it Gaine made a clever alteration by inserting the words "Good Boys and Girls in _America_." The colonials were already beginning to feel a pride in the fact of belonging to the new country, America, and therefore Gaine shrewdly changed the English title to one more likely to induce people to purchase. Gaine and Rivington alone have left records of printing children's story-books in the town of New York before the Revolution; but before they began to print, other booksellers advertised their invoices of books. In 1759 Garrat Noel, a Dutchman, had announced that he had "the very prettiest gilt Books for little Masters and Misses that ever were invented, full of wit and wisdom, at the surprising low Price of only one Shilling each finely bound and adorned with a number of curious Cuts." By 1762 Noel had increased his stock and placed a somewhat larger advertisement in the "Mercury" of December 27. The late arrival of his goods may have been responsible for the bargains he offered at this holiday sale. GARRAT NOEL _Begs Leave to Inform the Public, that according to his Annual Custom, he has provided a very large Assortment of Books for Entertainment and Improvement of Youth, in Reading, Writing, Cyphering, and Drawing, as Proper Presents at _CHRISTMAS_ and _New-Year_._ The following Small, but improving Histories, are sold at _Two Shillings_, each, neatly bound in red, and adorn'd with Cuts. [Symbol: hand]Those who buy _Six_, shall have a _Seventh Gratis_, and buying only _Three_, they shall have a present of a fine large Copper-Plate Christmas Piece: [_List of histories follows._] The following neat Gilt Books, very instructive and Amusing being full of Pictures, are sold at _Eighteen Pence_ each. Fables in Verse and Prose, with the Conversation of Birds & Beasts at their several meetings, Routs and Assemblies for the Improvement of Old and Young, etc. To-day none of these gay little volumes sold in New York are to be seen. The inherent faculty of children for losing and destroying books, coupled with the perishable nature of these toy volumes, has rendered the children's treasures of seventeen hundred and sixty-two a great rarity. The Historical Society of Pennsylvania is the fortunate possessor of one much prized story-book printed in that year; but though it is at present in the Quaker City, a printer of Boston was responsible for its production. In Isaiah Thomas's recollections of the early Boston printers, he described Zechariah Fowle, with whom he served his apprenticeship, and Samuel Draper, Fowle's partner. These men, about seventeen hundred and fifty-seven, took a house in Marlborough Street. Here, according to Thomas, "they printed and opened a shop. They kept a great supply of ballads, and small pamphlets for book pedlars, of whom there were many at that time. Fowle was bred to the business, but he was an indifferent hand at the press, and much worse at the case." This description of the printer's ability is borne out by the "New-Gift for Children," printed by this firm. It is probably the oldest story-book bearing an American imprint now in existence, and for this reason merits description, although its contents can be seen in the picture of the title-page. Brown with age and like all chap-books without a cover--for it was Newbery who introduced this more durable and attractive feature--all sizes in type were used to print its fifteen stories. The stories in themselves were not new, as it is called the "Fourth edition." It is possible that they were taken from the Banbury chap-books, which also often copied Newbery's juvenile library, as the list of his publications compiled by Mr. Charles Welsh does not contain this title. The loyalty of the Boston printers found expression on the third page by a very black cut of King George the Third, who appears rather puzzled and not a little unhappy; but it found favor with customers, for as yet the colonials thought their king "no man of blood." On turning the page Queen Charlotte looks out with goggle-eyes, curls, and a row of beads about the size of pebbles around her thick neck. The picture seems to be a copy from some miniature of the queen, as an oval frame with a crown surmounting it encircles the portrait. The stories are so much better than some that were written even after the nineteenth century, that extracts from them are worth reading. The third tale, called "The Generosity of Confessing a Fault," begins as follows: "Miss _Fanny Goodwill_ was one of the prettiest children that ever was seen; her temper was as sweet as her looks, and her behavior so genteel and obliging that everybody admir'd her; for nobody can help loving good children, any more than they can help being angry with those that are naughty. It is no wonder then that her papa and mama lov'd her dearly, they took a great deal of pains to improve her mind so that before she was seven years old, she could read, and talk, and work like a little woman. One day as her papa was sitting by the fire, he set her upon his knees, kiss'd her, and told her how very much he lov'd her; and then smiling, and taking hold of her hand, My dear Fanny, said he, take care never to tell a lye, and then I shall always love you as well as I do now. You or I may be guilty of a fault; but there is something noble and generous in owning our errors, and striving to mend them; but a lye more than doubles the fault, and when it is found out, makes the lyar appear mean and contemptible.... Thus, my dear, the lyar is a wretch, whom nobody trusts, nobody regards, nobody pities. Indeed papa, said Miss _Fanny_, I would not be such a creature for all the world. You are very good, my little _charmer_, said her papa and kiss'd her again." [Illustration: _Title-page from "The New Gift for Children"_] The inevitable temptation came when Miss Fanny went on "a visit to a Miss in the neighborhood; her mama ordered her to be home at eight o'clock; but she was engag'd at play, and did not mind how the time pass'd, so that she stay'd till near ten; and then her mama sent for her." The child of course was frightened by the lateness of the hour, and the maid--who appears in the illustration with cocked hat and musket!--tried to calm her fears with the advice to "tell her mama that the Miss she went to see had taken her out." "_No Mary_, said Miss _Fanny_, wiping her pretty eyes, I am above a lye;" and she rehearsed for the benefit of the maid her father's admonition. Story IX tells of the _Good Girl and Pretty Girl_. In this the pretty child had bright eyes and pretty plump cheeks and was much admired. She, however, was a meanly proud girl, and so naughty as not to want to grow wiser, but applied to those good people who happened to be less favored in looks such terms as "bandy-legs, crump, and all such naughty names." The good sister "could read before the pretty miss could tell a letter; and though her shape was not so genteel her behavior was a great deal more so. But alas! the pretty creature fell sick of the small-pox, and all her beauty vanished." Thus in the eighteenth century was the adage "Beauty is but skin deep" brought to bear upon conduct. On the last page is a cut of "Louisburg demolished," which had served its time already upon almanacs, but the eight cuts were undoubtedly made especially for children. Moreover, since they do not altogether illustrate the various stories, they are good proof that similar chap-book tales were printed by Fowle and Draper for little ones before the War of Independence. In the southern provinces the sea afforded better transportation facilities for household necessities and luxuries than the few post-lines from the north could offer. Bills of exchange could be drawn against London, to be paid by the profits of the tobacco crops, a safer method of payment than any that then existed between the northern and southern towns. In the regular orders sent by George Washington to Robert Carey in London, twice we find mention of the children's needs and wishes. In the very first invoice of goods to be shipped to Washington after his marriage with Mrs. Custis in seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, he ordered "10 Shillings worth of Toys, 6 little books for children beginning to read and a fashionable dressed baby to cost 10 Shillings;" and again later in ordering clothes, "Toys, Sugar, Images and Comfits" for his step-children he added: "Books according to the enclosed list to be charged equally to John Parke Custis and Martha Parke Custis." But in Boston the people bought directly from the booksellers, of whom there were already many. One of these was John Mein, who played a part in the historic Non-Importation Agreement. In seventeen hundred and fifty this Englishman had opened in King Street a shop which he called the "London Book-Store." Here he sold many imported books, and in seventeen hundred and sixty-five, when the population of Boston numbered some twenty thousand, he started the "earliest circulating library, advertised to contain ten thousand volumes."[73-A] This shop was both famous and notorious: famous because of its "Very Grand Assortment of the most modern Books;" notorious because of the accusations made against its owner when the colonials, aroused by the action of Parliament, passed the Non-Importation Agreement. Before the excitement had culminated in this "Agreement," John Mein's lists of importations show that the children's pleasure had not been forgotten, and after it their books singularly enough were connected with this historic action. In 1766, in the "Boston Evening Post," we find Mein's announcement that "Little Books with Pictures for Children" could be purchased at the London Book-Store; in December, 1767, he advertised through the columns of the "Boston Chronicle," among other books, "in every branch of polite literature," a "Great Variety of entertaining Books for CHILDREN, proper for presents at Christmas or New-year's day--Prices from Two Coppers to Two Shillings." In August of the following year Mein gave the names of seven of Newbery's famous gilt volumes, as "to be sold" at his shop. These "pretty little entertaining and instructive Books" were "Giles Gingerbread," the "Adventures of little TOMMY TRIP with his dog JOULER," "Tommy Trip's Select Fables," and "an excellent Pastoral Hymn," "The Famous Tommy Thumb's Little Story-Book," "Leo, the Great Giant," and "URAX, or the Fair Wanderer--price eight pence lawful money. _A very interesting tale in which the protection of the Almighty_ is proved to be the first and chief support of the FEMALE SEX." Number seven in the list was the story of the "Cruel Giant Barbarico," and it is one of this edition that is now among the rare Americana of the Boston Public Library. The imprint upon its title-page coincides with Isaiah Thomas's statement that though "Fleming was not concerned with Mein in book-selling, several books were printed at their house for Mein." Its date, 1768, would indicate that Mein had reproduced one of his importations to which allusion has already been made. The book in marbled covers, time-worn and faded now, was sold for only "six-pence lawful" when new, possibly because it lacked illustrations. [Illustration: _Miss Fanny's Maid_] One year later, when the Non-Importation Agreement had passed and was rigorously enforced in the port of Boston, these same little books were advertised again in the "Chronicle" of December 4-7 under the large caption, PRINTED IN AMERICA AND TO BE SOLD BY JOHN MEIN. Times had so changed within one year's space that even a child's six-penny book was unpopular, if known to have been imported. Mein was among those accused of violating the "Agreement;" he was charged with the importation of materials for book-making. In a November number of the "Chronicle" of seventeen hundred and sixty-nine, Mein published an article entitled "A State of the Importation from Great Britain into the Port of BOSTON with the advertisement of a set of Men, who assume to themselves THE TITLE of _ALL the Well Disposed Merchants_." In this letter the London Book-Store proprietor vigorously defended himself, and protested that the quantity of his work necessitated some importations not procurable in Boston. He also made sarcastic references to other men whom he thought the cap fitted better with less excuse. It was in the following December that he tried to keep this trade in children's books by his apparently patriotic announcement regarding them. His protests were useless. Already in disfavor with some because he was supposed to print books in America but used a London imprint, his popularity waned; he was marked as a loyalist, and there was little of the spirit of tolerance for such in that hot-bed of patriotism. The air was so full of the growing differences between the colonials and the king's government, that in seventeen hundred and seventy Mein closed out his stock and returned to England. On the other hand, the patriotic booksellers did not fail to take note of the crystallization of public opinion. Robert Bell in Philadelphia appended a note to his catalogue of books, stating that "The Lovers and Practisers of Patriotism are requested to note that all the Books in this Catalogue are either of American manufacture, or imported before the Non-Importation Agreement." The supply of home-made paper was of course limited. So much was needed to circulate among the colonies pamphlets dealing with the injustice of the king's government toward his American subjects, that it seems remarkable that any juvenile books should have been printed in those stirring days before the war began. It is rather to be expected that, with the serious turn that events had taken and the consequent questions that had arisen, the publications of the American press should have received the shadow of the forthcoming trouble--a shadow sufficient to discourage any attempt at humor for adult or child. Evidence, however, points to the fact that humor and amusement were not totally lacking in the issues of the press of at least one printer in Boston, John Boyle. The humorous satire produced by his press in seventeen hundred and seventy-five, called "The First Book of the American Chronicles of the Times," purported to set forth the state of political affairs during the troubles "wherein all our calamities are seen to flow from the fact that the king had set up for our worship the god of the heathen--The Tea Chest." This pamphlet has been one to keep the name of John Boyle among the prominent printers of pre-Revolutionary days. Additional interest accrues for this reason to a play-book printed by Boyle--the only one extant of this decade known to the writer. This quaint little chap-book, three by four inches in size, was issued in seventeen hundred and seventy-one, soon after Boyle had set up his printing establishment and four years before the publication of the famous pamphlet. It represents fully the standard for children's literature in the days when Newbery's tiny classics were making their way to America, and was indeed advertised by Mein in seventeen hundred and sixty-eight among the list of books "Printed in America." Its title, "The Famous Tommy Thumb's Little Story-Book: Containing his Life and Adventures," has rather a familiar sound, but its contents would not now be allowed upon any nursery table. Since the days of the Anglo-Saxons, Tom Thumb's adventures have been told and retold; each generation has given to the rising generation the version thought proper for the ears of children. In Boyle's edition this method resulted in realism pushed to the extreme; but it is not to be denied that the yellowed pages contain the wondrous adventures and hairbreadth escapes so dear to the small boy of all time. The thrilling incidents were further enlivened, moreover, by cuts called by the printer "_curious_" in the sense of very fine: and _curious_ they are to-day because of the crudeness of their execution and the coarseness of their design. Nevertheless, the grotesque character of the illustrations was altogether effective in impressing upon the reader the doughty deeds of his old friend, Tom Thumb. The book itself shows marks of its popularity, and of the hard usage to which it was subjected by its happy owner, who was not critical of the editor's freedom of speech. The coarseness permitted in a nursery favorite makes it sufficiently clear that the standard for the ideal toy-book of the eighteenth century is no gauge for that of the twentieth. Child-life differed in many particulars, as Mr. Julian Hawthorne pointed out some years ago, when he wrote that the children of the eighteenth century "were urged to grow up almost before they were short-coated." We must bear this in mind in turning to another class of books popular with adult and child alike in both England and America before and for some years after the Revolution. This was the period when the novel in the hands of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett was assuming hitherto unsuspected possibilities. Allusion must be made to some of the characteristics of their work, since their style undoubtedly affected juvenile reading and the tales written for children. Taking for the sake of convenience the novels of the earliest of this group of men, Samuel Richardson, as a starting-point, we find in Pamela and Mr. Lovelace types of character that merge from the Puritanical concrete examples of virtue and vice into a psychological attempt to depict the emotion and feeling preceding every act of heroine and villain. Through every stage of the story the author still clings to the long-established precedent of giving moral and religious instruction. Afterwards, when Fielding attempted to parody "Pamela," he developed the novel of adventure in high and low life, and produced "Joseph Andrews." He then followed this with the character-study represented by "Tom Jones, Foundling." Richardson in "Pamela" had aimed to emphasize virtue as in the end prospering; Fielding's characters rather embody the principle of virtue being its own reward and of vice bringing its own punishment. Smollett in "Humphrey Clinker's Adventures" brought forth fun from English surroundings instead of seeking for the hero thrilling and daring deeds in foreign countries. He also added to the list of character-studies "Roderick Random," a tale of the sea, the mystery of which has never palled since "Robinson Crusoe" saw light. There was also the novel of letters. In the age of the first great novelists letter-writing was among the polite arts. It was therefore counted a great but natural achievement when the epistolary method of revealing the plot was introduced. "Clarissa Harlowe" and "Sir Charles Grandison" were the results of this style of writing; they comprehended the "most Important Concerns of private life"--"concerns" which moved with lingering and emotional persistency towards the inevitable catastrophe in "Clarissa," and the happy issue out of the misunderstandings and misadventures which resulted in Miss Byron's alliance with Sir Charles. Until after the next (nineteenth) century had passed its first decade these tales were read in full or abridged forms by many children among the fashionable and literary sets in England and America. Indeed, the art of writing for children was so unknown that often attempts to produce child-like "histories" for them resulted in little other than novels upon an abridged scale. But before even abridged novels found their way into juvenile favor, it was "customary in Richardson's time to read his novels aloud in the family circle. When some pathetic passage was reached the members of the family would retire to separate apartments to weep; and after composing themselves, they would return to the fireside to have the reading proceed. It was reported to Richardson, that, on one of these occasions, 'an amiable little boy sobbed as if his sides would burst and resolved to mind his books that he might be able to read Pamela through without stopping.' That there might be something in the family novel expressly for children, Richardson sometimes stepped aside from the main narrative to tell them a moral tale."[80-A] Mr. Cross gives an example of this which, shorn of its decoration, was the tale of two little boys and two little girls, who never told fibs, who were never rude and noisy, mischievous or quarrelsome; who always said their prayers when going to bed, and therefore became fine ladies and gentlemen. To make the tales less difficult for amiable children to read, an abridgment of their contents was undertaken; and Goldsmith is said to have done much of the "cutting" in "Pamela," "Clarissa Harlowe," "Sir Charles Grandison," and others. These books were included in the lists of those sent to America for juvenile reading. In Boston, Cox and Berry inserted in the "Boston Gazette and Country Journal" a notice that they had the "following little Books for all good Boys and Girls: The Brother's Gift, or the Naughty Girl Reformed. The Sister's Gift, or the Naughty Boy Reformed. The Hobby Horse, or Christmas Companion. The Cries of London as Exhibited in the Streets. The Puzzling Cap. The History of Tom Jones. The History of Joseph Andrews. Abridg'd from the works of H. Fielding The History of Pamela. abridg'd from the works of Samuel Richardson, Esq. The History of Grandison. The History of Clarissa." Up to this time the story has been rather of the books read by the Puritan and Quaker population of the colonies. There had arisen during the first half of the eighteenth century, however, a merchant class which owed its prosperity to its own ability. Such men sought for their families the material results of wealth which only a place like Boston could bestow. Many children, therefore, were sent to this town to acquire suitable education in books, accomplishments, and deportment. A highly interesting record of a child of well-to-do parents has been left by Anna Green Winslow, who came to Boston to stay with an aunt for the winters of 1771 and 1772. Her diary gives delightful glimpses of children's tea-parties, fashions, and schools, all put down with a childish disregard of importance or connection. It is in these jottings of daily occurrences that proof is found that so young a girl read, quite as a matter of course, the abridged works of Fielding and Richardson. On January 1, 1772, she wrote in her diary, "a Happy New Year, I have bestowed no new year's gifts, as yet. But have received one very handsome one, Viz, the History of Joseph Andrews abreviated. In nice Guilt and Flowers covers." Again, she put down an account of a day's work, which she called "a piecemeal for in the first place I sew'd on the bosom of unkle's shirt, and mended two pairs of gloves, mended for the wash two handkerch'fs, (one cambrick) sewed on half a border of a lawn apron of aunt's, read part of the xxist chapter of Exodous, & a story in the Mother's Gift." Later she jotted in her book the loan of "3 of Cousin Charles' books to read, viz.--The puzzling Cap, the female Orators & the history of Gaffer Two Shoes." Little Miss Winslow, though only eleven years of age, was a typical child of the educated class in Boston, and, according to her journal, also followed the English custom of reading aloud "with Miss Winslow, the Generous Inconstant and Sir Charles Grandison." It is to be regretted that her diary gives no information as to how she liked such tales. We must anticipate some years to find a comment in the Commonplace Book of a Connecticut girl. Lucy Sheldon lived in Litchfield, a thriving town in eighteen hundred, and did much reading for a child in those days. Upon "Sir Charles Grandison" she confided to her book this offhand note: "Read in little Grandison, which shows that, virtue always meets its reward and vice is punished." The item is very suggestive of Goldsmith's success in producing an abridgment that left the moral where it could not be overlooked. To discuss in detail this class of writings is not necessary, but a glance at the story of "Clarissa" gives an instructive impression of what old-fashioned children found zestful. "Clarissa Harlowe" in its abridged form was first published by Newbery, Senior. The book that lies before the writer was printed in seventeen hundred and seventy-two by his son, Francis Newbery. In size five by three and one-half inches, it is decked in once gay parti-colored heavy Dutch paper, with a delicate gold tracery over all. This paper binding, called by Anna Winslow "Flowery Guilt," can no longer be found in Holland, the place of its manufacture; with sarsinet and other fascinating materials it has vanished so completely that it exists only on the faded bindings of such small books as "Clarissa." The narrative itself is compressed from the original seven volumes into one volume of one hundred and seventy-six closely printed pages, with several full-page copper-plate illustrations. The plot, however, gains rather than loses in this condensed form. The principal distressing situations follow so fast one upon the other that the intensity of the various episodes in the _affecting_ history is increased by the total absence of all the "moving" letters found in the original work. The "lordly husband and father," "the imperious son," "the proud ambitious sister, Arabella," all combined to force the universally beloved and unassuming Clarissa to marry the wealthy Mr. Somers, who was to be the means of "the aggrandisement of the family." Clarissa, in this perplexing situation, yielded in a desperate mood to "the earnest entreaties of the artful Lovelace to accept the protection of the Ladies of his family." Who these ladies were, to whom the designing Lovelace conducted the agitated heroine, is set forth in unmistakable language; and thereafter follow the treacherous behaviour exhibited by Lovelace, the various attempts to escape by the unhappy beauty, and her final exhaustion and death. An example of the style may be given in this description of the death-scene: "Clarissa had before remarked that all would be most conveniently over in bed: The solemn, the most important moment approached, but her soul ardently aspiring after immorality [immortality was of course the author's intention], she imagined the time moved slowly; and with great presence of mind, she gave orders in relation to her body, directing her nurse and the maid of the house, as soon as she was cold, to put her into her coffin. The Colonel [her cousin], after paying her another visit, wrote to her uncle, Mr. John Harlowe, that they might save themselves the trouble of having any further debates about reconciliation; for before they could resolve, his dear cousin would probably be no more.... "A day or two after, Mr. Belford [a friend] was sent for, and immediately came; at his entrance he saw the Colonel kneeling by her bed-side with the ladies right hand in both his, which his face covered bathing it with tears, though she had just been endeavoring to comfort him, in noble and elevated strains. On the opposite side of the bed was seated Mrs. Lovick, who leaning against the bed's-head in a most disconsolate manner, turned to him as soon as she saw him, crying, O Mr. Belford, the dear lady! a heavy sigh not permitting her to say more. Mrs. Smith [the landlady] was kneeling at the bed's feet with clasped fingers and uplifted eyes, with tears trickling in large drops from her cheeks, as if imploring help from the source of all comfort. "The excellent lady had been silent a few minutes, and was thought speechless, she moving her lips without uttering a word; but when Mrs. Lovick, on Mr. Belford's approach, pronounced his name, O Mr. Belford! cried she, in a faint inward voice, Now!--now!--I bless God, all will soon be over--a few minutes will end this strife--and I shall be happy," etc. Her speech was long, although broken by dashes, and again she resumed, "in a more faint and broken accent," the blessing and directions. "She then sunk her head upon the pillow; and fainting away, drew from them her hands." Once more she returned to consciousness, "when waving her hand to him [Mr. Belford] and to her cousin, and bowing her head to every one present, not omitting the nurse and maid servant, with a faltering and inward voice, she added Bless--Bless--you all!--" The illustrations, in comparison with others of the time, are very well engraved, although the choice of subjects is somewhat singular. The last one represents Clarissa's friend, "Miss Howe" (the loyal friend to whom all the absent letters were addressed), "lamenting over the corpse of Clarissa," who lies in the coffin ordered by the heroine "to be covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white satin." As one lays aside this faded duodecimo, the conviction is strong that the texture of the life of an old-fashioned child was of coarser weave than is pleasant to contemplate. How else could elders and guardians have placed without scruple such books in the hands of children? The one explanation is to be found in such diaries as that of Anna Winslow, who quaintly put down in her book facts and occurrences denoting the maturity already reached by a little miss of eleven. FOOTNOTES: [73-A] Winsor, _Memorial History of Boston_, vol. ii, p. xix. [80-A] Cross, _Development of the English Novel_, pp. 38, 39. CHAPTER IV 1776-1790 The British King Lost States thirteen. _The New England Primer_, Philadelphia, 1797 The good little boy That will not tell a lie, Shall have a plum-pudding Or hot apple-pye. _Jacky Dandy's Delight_, Worcester, 1786 CHAPTER IV 1776-1790 _Patriotic Printers and the American Newbery_ When John Mein was forced to close his London Book-Store in Boston and to return to England in 1770, the children of that vicinity had need to cherish their six-penny books with increased care. The shadow of impending conflict was already deep upon the country when Mein departed; and the events of the decade following seventeen hundred and seventy-three--the year of the Boston Tea-Party--were too absorbing and distressing for such trifling publications as toy-books to be more than occasionally printed. Indeed, the history of the American Revolution is so interwoven with tales of privation of the necessities of life that it is astonishing that any printer was able to find ink or paper to produce even the nursery classic "Goody Two-Shoes," printed by Robert Bell of Philadelphia in seventeen hundred and seventy-six. In New York the conditions were different. The Loyalists, as long as the town was held by the British, continued to receive importations of goods of all descriptions. Among the booksellers, Valentine Nutter from time to time advertised children's as well as adults' books. Hugh Gaine apparently continued to reprint Newbery's duodecimos; and, in a rather newer shop, Roger and Berry's, in Hanover Square, near Gaine's, could be had "Gilt Books, together with Stationary, Jewelry, a Collection of the most books, bibles, prayer-books and patent medicines warranted genuine." Elsewhere in the colonies, as in Boston, the children went without new books, although very occasionally such notices as the following were inserted in the newspapers: _Just imported and to be Sold by Thomas Bradford_ At his Book-Store in Market-Street, adjoining the Coffee-house _The following Books_ ... Little Histories for Children, Among which are, Book of Knowledge, Joe Miller's Jests, Jenny Twitchells' ditto, the Linnet, The Lark (being collections of best Songs), Robin Redbreast, Choice Spirits, Argalus & Parthenia, Valentine and Orson, Seven Wise Masters, Seven Wise Mistresses, Russell's seven Sermons, Death of Abel, French Convert, Art's Treasury, Complete Letter-Writer, Winter Evening Entertainment, Stories and Tales, Triumphs of Love, being a Collection of Short Stories, Joseph Andrews, Aesop's Fables, Scotch Rogue, Moll Flanders, Lives of Highwaymen, Lives of Pirates, Buccaneers of America, Robinson Crusoe, Twelve Caesars. Such was the assortment of penny-dreadfuls and religious tracts offered in seventeen hundred and eighty-one to the Philadelphia public for juvenile reading. It is typical of the chapmen's library peddled about the colonies long after they had become states. "Valentine and Orson," "The Seven Wise Masters," "The Seven Wise Mistresses," and "Winter Evening Entertainment" are found in publishers' lists for many years, and, in spite of frequent vulgarities, there was often no discrimination between them and Newbery's far superior stories; but by eighteen hundred and thirty almost all of these undesirable reprints had disappeared, being buried under the quantities of Sunday-school tales held in high favor at that date. Meanwhile, the six years of struggle for liberty had rendered the necessaries of life in many cases luxuries. As early as seventeen hundred and seventy-five, during the siege of Boston, provisions and articles of dress had reached such prices that we find thrifty Mrs. John Adams, in Braintree, Massachusetts, foreseeing a worse condition, writing her husband, who was one of the Council assembled in Philadelphia, to send her, if possible, six thousand pins, even if they should cost five pounds. Prices continued to rise and currency to depreciate. In seventeen hundred and seventy-nine Mrs. Adams reported in her letters to her husband that potatoes were ten dollars a bushel, and writing-paper brought the same price per pound. Yet family life went on in spite of these increasing difficulties. The diaries and letters of such remarkable women as the patriotic Abigail Adams, the Quakeress, Mrs. Eliza Drinker, the letters of the Loyalist and exile, James Murray, the correspondence of Eliza Pinckney of Charleston, and the reminiscences of a Whig family who were obliged to leave New York upon the occupation of the town by British forces, abound in those details of domestic life that give a many sided picture. Joys derived from good news of dear ones, and family reunions; anxieties occasioned by illness, or the armies' depredations; courageous efforts on the part of mothers not to allow their children's education and occupations to suffer unnecessarily; tragedies of death and ruined homes--all are recorded with a "particularity" for which we are now grateful to the writers. It is through these writings, also, that we are allowed glimpses of the enthusiasm for the cause of Liberty, or King, which was imbibed from the parents by the smallest children. On the Whig side, patriotic mothers in New England filled their sons with zeal for the cause of freedom and with hatred of the tyranny of the Crown; while in the more southern colonies the partisanship of the little ones was no less intense. "From the constant topic of the present conversation," wrote the Rev. John J. Zubly (a Swiss clergyman settled in South Carolina and Georgia), in an address to the Earl of Dartmouth in seventeen hundred and seventy-five,--"from the constant topic of the present conversation, every child unborn will be impressed with the notion--it is slavery to be bound at the will of another 'in all things whatsoever.' Every mother's milk will convey a detestation of this maxim. Were your lordship in America, you might see little ones acquainted with the word of command before they can distinctly speak, and shouldering of a gun before they are well able to walk."[92-A] The children of the Tories had also their part in the struggle. To some the property of parents was made over, to save it from confiscation in the event of the success of the American cause. To others came the bitterness of separation from parents, when they were sent across the sea to unknown relatives; while again some faint manuscript record tells of a motherless child brought from a comfortable home, no longer tenable, to whatever quarters could be found within the British lines. Fortunately, children usually adapt themselves easily to changed conditions, and in the novelty and excitement of the life around them, it is probable they soon forgot the luxuries of dolls and hobby-horses, toy-books and drums, of former days. In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania the sentiment of the period was expressed in two or three editions of "The New England Primer." Already in 1770 one had appeared containing as frontispiece a poor wood-cut of John Hancock. In 1775 the enthusiasm over the appointment of George Washington as commander-in-chief brought out another edition of the A B C book with the same picture labelled "General Washington." The custom of making one cut do duty in several representations was so well understood that this method of introducing George Washington to the infant reader naturally escaped remark. Another primer appeared four years later, which was advertised by Walters and Norman in the "Pennsylvania Evening Post" as "adorned with a beautiful head of George Washington and other copper-plates." According to Mr. Hildeburn, this small book had the honor of containing the first portrait of Washington engraved in America. While such facts are of trifling importance, they are, nevertheless, indications of the state of intense feeling that existed at the time, and point the way by which the children's books became nationalized. In New England the very games of children centred in the events which thrilled the country. Josiah Quincy remembered very well in after life, how "at the age of five or six, astride my grandfather's cane and with my little whip, I performed prodigies of valor, and more than once came to my mother's knees declaring that I had driven the British out of Boston." Afterwards at Phillips Academy, in Andover, between seventeen hundred and seventy-eight and seventeen hundred and eighty-six, Josiah and his schoolfellows "established it as a principle that every hoop, sled, etc., should in some way bear _Thirteen_ marks as evidence of the political character of the owner,--if which were wanting the articles became fair prize and were condemned and forfeited without judge, jury, or decree of admiralty."[94-A] Other boys, such as John Quincy Adams, had tutors at home as a less expensive means of education than the wartime price of forty dollars a week for each child that good boarding-schools demanded. But at their homes the children had plenty of opportunity to show their intense enthusiasm for the cause of liberty. Years later, Mr. Adams wrote to a Quaker friend: "For the space of twelve months my mother with her infant children dwelt, liable every hour of the day and of the night to be butchered in cold blood, or taken and carried to Boston as hostages. My mother lived in uninterrupted danger of being consumed with them all in a conflagration kindled by a torch in the same hands which on the Seventeenth of June [1775] lighted the fires of Charlestown."[94-B] He was, of course, only one of many boys who saw from some height near their homes the signs of battle, the fires of the enemy's camps, the smoke rising from some farm fired by the British, or burned by its owner to prevent their occupation of it. With hearts made to beat quickly by the news that filtered through the lines, and heads made old by the responsibility thrust upon them,--in the absence of fathers and older brothers,--such boys as John Quincy Adams saw active service in the capacity of post-riders bearing in their several districts the anxiously awaited tidings from Congress or battlefield. Fortunate indeed were the families whose homes were not disturbed by the military operations. From Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, families were sent hastily to the country until the progress of the war made it possible to return to such comforts as had not been destroyed by the British soldiers. The "Memoirs of Eliza Morton," afterward Mrs. Josiah Quincy, but a child eight years of age in seventeen hundred and seventy-six, gives a realistic account of the life of such Whig refugees. Upon the occupation of New York by the British, her father, a merchant of wealth, as riches were then reckoned, was obliged to burn his warehouse to save it from English hands. Mr. Morton then gathered together in the little country village of Basking Ridge, seven miles from Morristown, New Jersey, such of his possessions as could be hastily transported from the city. Among the books saved in this way were the works of Thurston, Thomson, Lyttleton, and Goldsmith, and for the children's benefit, "Dodsley's Collection of Poems," and "Pilgrim's Progress." "This," wrote Mrs. Quincy, "was a great favorite; Mr. Greatheart was in my opinion a hero, well able to help us all on our way." During the exile from New York, as Eliza Morton grew up, she read all these books, and years afterward told her grandchildren that while she admired the works of Thurston, Thomson, and Lyttleton, "those of Goldsmith were my chief delight. When my reading became afterward more extensive I instinctively disliked the extravagant fiction which often injures the youthful mind." The war, however, was not allowed to interfere with the children's education in this family. In company with other little exiles, they were taught by a venerable old man until the evacuation of Philadelphia made it possible to send the older children to Germantown, where a Mr. Leslie had what was considered a fine school. The schoolroom walls were hung with lists of texts of Scripture beginning with the same letter, and for globes were substituted the schoolmaster's snuffbox and balls of yarn. If these failed to impress a child with the correct notions concerning the solar system, the children themselves were made to whirl around the teacher. In Basking Ridge the children had much excitement with the passing of soldiers to Washington's headquarters in Morristown, and with watching for "The Post" who carried the news between Philadelphia, Princeton, and Morristown. "'The Post,' Mr. Martin," wrote Mrs. Quincy, "was an old man who carried the mail, ... he was our constant medium of communication; and always stopped at our house to refresh himself and horse, tell the news, and bring packets. He used to wear a blue coat with yellow buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, leathern small-clothes, blue yarn stockings, and a red wig and cocked hat, which gave him a sort of military appearance. He usually traveled in a sulky, but sometimes in a chaise, or on horseback.... Mr. Martin also contrived to employ himself in knitting coarse yarn stockings while driving or rather jogging along the road, or when seated on his saddle-bags on horseback. He certainly did not ride _post_, according to the present [1821] meaning of that term." Deprived like many other children of Newbery's peaceful biographies and stories, the little Mortons' lives were too full of an intense daily interest to feel the lack of new literature of this sort. Tales of the campaigns told in letters to friends and neighbors were reëchoed in the ballads and songs that formed part of the literary warfare waged by Whig or Loyal partisans. Children of to-day sing so zestfully the popular tunes of the moment, that it requires very little imagination to picture the schoolboy of Revolutionary days shouting lustily verses from "The Battle of the Kegs," and other rhymed stories of military incidents. Such a ballad was "A Song for the Red Coats," written after the successful campaign against Burgoyne, and beginning: "Come unto me, ye heroes, Whose hearts are true and bold, Who value more your honor, Than others do their gold! Give ear unto my story, And I the truth will tell, Concerning many a soldier, Who for his country fell." Children, it has been said, are good haters. To the patriot boy and girl, the opportunity to execrate Benedict Arnold was found in these lines of a patriotic "ditty" concerning the fate of Major André: "When he was executed He looked both meek and mild; He looked upon the people, And pleasantly he smiled. It moved each eye to pity, Caused every heart to bleed; And every one wished him released-- And _Arnold_ in his stead."[98-A] Loyalist children had an almost equal supply of satirical verse to fling back at neighbors' families, where in country districts some farms were still occupied by sympathizers with Great Britain. A vigorous example of this style of warfare is quoted by Mr. Tyler in his "Literature of the American Revolution," and which, written in seventeen hundred and seventy-six, is entitled "The Congress." It begins: "These hardy knaves and stupid fools, Some apish and pragmatic mules, Some servile acquiescing tools,-- These, these compose the Congress!"[98-B] Or, again, such taunts over the general poverty of the land and character of the army as were made in a ballad called "The Rebels" by a Loyalist officer: "With loud peals of laughter, your sides, Sirs, would crack, To see General Convict and Colonel Shoe-black, With their hunting-shirts and rifle-guns, See Cobblers and quacks, rebel priests and the like, Pettifoggers and barbers, with sword and with pike." Those Loyalists who lived through this exciting period in America's history bore their full share in the heavy personal misfortunes of their political party. The hatred felt toward such colonials as were true to the king has until recently hardly subsided sufficiently to permit any sympathy with the hardships they suffered. Driven from their homes, crowded together in those places occupied by the English, or exiled to England or Halifax, these faithful subjects had also to undergo separation of families perhaps never again united. Such a Loyalist was James Murray. Forced to leave his daughter and grandchildren in Boston with a sister, he took ship for Halifax to seek a living. There, amid the pressing anxieties occasioned by this separation, he strove to reëstablish himself, and sent from time to time such articles as he felt were necessary for their welfare. Thus he writes a memorandum of articles sent in seventeen hundred and eighty by "Mr. Bean's Cartel to Miss Betsy Murray:--viz: Everlasting 4 yards; binding 1 piece, Nankeen 4-7/8 yards. Of Gingham 2 gown patterns; 2 pairs red shoes from A.E.C. for boys, Jack and Ralph, a parcel--to Mrs. Brigden, 1 pair silk shoes and some flowers--Arthur's Geographical Grammar,--Locke on Education,--5 children's books," etc. And in return he is informed that "Charlotte goes to dancing and writing school, improves apace and grows tall. Betsy and Charles are much better but not well. The rest of the children are in good health, desiring their duty to their Uncle and Aunt Inman, and thanks for their cake and gloves." To such families the end of the war meant either the necessity for making permanent their residence in the British dominion, or of bearing both outspoken and silent scorn in the new Republic. For the Americans the peace of Yorktown brought joy, but new beginnings had also to be made. Farms had been laid waste, or had suffered from lack of men to cultivate them; industries were almost at a standstill from want of material and laborers. Still the people had the splendid compensation of freedom with victory, and men went sturdily back to their homes to take up as far as possible their various occupations. An example of the way in which business undertaken before the war was rapidly resumed, or increased, is afforded by the revival of prosperity for the booksellers in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Renewals of orders to London agents were speedily made, for the Americans still looked to England for their intellectual needs. In Philadelphia--a town of forty thousand inhabitants in seventeen hundred and eighty-three--among the principal booksellers and printers were Thomas Bradford, Mr. Woodhouse, Mr. Oswald, Mr. Pritchard,--who had established a circulating library,--Robert Aitkin, Mr. Liddon, Mr. Dunlap, Mr. Rice, William and David Hall, Benjamin Bache, J. Crukshank, and Robert Bell. Bell had undoubtedly the largest bookstore, but seems not to have been altogether popular, if an allusion in "The Philadelphiad" is to be credited. This "New Picture of the City" was anonymously published in seventeen hundred and eighty-four, and described, among other well-known places, Robert Bell's book-shop: BELL'S BOOK STORE Just by St. Paul's where dry divines rehearse, Bell keeps his store for vending prose and verse, And books that's neither ... for no age nor clime, Lame languid prose begot on hobb'ling rhyme. Here authors meet who ne'er a spring have got, The poet, player, doctor, wit and sot, Smart politicians wrangling here are seen, Condemning Jeffries or indulging spleen. In 1776 Bell's facilities for printing had enabled him to produce an edition of "Little Goody Two-Shoes," which seems likely to have been the only story-book printed during the troubled years of the Revolution. Besides this, Bell printed in 1777 "Aesop's Fables," as did also Robert Aitkin; and J. Crukshank had issued during the war an A B C book, written by the old schoolmaster, A. Benezet, who had drilled many a Philadelphian in his letters. After the Revolution Benjamin Bache apparently printed children's books in considerable quantities, and orders were sent by other firms to England for juvenile reading-matter. New England also has records of the sale of these small books in several towns soon after peace was established. John Carter, "at Shakespeare's Head," in Providence, announced by a broadside issued in November, seventeen hundred and eighty-three, that he had a large assortment of stationers' wares, and included in his list "Gilt Books for _Children_," among which were most of Newbery's publications. In Hartford, Connecticut, where there had been a good press since seventeen hundred and sixty-four, "The Children's Magazine" was reprinted in seventeen hundred and eighty-nine. Its preposterous titles are noteworthy, since it is probable that this was the first attempt at periodical literature made for young people in America. One number contains: An easy Introduction to Geography. The Schoolboy addressed to the Editors. Moral Tales continued. Tale VIII. The Jealous Wife. The Affectionate Sisters. Familiar Letters on Various Subjects,--Continued.... Letter V from _Phillis Flowerdale_ to _Miss Truelove_. Letter VI from _Miss Truelove_ to _Phillis Flowerdale_. Poetry.--The Sweets of May. The Cottage Retirement. Advice to the Fair. The Contented Cottager. The Tear. The Honest Heart. The autograph of Eben Holt makes the contents of the magazine ludicrous as subjects of interest to a boy But having nothing better, Eben most surely read it from cover to cover. In Charleston, South Carolina, Robert Wells imported the books read by the members of the various branches of the Ravenel, Pinckney, Prioleau, Drayton, and other families. Boston supplied the juvenile public largely through E. Battelle and Thomas Andrews, who were the agents for Isaiah Thomas, the American Newbery. An account of the work of this remarkable printer of Worcester, Massachusetts, has been given in Dr. Charles L. Nichols's "Bibliography of Worcester." Thomas's publications ranked as among the very best of the last quarter of the eighteenth century, and were sought by book-dealers in the various states. At one time he had sixteen presses, seven of which were in Worcester. He had also four bookstores in various towns of Massachusetts, one in Concord, New Hampshire, one in Baltimore, and one in Albany. In 1761, at the age of ten, Thomas had set up as his "'Prentice's Token," a primer issued by A. Barclay in Cornhill, Boston, entitled "Tom Thumb's Play-Book, To Teach Children their letters as soon as they can speak." Although this primer was issued by Barclay, Thomas had already served four years in a printer's office, for according to his own statement he had been sent at the age of six to learn his trade of Zechariah Fowle. Here, as 'prentice, he may have helped to set up the stories of the "Holy Jesus" and the "New Gift," and upon the cutting of their rude illustrations perhaps took his first lessons in engraving. For we know that by seventeen hundred and sixty-four he did fairly good work upon the "Book of Knowledge" from the press of the old printer. Upon the fly-leaf of a copy of this owned by the American Antiquarian Society, founded by Thomas, is the statement in the Worcester printer's handwriting, "Printed and cuts engraved by I. Thomas then 13 years of age for Z. Fowle when I.T. was his Apprentice: bad as the cuts are executed, there was not at that time an artist in Boston who could have done them much better. Some time before, and soon after there were better engravers in Boston." These cuts, especially the frontispiece representing a boy with a spy-glass and globe, and with a sextant at his feet, are far from poor work for a lad of thirteen. "The battered dictionary," says Dr. Nichols, "and the ink-stained Bible which he found in Fowle's office started him in his career, and the printing-press, together with an invincible determination to excel in his calling, carried him onward, until he stands to-day with Franklin and Baskerville, a type of the man who with few educational advantages succeeds because he loves his art for his art's sake." In supplying to American children a home-made library, Thomas, although he did no really original work for children, such as his English prototype, Newbery, had accomplished, yet had a motive which was not altogether selfish and pecuniary. The prejudice against anything of British manufacture was especially strong in the vicinity of Boston; and it was an altogether natural expression of this spirit that impelled the Worcester printer, as soon as his business was well established, to begin to reprint the various little histories. These reprints were all pirated from Newbery and his successors, Newbery and Carnan; but they compare most favorably with them, and so far surpassed the work of any other American printer of children's books (except possibly those of Bache in Philadelphia) that his work demands more than a passing mention. Beginning, like most printers, with the production of a primer in seventeen hundred and eighty-four, by seventeen hundred and eighty-six Thomas was well under way in his work for children. In that year at least eleven little books bore his imprint and were sent to his Boston agents to be sold. In the "Worcester Magazine" for June, 1786, Thomas addressed an "Advertisement to Booksellers," as follows: "A large assortment of all the various sizes of CHILDREN'S Books, known by the name of Newbery's Little Books for Children, are now republished by I. Thomas in Worcester, Massachusetts. They are all done excellently in his English Method, and it is supposed the paper, printing, cuts, and binding are in every way equal to those imported from England. As the Subscriber has been at great expense to carry on this particular branch of Printing extensively, he hopes to meet with encouragement from the Booksellers in the United States." Evidently he did meet with great encouragement from parents as well as booksellers; and it is suspected that the best printed books bearing imprints of other booksellers were often printed in Worcester and bound according to the taste and facilities of the dealer. That this practice of reprinting the title-page and rebinding was customary, a letter from Franklin to his nephew in Boston gives indisputable evidence: Philada. Nov. 26, 1788. LOVING COUSIN: I have lately set up one of my grand-children, Benja. F. Bache, as a Printer here, and he has printed some very pretty little Books for Children. By the Sloop Friendship, Capt. Stutson, I have sent a Box address'd to you, containing 150 of each volume, in Sheets, which I request you would, according to your wonted Goodness, put in a way of being dispos'd of for the Benefit of my dear Sister. They are sold here, bound in marbled Paper at 1 S. a Volume; but I should suppose it best, if it may be done, to sell the whole to some Stationer, at once, unbound as they are; in which case I imagine that half a Dollar a Quire may be thought a reasonable Price, allowing usual Credit if necessary. My Love to your Family, & believe me ever, Your affectionate Uncle B. FRANKLIN. JONA. WILLIAMS, ESQ. Franklin's reference to the Philadelphia manner of binding toy-books in marbled paper indicates that this home-made product was already displacing the attractive imported gilt embossed and parti-colored covers used by Thomas, who seems never to have adopted this ugly dress for his juvenile publications. As the demand for his wares increased, Thomas set up other volumes from Newbery's stock, until by seventeen hundred and eighty-seven he had reproduced practically every item for his increasing trade. It was his custom to include in many of these books a Catalogue of the various tales for sale, and in "The Picture Exhibition" we find a list of fifty-two stories to be sold for prices varying from six pence to a shilling and a half. These books may be divided into several classes, all imitations of the English adult literature then in vogue. The alphabets and primers, such as the "Little Lottery Book," "Christmas Box," and "Tom Thumb's Play-thing," are outside the limits of the present subject, since they were written primarily to instruct; and while it is often difficult to draw the line where amusement begins and instruction sinks to the background, the title-pages can usually be taken as evidence at least of the author's intention. These other books, however, fall naturally under the heads of jest and puzzle books, nature stories, fables, rhymes, novels, and stories--all prototypes of the nursery literature of to-day. The jest and joke books published by Thomas numbered, as far as is known to the writer, only five. Their titles seem to offer a feast of fun unfulfilled by the contents. "Be Merry & Wise, or the Cream of the Jests and the Marrow of Maxims," by Tommy Trapwit, contained concentrated extracts of wisdom, and jokes such as were current among adults. The children for whom they were meant were accustomed to nothing more facetious than the following jest: "An arch wag said, _Taylors_ were like _Woodcocks_ for they got their substance by their long bills." Perhaps they understood also the point in this: "A certain lord had a termagant wife, and at the same time a chaplain that was a tolerable poet, whom his lordship desired to write a copy of verses upon a shrew. I can't imagine, said the chaplain, why your lordship should want a copy, who has so good an original." Other witticisms are not quotable. [Illustration: _A page from a Catalogue of Children's Books printed by Isaiah Thomas_] Conundrums played their part in the eighteenth century juvenile life, much as they do to-day. These were to be found in "A Bag of Nuts ready Cracked," and "The Big and Little Puzzling Caps." "Food for the Mind" was the solemn title of another riddle-book, whose conundrums are very serious matters. Riddle XIV of the "Puzzling Cap" is typical of its rather dreary contents: "There was a man bespoke a thing, Which when the maker home did bring, This same maker did refuse it; He who bespoke it did not use it And he who had it did not know Whether he had it, yea or no." This was a nut also "ready cracked" by the answer reproduced in the illustration. Nature stories were attempted under the titles of "The Natural History of Four Footed Beasts," "Jacky Dandy's Delight; or the History of Birds and Beasts in Verse and Prose," "Mr. Telltruth's Natural History of Birds," and "Tommy Trip's History of Beasts and Birds." All these were written after Oliver Goldsmith's "Animated Nature" had won its way into great popularity. As a consequence of the favorable impression this book had made, Goldsmith is supposed to have been asked by Newbery to try his hand upon a juvenile natural history. Possibly it was as a result of Newbery's request that we have the anonymous "Jacky Dandy's Delight" and "Tommy Trip's History of Beasts and Birds." The former appears to be a good example of Goldsmith's facility for amusing himself when doing hack-work for Newbery. How like Goldsmith's manner is this description of a monkey: "The monkey mischievous Like a naughty boy looks; Who plagues all his friends, And regards not his books. "He is an active, pert, busy animal, who mimicks human actions so well that some think him rational. The Indians say, he can speak if he pleases, but will not lest he should be set to work. Herein he resembles those naughty little boys who will not learn A, lest they should be obliged to learn B, too. He is a native of warm countries, and a useless beast in this part of the world; so I shall leave him to speak of another that is more bulky, and comes from cold countries: I mean the Bear." To poke fun in an offhand manner at little boys and girls seemed to have been the only conception of humor to be found in the children's books of the period, if we except the "Jests" and the attempts made in a ponderous manner on the title-pages. The title of "The Picture Exhibition; containing the Original Drawings of Eighteen Disciples.... Published under the Inspection of Mr. Peter Paul Rubens,..." is evidently one of Newbery's efforts to be facetious. To the author, the pretence that the pictures were by "Disciples of Peter Paul Rubens" evidently conveyed the same idea of wit that "Punch" has at times represented to others of a later century. Fables have always been a mine of interest to young folks, and were interspersed liberally with all moral tales, but "Entertaining Fables" bears upon its title-page a suggestion that the children's old friend, "Aesop," appeared in a new dress. Another series of books contained the much abridged novels written for the older people. "Peregrine Pickle" and "Roderick Random" were both reprinted by Isaiah Thomas as early as seventeen hundred and eighty-eight. These tales of adventure seem to have had their small reflections in such stories as "The Adventures of a Pincushion," and "The Adventures of a Peg-top," by Dorothy Kilner, an Englishwoman. Mention has already been made of "Pamela" and "Clarissa" in condensed form. These were books of over two hundred pages; but most of the toy-books were limited to less than one hundred. A remarkable instance of the pith of a long plot put into small compass was "The History of Tom Jones." A dog-eared copy of such an edition of "Tom Jones" is still in existence. Its flowery Dutch binding covers only thirty-one pages, four inches long, with a frontispiece and five wood-cut illustrations. In so small a space no detailed account of the life of the hero is to be expected; nevertheless, the first paragraph introduces Tom as no ordinary foundling. Mr. Allworthy finds the infant in his bed one evening and rings up his housekeeper Mrs. Deborah Wilkins. "She being a strict observer of decency was exceedingly alarmed, on entering her master's room, to find him undressed, but more so on his presenting her with the child, which he ordered immediately to be taken care of." The story proceeds--with little punctuation to enable the reader to take breath--to tell how the infant is named, and how Mr. Allworthy's nephew, Master Bilfil, is also brought under that generous and respectable gentleman's protection. Tommy turned out "good," as Mr. Allworthy had hoped when he assumed charge of him; and therefore eventually inherited riches and gained the hand of Miss Sophia Western, with whom he rode about the country in their "Coach and Six." Of the stories in this juvenile library, the names, at least, of "Giles Gingerbread," "Little King Pippin," and "Goody Two-Shoes" have been handed down through various generations. One hundred years ago every child knew that "Little King Pippin" attained his glorious end by attention to his books in the beginning of his career; that "Giles Gingerbread" first learned his alphabet from gingerbread letters, and later obtained the patronage of a fine gentleman by spelling "apple-pye" correctly. Thus did his digestion prove of material assistance in mental gymnastics. [Illustration: _Illustration of Riddle XIV in "The Puzzling-Cap"_] But the nursery favorite was undoubtedly "Margery, or Little Goody Two-Shoes." She was introduced to the reader in her "state of rags and care," from which she gradually emerged in the chapters entitled, "How and about Little Margery and her Brother;" "How Little Margery obtained the name of Goody Two-Shoes;" "How she became a Tutoress" to the farmers' families in which she taught spelling by a game; and how they all sang the "Cuz's Chorus" in the intervals between the spelling lesson and the composition of sentences like this: "I pray God to bless the whole country, and all our friends and all our enemies." Like the usual heroine of eighteenth century fiction, she married a title, and as Lady Jones was the Lady Bountiful of the district. From these tales it is clear that piety as the chief end of the story-book child has been succeeded by learning as the desideratum; yet morality is still pushed into evidence, and the American mother undoubtedly translated the ethical sign-boards along the progress of the tale into Biblical admonitions. All the books were didactic in the extreme. A series of four, called "The Mother's," "Father's," "Sister's," and "Brother's Gifts," is a good example of this didactic method of story-telling. "The Father's Gift" has lessons in spelling preceded by these lines: "Let me not join with those in Play, Who fibs and stories tell, I with my Book will spend the Day, And not with such Boys dwell. For one rude Boy will spoil a score As I have oft been told; And one bad sheep, in Time, is sure To injure all the Fold." "The Mother's Gift" was confined largely to the same instructive field, but had one or two stories which conformed to the sentiment of the author of "The Adventures of a Pincushion," who stated her motive to be "That of providing the young reader with a few pages which should be innocent of corrupting if they did not amuse." "The Brother's" and "Sister's Gifts," however, adopt a different plan of instruction. In "The Brother's Gift" we find a brother solicitous concerning his sister's education: "Miss Kitty Bland was apt, forward and headstrong; and had it not been for the care of her brother, Billy, would have probably witnessed all the disadvantages of a modern education"! Upon Kitty's return from boarding-school, "she could neither read, nor sew, nor write grammatically, dancing stiff and awkward, her musick inelegant, and everything she did bordered strongly on affectation." Here was a large field for reformation for Billy to effect. He had no doubts as to what method to pursue. She was desired to make him twelve shirts, and when the first one was presented to him, "he was astonished to find her lacking in so useful a female accomplishment." Exemplary conversation produced such results that the rest of the garments were satisfactory to the critical Billy, who, "as a mark of approbation made her a present of a fine pair of stays." "The Sister's Gift" presents an opposite picture. In this case it is Master Courtley who, a "youth of Folly and Idleness," received large doses of advice from his sister. This counsel was so efficient with Billy's sensitive nature that before the story ends, "he wept bitterly, and declared to his sister that she had painted the enormity of his vices in such striking colors, that they shocked him in the greatest degree; and promised ever after to be as remarkable for generosity, compassion and every other virtue as he had hitherto been for cruelty, forwardness and ill-nature." Virtue in this instance was its own reward, as Billy received no gift in recognition of his changed habits. To the modern lover of children such tales seem strangely ill-suited to the childish mind, losing, as they do, all tenderness in the effort of the authors (so often confided to parents in the preface) "to express their sentiments with propriety." Such criticism of the style and matter of these early attempts to write for little people was probably not made by either infant or adult readers of that old-time public. The children read what was placed before them as intellectual food, plain and sweetened, as unconcernedly as they ate the food upon their plates at meal-time. That their own language was the formal one of the period is shown by such letters as the following one from Mary Wilder, who had just read "The Mother's Gift:" Lancaster, October 9th, 1789. HOND. MADM: Your goodness to me I cannot express. My mind is continually crowded with your kindness. If your goodness could be rewarded, I hope God will repay you. If you remember, some time ago I read a story in "The Mother's Gift," but I hope I shall never resemble Miss Gonson. O Dear! What a thing it is to disobey one's parents. I have one of the best Masters. He gave me a sheet of paper this morning. I hope Uncle Flagg will come up. I am quite tired of looking for Betsy, but I hope she will come. When school is done keeping, I shall come to Sudbury. What a fine book Mrs. Chapone's Letters is: My time grows short and I must make my letter short. Your dutiful daughter, P.W. Nursery rhymes and jingles of these present days have all descended from song-books of the eighteenth century, entitled "Little Robin Red Breast," "A Poetical Description of Song Birds," "Tommy Thumb's Song-Book," and the famous "Melodies of Mother Goose," whose name is happily not yet relegated to the days of long ago. Two extracts from the "Poetical Description of Song Birds" will be sufficient to show how foreign to the birds familiar to American children were the descriptions: THE BULLFINCH This lovely bird is charming to the sight: The back is glossy blue, the belly white, A jetty black shines on his neck and head; His breast is flaming with a beauteous red. THE TWITE Green like the Linnet it appears to sight, And like the Linnet sings from morn till night. A reddish spot upon his rump is seen, Short is his bill, his feathers always clean: When other singing birds are dull or nice, To sing again the merry Twites entice. Reflections of the prevailing taste of grown people for biography are suggested in three little books, of two of which the author was Mrs. Pilkington, who had already written several successful stories for young ladies. Her "Biography for Girls" contains various novelettes, in each of which the heroine lives the conventional life and dies the conventional death of the period, and receives a laudatory epitaph. They are remarkable only as being devoid of any interest. Her "Biography for Boys" does not appear to have attained the same popularity as that for girls. A third book, "The Juvenile Biographers," containing the "Lives of Little Masters and Misses," is representative of the changes made in many books by the printer to cater to that pride in the young Republic so manifest in all local literary productions. In one biography we note a Representative to the Massachusetts Assembly: "As Master Sammy had always been a very sober and careful child, and very attentive to his Books, it is no wonder that he proved, in the End, to be an excellent Scholar. "Accordingly, when he had reached the age of fourteen, Mr. William Goodall, a wealthy merchant in the city of Boston, took him into his counting house, in order to bring him up in the merchantile Way, and thereby make his Fortune. "This was a sad Stroke to his poor Sister Nancy, who having lost both her Papa and Mama, was now likely to lose her Brother likewise; but Sammy did all he could to appease her, and assured her, that he would spend all his leisure Time with her. This he most punctually performed, and never were Brother and Sister as happy in each other's company as they were. "Mr. William Goodall was highly satisfied with Sammy's Behaviour, and dying much about the Time that Miss Nancy was married to the Gentleman, he left all his business to Sammy, together with a large Capital to carry it on. So much is Mr. Careful esteemed (for we must now no longer call him Master Sammy) that he was chosen in the late General Election, Representative in the General Court, for one of the first Towns in New England, without the least expense to himself. We here see what are the Effects of Good Behaviour." This adaptation of the English tale to the surroundings of the American child is often found in Thomas's reprints, and naturally, owing to his enthusiasm over the recent change in the form of government, is made wholly by political references. Therefore while the lark and the linnet still sang in songs and the cowslips were scattered throughout the nature descriptions, Master Friendly no longer rode in the Lord Mayor's coach, but was seated as a Congressman in a sedan chair, "and he looked--he looked--I do not know what he looked like, but everybody was in love with him." The engraver as well as the biographer of the recently made Representative was evidently at a loss as to his appearance, as the four dots indicating the young gentleman's features give but a blank look perhaps intended to denote amazement at his election. The illustrations of Thomas's toy reprints should not be overlooked. The Worcester printer seems to have rewritten the "Introduction" to "Goody Two-Shoes," and at the end he affixed a "Letter from the Printer which he desires may be inserted. SIR: I have come with your copy, and so you may return it to the Vatican, if you please; and pray tell Mr. Angelo to brush up his cuts; that in the next edition they may give us a good impression." This apology for the character of the illustrations serves as an introduction to a most interesting subject of conjecture as to the making of the cuts, and particularly as to the engraving of the frontispiece in "Goody Two-Shoes." [Illustration: _Goody Twoshoes._] It will be remembered that Isaiah Thomas in his advertisement to booksellers had expressly mentioned the great expense he had incurred in bringing out the juvenile books in "the English method." But Mr. Edwin Pearson, in his delightful discussion of "Banbury Chap-Books," has also stated that the wood-cut frontispiece in the first American edition of "Goody Two-Shoes," printed by Thomas, was engraved by Bewick, the famous English illustrator. A comparison of the reproduction of the Bewick engraving in Mr. Pearson's book with the frontispiece in Thomas's edition shows so much difference that it is a matter of regret that Mr. Pearson withheld his authority for attributing to Bewick the representation of Margery Two-Shoes. Besides the inference from Thomas's letter that the poor cuts would be improved before another edition should be printed, there are several points to be observed in comparing the cuts. In the first place, the execution in the Thomas cut suggests a different hand in the use of the tools; again, the reversed position of the figure of "Goody" indicates a copy of the English original. Also the expression of Thomas's heroine, although slightly mincing, is less distressed than the British dame's, to say nothing of the variation in the fashion of the gowns. And such details as the replacing of the English landscape by the spire of a meeting-house in the distance seem to confirm the impression that the drawing was made after, but not by Bewick. In the cuts scattered throughout the text the same difference in execution and portrayal of the little schoolmistress is noticeable. Margery, upon her rounds to teach the farmers' children to spell such words as "plumb-pudding" "(and who can suppose a better?)," presents her full face in the Newbery edition, and but a three-quarter view to her American admirers. These facts, together with the knowledge that Isaiah Thomas was a fair engraver himself, make it possible that his apology for the first impression of the tiny classic was for his own engraving, which he thought to better. Thomas not only copied and pirated Newbery's juvenile histories, but he adopted his method of advertising by insertions in the text of these tales. For example, in "The Travels of Robinson Crusoe, Written by Himself," the little reader was told, "If you learn this Book well and are good, you can buy a larger and more complete History of Mr. Crusoe at your friend the Bookseller's in Worcester near the Court House." In "The Mother's Gift," there is described well-brought-up Miss Nugent displaying to ill-bred Miss Jones, "a pretty large collection of books neatly bound and nicely kept," all to be had of Mr. Thomas; and again Mr. Careful, in "Virtue and Vice," "presented at Christmas time to the sons and daughters of his friends, little Gilt Books to read, such as are sold at Mr. Thomas' near the Court House in Worcester." Thomas and his son continued to send out these toy-books until their gay bindings faded away before the novelty of the printed paper covers of the nineteenth century. FOOTNOTES: [92-A] Tyler, _Literary History of the American Revolution_, vol. i, p. 485. [94-A] _Life of Josiah Quincy_, p. 27. Boston, 1866. [94-B] Earle, _Child Life in Colonial Days_, p. 171. [98-A] Tyler, _Literature of the American Revolution_, vol. ii, p. 182. [98-B] _Ibid._, p. 156. CHAPTER V 1790-1800 By Washington Great deeds were done. _The New England Primer_, New York, 1794 Line after line their wisdom flows Page after page repeating. T.G. HAKE CHAPTER V 1790-1800 _The Child and his Book at the End of the Century_ Any attempt to trace the slow development of the American child's story of the nineteenth century must inevitably be made through the school-books written during the previous one. Before this, English books had been adapted to the American trade. But now the continued interest in education produced text-books pervaded with the American spirit. They cannot, therefore, be ignored as sporadically in the springtime of the young Republic, they, like crocuses, thrust forward in the different states their blue and yellow covers. Next to clergymen, schoolmasters received the veneration of the people, for learning and godliness went hand in hand. It was the schoolmaster who reinforced the efforts of the parents to make good Americans of the young folks, by compiling text-books which outsold the English ones hitherto used. In the new editions of the old "New England Primer," laudatory verse about General Washington replaced the alphabet rhyme: "Whales in the Sea God's Voice obey." Proud parents thereafter heard their infants lisp: "By Washington Great deeds were done." For older pupils Noah Webster's speller almost superseded Dilworth's, and his "Little Readers' Assistant" became the First Reader of many children. Webster as schoolmaster in a country district prepared this book for his own scholars. It was printed in Hartford in seventeen hundred and ninety, and contained a list of subjects suitable for farmers' children: I. A number of Stories mostly taken from the history of America, and adorned with Cuts. II. Rudiments of English Grammar. III. The Federal Catechism, being a short and easy explanation of the Constitution of the United States. IV. General principles of Government and Commerce. V. Farmers' Catechism containing plain rules of husbandry. Bennington, Vermont, contributed in "The Little Scholar's Pretty Pocket Companion in Rhyme and Verse," this indirect allusion to political affairs: "'Twas a toy of royalty, of late almost forgot, 'Tis said she represented France On English Monarchies arms, But lately broke his chains by chance And widely spread alarms." But the most naïve attempt to inculcate patriotism together with a lesson in obedience is found in "The Child's Instructor," published about seventeen hundred and ninety-one, and written by a Philadelphian. Philadelphia had become the residence of the President--a fact that may account for one of the stories in this book about an infant prodigy called Billy. "The child at five years of age was always good and obedient, and prone to make such a remark as, 'If you would be wise you must always attend to your vowels and consonants.' When General Washington came to town Billy's mama asked him to say a speech to the ladies, and he began, 'Americans! place constantly before your eyes, the deplorable scenes of your servitude, and the enchanting picture of your deliverance. Begin with the infant in his cradle; let the first word he lisps be _Washington_.' The ladies were all delighted to hear Billy speak so well. One said he should be a lawyer, and another said he should be President of the United States. But Billy said he could not be either unless his mama gave him leave."[123-A] Another Philadelphian attempted to embody political sentiment in "A Tale--The Political Balance; or, The Fate of Britain and America Compared." This juvenile has long since disappeared, but it was advertised by its printer, Francis Bailey, in seventeen hundred and ninety-two, together with "The History of the Little Boy found under a Haycock," and several other books for children. One year later a "History of the American Revolution" for children was also printed in Philadelphia for the generation who had been born since the war had ended. This was written in the Biblical phraseology introduced and made popular by Franklin in his famous "Parable against Persecution." This enthusiasm over the results of the late war and scorn for the defeated English sometimes indeed cropped out in the Newbery reprints. An edition (1796) of "Goody Two-Shoes" contains this footnote in reference to the tyranny of the English landlord over Goody's father: _"Such is the state of things in Britain. AMERICANS prize your liberty, guard your rights and be happy._"[123-B] In this last decade of the century that had made a nation of the colonial commonwealths, the prosperity of the country enabled more printers to pirate the generally approved Newbery library. Samuel Hall in Boston, with a shop near the court-house, printed them all, using at times the dainty covers of flowery Dutch or gilt paper, and again another style of binding occasionally used in England. "The Death and Burial of Cock Robin," for instance, has a quaint red and gilt cover, which according to Mr. Charles Welsh was made by stamping paper with dies originally used for printing old German playing-cards. He says: "To find such a cover can only be accounted for by the innocence of the purchasers as to the appearance of his Satanic Majesty's picture cards and hence [they] did not recognize them." In one corner of the book cover is impressed the single word "Münch," which stamps this paper as "made in Germany." Hall himself was probably as ignorant of the original purpose of the picture as the unsuspecting purchaser, who would cheerfully have burned it rather than see such an instrument of the Devil in the hands of its owner, little Sally Barnes. [Illustration: Frontispiece. Sr. Walter Raleigh and his man.] Of Samuel Hall's reprints from the popular English publications, "Little Truths" was in all probability one of the most salable. So few books contained any information about America that one of these two volumes may be regarded as of particular interest to the young generation of his time. The author of "Little Truths," William Darton, a Quaker publisher in London, does not divulge from what source he gleaned his knowledge. His information concerning Americans is of that misty description that confuses Indians ("native Americans") with people of Spanish and English descent. The usual "Introduction" states that "The author has chose a method after the manner of conversations between children and their instructor," and the dialogue is indicated by printing the children's observations in italics. These volumes were issued for twenty years after they were introduced by Hall, and those of an eighteen hundred Philadelphia edition are bound separately. Number one is in blue paper with copper-plate pictures on both covers. This volume gives information regarding farm produce, live-stock, and about birds quite unfamiliar to American children. But the second volume, in white covers, introduces the story of Sir Walter Raleigh and his pipe-smoking incident, made very realistic in the copper-plate frontispiece. The children's question, "_Did Sir Walter Raleigh find out the virtues of tobacco?_" affords an excellent opportunity for a discourse upon smoking and snuff-taking. These remarks conclude with this prosaic statement: "Hundreds of sensible people have fell into these customs from example; and, when they would have left them off, found it a very great difficulty." Next comes a lesson upon the growth of tobacco leading up to a short account of the slave-trade, already a subject of differing opinion in the United States, as well as in England. Of further interest to small Americans was a short tale of the discovery of this country. Perhaps to most children their first book-knowledge of this event came from the pages of "Little Truths." Hall's books were not all so proper for the amusement of young folks. A perusal of "Capt. Gulliver's Adventures" leaves one in no doubt as to the reason that so many of the old-fashioned mothers preferred to keep such tales out of children's hands, and to read over and over again the adventures of the Pilgrim, Christian. Mrs. Eliza Drinker of Philadelphia in seventeen hundred and ninety-six was re-reading for the third time "Pilgrim's Progress," which she considered a "generally approved book," although then "ridiculed by many." The "Legacy to Children" Mrs. Drinker also read aloud to her grandchildren, having herself "wept over it between fifty and sixty years ago, as did my grandchildren when it was read to them. She, Hannah Hill, died in 1714, and ye book was printed in 1714 by Andrew Bradford." But Mrs. Drinker's grandchildren had another book very different from the pious sayings of the dying Hannah. This contained "64 little stories and as many pictures drawn and written by Nancy Skyrin," the mother of some of the children. P. Widdows had bound the stories in gilt paper, and it was so prized by the family that the grandmother thought the fact of the recovery of the book, after it was supposed to have been irretrievably lost, worthy of an entry in her journal. Careful inquiry among the descendants of Mrs. Drinker has led to the belief that these stories were read out of existence many years ago. What they were about can only be imagined. Perhaps they were incidents in the lives of the same children who cried over the pathetic morbidity of Hannah's dying words; or possibly rhymes and verses about school and play hours of little Philadelphians; with pictures showing bait-the-bear, trap-ball, and other sports of days long since passed away, as well as "I Spie Hi" and marbles, familiar still to boys and girls. [Illustration: _Foot Ball_] From the fact that these stories were written for the author's own children, another book, composed less than a century before, is brought to mind. Comparison of even the meagre description of Mrs. Skyrin's book with Cotton Mather's professed purpose in "Good Lessons" shows the stride made in children's literature to be a long one. Yet a quarter of a century was still to run before any other original writing was done in America for children's benefit. Nobody else in America, indeed, seems to have considered the question of writing for nursery inmates. Mrs. Barbauld's "Easy Lessons for Children from Two to Five Years old," written for English children, were considered perfectly adapted to gaining knowledge and perhaps amusement. It is true that when Benjamin Bache of Philadelphia issued "Easy Lessons," he added this note: "Some alterations were thought necessary to be made in this ... American edition, to make it agree with the original design of rendering instruction easy and useful.... The climate and the familiar objects of this country suggested these alterations." Except for the substitution of such words as "Wheat" for "Corn," the intentions of the editor seem hardly to have had result, except by way of advertisement; and are of interest merely because they represent one step further in the direction of Americanizing the story-book literature. All Mrs. Barbauld's books were considered excellent for young children. As a "Dissenter," she gained in the esteem of the people of the northern states, and her books were imported as well as reprinted here. Perhaps she was best known to our grandparents as the joint author, with Dr. Aikin, of "Evenings at Home," and of "Hymns in Prose and Verse." Both were read extensively for fifty years. The "Hymns" had an enormous circulation, and were often full of fine rhythm and undeserving of the entire neglect into which they have fallen. Of course, as the fashion changed in the "approved" type of story, Mrs. Barbauld suffered criticism. "Mrs. and Miss Edgeworth in their 'Practical Education' insisted that evil lurked behind the phrase in 'Easy Lessons,' 'Charles wants his dinner' because of the implication 'that Charles must have whatever he desires,' and to say 'the sun has gone to bed,' is to incur the odium of telling the child a falsehood."[128-A] But the manner in which these critics of Mrs. Barbauld thought they had improved upon her method of story-telling is a tale belonging to another chapter. When Miss Edgeworth's wave of popularity reached this country Mrs. Barbauld's ideas still flourished as very acceptable to parents. A contemporary and rival writer for the English nursery was Mrs. Sarah Trimmer. Her works for little children were also credited with much information they did not give. After the publication of Mrs. Barbauld's "Easy Lessons" (which was the result of her own teaching of an adopted child), Mrs. Trimmer's friends urged her to make a like use of the lessons given to her family of six, and accordingly she published in seventeen hundred and seventy-eight an "Easy Introduction into the Knowledge of Nature," and followed it some years after its initial success by "Fabulous Histories," afterwards known as the "History of the Robins." Although Mrs. Trimmer represents more nearly than Mrs. Barbauld the religious emotionalism pervading Sunday-school libraries,--in which she was deeply interested,--the work of both these ladies exemplifies the transitional stage to that Labor-in-Play school of writing which was to invade the American nursery in the next century when Parley and Abbott throve upon the proceeds of the educational narrative. Defoe's "Robinson Crusoe" and Thomas Day's "Sanford and Merton" occupied the place in the estimation of boys that the doings of Mrs. Barbauld's and Mrs. Trimmer's works held in the opinion of the younger members of the nursery. Edition followed upon edition of the adventures of the famous island hero. In Philadelphia, in seventeen hundred and ninety-three, William Young issued what purported to be the sixth edition. In New York many thousands of copies were sold, and in eighteen hundred and twenty-four we find a Spanish translation attesting its widespread favor. In seventeen hundred and ninety-four, Isaiah Thomas placed the surprising adventures of the mariner as on the "Coast of America, lying near the mouth of the great river Oroonoque." Parents also thought very highly of Thomas Day's "Children's Miscellany" and "Sanford and Merton." To read this last book is to believe it to be possibly in the style that Dr. Samuel Johnson had in mind when he remarked to Mrs. Piozzi that "the parents buy the books but the children never read them." Yet the testimony of publishers of the past is that "Sanford and Merton" had a large and continuous sale for many years. "'Sanford and Merton,'" writes Mr. Julian Hawthorne, "ran 'Robinson Crusoe' harder than any other work of the eighteenth century particularly written for children." "The work," he adds, "is quaint and interesting rather to the historian than to the general, especially the child, reader. Children would hardly appreciate so amazingly ancient a form of conversation as that which resulted from Tommy [the bad boy of the story] losing a ball and ordering a ragged boy to pick it up: "'Bring my ball directly!' "'I don't choose it,' said the boy. "'Sirrah,' cried Tommy, 'if I come to you I will make you choose it.' "'Perhaps not, my pretty master,' said the boy. "'You little rascal,' said Tommy, who now began to be very angry, 'if I come over the hedge I will thrash you within an inch of your life.'" The gist of Tommy's threat has often been couched in modern language by grandsons of the boys from whom the Socratic Mr. Day wrote to expose the evils of too luxurious an education. His method of compilation of facts to be taught may best be given in the words of his Preface: "All who have been conversant in the education of very young children, have complained of the total want of proper books to be put in their hands, while they are taught the elements of reading.... The least exceptional passages of books that I could find for the purpose were 'Plutarch's Lives' and Xenophon's 'History of the Institution of Cyrus,' in English translation; with some part of 'Robinson Crusoe,' and a few passages from Mr. Brooke's 'Fool of Quality.' ... I therefore resolved ... not only to collect all such stories as I thought adapted to the faculties of children, but to connect these by continued narration.... As to the histories themselves, I have used the most unbounded licence.... As to the language, I have endeavored to throw into it a greater degree of elegance and ornament than is usually to be met with in such compositions; preserving at the same time a sufficient degree of simplicity to make it intelligible to very young children, and rather choosing to be diffuse than obscure." With these objects in mind, we can understand small Tommy's embellishment of his demand for the return of his ball by addressing the ragged urchin as "Sirrah." Mr. Day's "Children's Miscellany" contained a number of stories, of which one, "The History of Little Jack," about a lost child who was adopted by a goat, was popular enough to be afterwards published separately. It is a debatable question as to whether the parents or the children figuring in this "Miscellany" were the more artificial. "Proud and unfeeling girl," says one tender mother to her little daughter who had bestowed half her pin money upon a poor family,--"proud and unfeeling girl, to prefer vain and trifling ornaments to the delight of relieving the sick and miserable! Retire from my presence! Take away with you trinket and nosegay, and receive from them all the comforts they are able to bestow!" Why Mr. Day's stories met with such unqualified praise at the time they were published, this example of canting rubbish does not reveal. In real life parents certainly did retain some of their substance for their own pleasure; why, therefore, discipline a child for following the same inclination? In contrast to Mr. Day's method, Mrs. Barbauld's plan of simple conversation in words of one, two, and three syllables seems modern. Both aimed to afford pleasure to children "learning the elements of reading." Where Mrs. Barbauld probably judged truly the capacity of young children in the dialogues with the little Charles of "Easy Lessons," Mr. Day loaded his gun with flowers of rhetoric and overshot infant comprehension. Nevertheless, in spite of the criticism that has waylaid and torn to tatters Thomas Day's efforts to provide a suitable and edifying variety of stories, his method still stands for the distinct secularization of children's literature of amusement. Moreover, as Mr. Montrose J. Moses writes in his delightful study of "Children's Books and Reading," "he foreshadowed the method of retelling incidents from the classics and from standard history and travel,--a form which is practised to a great extent by our present writers, who thread diverse materials on a slender wire of subsidiary story, and who, like Butterworth and Knox, invent untiring families of travellers who go to foreign parts, who see things, and then talk out loud about them." Besides tales by English authors, there was a French woman, Madame de Genlis, whose books many educated people regarded as particularly suitable for their daughters, both in the original text and in the English translations. In Aaron Burr's letters we find references to his interest in the progress made by his little daughter, Theodosia, in her studies. His zeal in searching for helpful books was typical of the care many others took to place the best literature within their children's reach. From Theodosia's own letters to her father we learn that she was a studious child, who wrote and ciphered from five to eight every morning and during the same hours every evening. To improve her French, Mr. Burr took pains to find reading-matter when his law practice necessitated frequent absence from home. Thus from West Chester, in seventeen hundred and ninety-six, when Theodosia was nine years old, he wrote: I rose up suddenly from the sofa and rubbing my head--"What book shall I buy for her?" said I to myself. "She reads so much and so rapidly that it is not easy to find proper and amusing French books for her; and yet I am so flattered with her progress in that language, that I am resolved that she shall, at all events, be gratified." So ... I took my hat and sallied out. It was not my first attempt. I went into one bookseller's after another. I found plenty of fairy tales and such nonsense, for the generality of children of nine or ten years old. "These," said I, "will never do. Her understanding begins to be above such things." ... I began to be discouraged. "But I will search a little longer." I persevered. At last I found it. I found the very thing I sought. It is contained in two volumes, octavo, handsomely bound, and with prints and reprints. It is a work of fancy but replete with instruction and amusement. I must present it with my own hand. Yr. affectionate A. BURR. What speculation there must have been in the Burr family as to the name of the gift, and what joy when Mr. Burr presented the two volumes upon his return! From a letter written later by Mr. Burr to his wife, it appears that he afterward found reason to regret his purchase, which seems to have been Madame de Genlis's famous "Annales." "Your account," he wrote, "of Madame Genlis surprises me, and is new evidence of the necessity of reading books before we put them in the hands of children." Opinion differed, of course, concerning the French lady's books. In New York, in Miss Dodsworth's most genteel and fashionable school, a play written from "The Dove" by Madame de Genlis was acted with the same zest by little girls of ten and twelve years of age as they showed in another play taken from "The Search after Happiness," a drama by the Quakeress and religious writer, Hannah More. These plays were given at the end of school terms by fond parents with that appreciation of the histrionic ability of their daughters still to be seen on such occasions. No such objection as Mrs. Burr made to this lady's "Annales" was possible in regard to another French book, by Berquin. Entitled "Ami des Enfans," it received under the Rev. Mr. Cooper's translation the name "The Looking Glass for the Mind." This collection of tales supposedly mirrored the frailties and virtues of rich and poor children. It was often bound in full calf, and an edition of seventeen hundred and ninety-four contains a better engraved frontispiece than it was customary to place in juvenile publications. For half a century it was to be found in the shop of all booksellers, and had its place in the library of every family of means. There are still those among us who have not forgotten the impression produced upon their infant minds by certain of the tales. Some remember the cruel child and the canary. Others recollect their admiration of the little maid who, when all others deserted her young patroness, lying ill with the smallpox, won the undying gratitude of the mother by her tender nursing. The author, blind himself to the possibilities of detriment to the sick child by unskilled care, held up to the view of all, this example of devotion of one girl in contrast to the hard-heartedness of many others. This book seems also to have been called by the literal translation of its original title, "Ami des Enfans;" for in an account of the occupations of one summer Sunday in seventeen hundred and ninety-seven, Julia Cowles, living in Litchfield, Connecticut, wrote: "Attended meeting all day long, but do not recollect the text. Read in 'The Children's Friend.'" Many children would not have been permitted to read so nearly secular a book; but evidently Julia Cowles's parents were liberal in their view of Sunday reading after the family had attended "meeting all day long." In addition to the interest of the context of these toy-books of a past generation, one who handles such relics of a century ago sees much of the fashions for children of that day. In "The Looking Glass," for instance, the illustrations copied from engravings by the famous English artist, Bewick, show that at the end of the eighteenth century children were still clothed like their elders; the coats and waistcoats, knee breeches and hats, of boys were patterned after gentlemen's garments, and the caps and aprons, kerchiefs and gowns, for girls were reproductions of the mothers' wardrobes. Again, the fly-leaf of "The History of Master Jacky and Miss Harriot" arrests the eye by its quaint inscription: "Rozella Ford's Book. For being the second speller in the second class." At once the imagination calls up the exercises in a village school at the end of a year's session: a row of prim little maids and sturdy boys, standing before the school dame and by turn spelling in shrill tones words of three to five syllables, until only two, Rozella and a better speller, remain unconfused by Dilworth's and Webster's word mysteries. Then the two children step forward with bow and curtsey to receive their tiny gilt prizes from a pile of duodecimos upon the teacher's desk. Indeed, the giving of rewards was carried to such an extent as to become a great drain upon the meagre stipend of the teacher. Thus when in copper-plate handwriting we find in another six-penny volume the inscription: "Benjamin H. Bailey, from one he esteems and loves, Mr. Hapgood," we read between its lines the self-denial practised by Mr. Hapgood, who possibly received, like many other teachers, but seventy-five cents a week besides his board and lodging. Other books afford a glimpse of children's life: the formal every-day routine, the plays they enjoyed, and their demonstration of a sensibility as keen as was then in fashion for adults. The "History of a Doll," lying upon the writer's table, is among the best in this respect. It was evidently much read by its owner and fairly "loved to pieces." When it reached this disintegrated stage, a careful mother, or aunt, sewed it with coarse flax thread inside a home-made cover of bright blue wall-paper. Although the "History of the Pedigree and Rise of the Pretty Doll" bears no date, its companion story in the wall-paper wrapper has the imprint seventeen hundred and ninety-one, and this, together with the press-work, places it as belonging to the eighteenth century. It offers to the reader a charming insight into the formality of many an old-fashioned family: the deportment stiff with the starched customs of that day, the seriousness of their fun, and the sensibility among little maidens akin to that exhibited in the heroines of fiction created by Richardson and Fielding. The chapter concerning "The Pedigree of the Doll" treats of finding a branch of a tree by a carver, who was desired by Sir John Amiable to make one of the best dolls in his power for his "pretty little daughter who was as good as she was pretty." The carver accordingly took the branch and began carving out the head, shoulders, body, and legs, which he soon brought to their proper shape. "He then covered it with a fine, flesh-colored enamel and painted its cheeks in the most lively manner. It had the finest black and sparkling eyes that were ever beheld; its cheeks resembled the blushing rose, its neck the lilly, and its lips the coral." The doll is presented, and the next chapter tells of "an assembly of little female gossips in full debate on the clothing of the doll." "Miss Polly having made her papa a vast number of courtesies for it, prevailed on her brother to go round to all the little gossips in the neighborhood, begging their company to tea in the afternoon, in order to consult in what mode the doll should be dressed." The company assembled. "Miss Micklin undertook to make it a fine ruffled laced shift, Miss Mantua to make it a silk sacque and petticoat; and in short, every one contributed, in some measure, to dress out this beautiful creature." "Everything went on with great harmony till they came to the head-dress of the doll; and here they differed so much in opinion, that all their little clappers were going at once.... Luckily, at this instant Mrs. Amiable happened to come in, and soon brought the little gossips to order. The matter in dispute was, whether it should have a high head-dress or whether the hair should come down on the forehead, and the curls flow in natural ringlets on the shoulders. However, after some pretty warm debate, this last mode was adopted, as most proper for a little miss." In chapter third "The doll is named:--Accidents attend the Ceremony." Here we have a picture of a children's party. "The young ladies and gentlemen were entertained with tea and coffee; and when that was over, each was presented with a glass of raisin wine." During the christening ceremony an accident happened to the doll, because Master Tommy, the parson, "in endeavouring to get rid of it before the little gossips were ready to receive it, made a sad blunder.... Miss Polly, with tears in her eyes, snatched up the doll and clasped it to her bosom; while the rest of the little gossips turned all the little masters out of the room, that they might be left to themselves to inquire more privately into what injuries the dear doll had received.... Amidst these alarming considerations Tommy Amiable sent the ladies word, that, if they would permit him and the rest of the young gentlemen to pass the evening among them in the parlour, he would engage to replace the nose of the doll in such a manner that not the appearance of the late accident should be seen." Permission was accordingly granted for a surgical operation upon the nose, but "as to the fracture in one of the doll's legs, it was never certainly known how that was remedied, as the young ladies thought it very indelicate to mention anything about the matter." The misadventures of the doll include its theft by a monkey in the West Indies, and at this interesting point the only available copy of the tale is cut short by the loss of the last four pages. The charm of this book lies largely in the fact that the owner of the doll does not grow up and marry as in almost every other novelette. This difference, of course, prevents the story from being a typical one of its period, but it is, nevertheless, a worthy forerunner of those tales of the nineteenth century in which an effort was made to write about incidents in a child's life, and to avoid the biographical tendency. Before leaving the books of the eighteenth century, one tale must be mentioned because it contains the germ of the idea which has developed into Mr. George's "Junior Republic." It was called "Juvenile Trials for Robbing Orchards, Telling Tales and other Heinous Offenses." "This," said Dr. Aikin--Mrs. Barbauld's brother and collaborator in "Evenings at Home"--"is a very pleasing and ingenious little Work, in which a Court of Justice is supposed to be instituted in a school, composed of the Scholars themselves, for the purpose of trying offenses committed at School." In "Trial the First" Master Tommy Tell-Truth charges Billy Prattle with robbing an orchard. The jury, after hearing Billy express his contrition for his act, brings in a verdict of guilty; but the judge pardons the culprit because of his repentant frame of mind. Miss Delia, the offender in case _Number Two_, does not escape so lightly. Miss Stirling charges her with raising contention and strife among her school-fellows over a piece of angelica, "whereby," say her prosecutors, "one had her favorite cap torn to pieces, and her hair which had been that day nicely dressed, pulled all about her shoulders; another had her sack torn down the middle; a third had a fine flowered apron of her own working, reduced to rags; a fourth was wounded by a pelick, or scratch of her antagonist, and in short, there was hardly one among them who had not some mark to shew of having been concerned in this unfortunate affair." That the good Dr. Aikin approved of the punishment decreed, we are sure. The little prisoner was condemned to pass three days in her room, as just penalty for such "indelicate" behaviour. By the close of the century Miss Edgeworth was beginning to supersede Mrs. Barbauld in England; but in America the taste in juvenile reading was still satisfied with the older writer's little Charles, as the correct model for children's deportment, and with Giles Gingerbread as the exemplary student. The child's lessons had passed from "Be good or you will go to Hell" to "Be good and you will be rich;" or, with the Puritan element still so largely predominant, "Be good and you will go to Heaven." Virtue as an ethical quality had been shown in "Goody Two-Shoes" to bring its reward as surely as vice brought punishment. It is to be doubted if this was altogether wholesome; and it may well be that it was with this idea in mind that Dr. Johnson made his celebrated criticism of the nursery literature in vogue, when he said to Mrs. Piozzi, "Babies do not want to be told about babies; they like to be told of giants and castles, and of somewhat which can stretch and stimulate their little minds."[141-A] The learned Doctor, having himself been brought up on "Jack the Giant Killer" and "The History of Blue Beard," was inclined to scorn Newbery's tales as lacking in imaginative quality. That Dr. Johnson was really interested in stories for the young people of his time is attested by a note written in seventeen hundred and sixty-three on the fly-leaf of a collection of chap-books: "I shall certainly, sometime or other, write a little Story-Book in the style of these. I shall be happy to succeed, for he who pleases children will be remembered by them."[141-B] In America, however, it is doubtful whether any true critical spirit regarding children's books had been reached. Fortunately in England, at the beginning of the next century, there was a man who dared speak his opinion. Mrs. Barbauld and Mrs. Trimmer (who had contributed "Fabulous Histories" to the juvenile library, and for them had shared the approval which greeted Mrs. Barbauld's efforts) were the objects of Charles Lamb's particular detestation. In a letter to Coleridge, written in 1802, he said: "Goody Two Shoes is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery, and the shopman at Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. Barbauld's and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems, must come to a child in the shape of knowledge; and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learned that a horse is an animal and Billy is better than a horse, and such like, instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than of men. Is there no possibility of arresting this force of evil? Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history. Hang them! I mean the cursed Barbauld crew, those blights and blasts of all that is human in man and child."[142-A] To Lamb's extremely sensitive nature, the vanished hand of the literary man of Grub Street could not be replaced by Mrs. Barbauld's wish to instruct by using simple language. It is possible that he did her some injustice. Yet a retrospective glance over the story-book literature evolved since Newbery's juvenile library was produced, shows little that was not poor in quality and untrue to life. Therefore, it is no wonder that Lamb should have cried out against the sore evil which had "beset a child's mind." All the poetry of life, all the imaginative powers of a child, Mrs. Barbauld, Mrs. Trimmer, and Mr. Day ignored; and Newbery in his way, and the old ballads in their way, had appealed to both. In both countries the passion for knowledge resulted in this curious literature of amusement. In England books were written; in America they were reprinted, until a religious revival left in its wake the series of morbid and educational tales which the desire to write original stories for American children produced. FOOTNOTES: [123-A] Miss Hewins, _Atlantic Monthly_, vol. lxi, p. 112. [123-B] Brynberg. Wilmington, 1796. [128-A] Miss Repplier, _Atlantic Monthly_, vol. lvii, p. 509. [141-A] Hill, _Johnsonian Miscellany_, vol. i, p. 157. [141-B] _Ibid._ [142-A] Welsh, _Introduction to Goody Two Shoes_, p. x. CHAPTER VI 1800-1825 Her morals then the Matron read, Studious to teach her Children dear, And they by love or Duty led, With Pleasure read. _A Mother's Remarks_, Philadelphia, 1810 Mama! see what a pretty book At Day's papa has bought, That I may at its pictures look, And by its words be taught. CHAPTER VI 1800-1825 _Toy-Books in the Early Nineteenth Century_ On the 23d of December, 1823, there appeared anonymously in the "Troy (New York) Sentinel," a Christmas ballad entitled "A Visit from St. Nicholas." This rhymed story of Santa Claus and his reindeer, written one year before its publication by Clement Clarke Moore for his own family, marks the appearance of a truly original story in the literature of the American nursery. We have seen the somewhat lugubrious influence of Puritan and Quaker upon the occasional writings for American children; and now comes a story bearing upon its face the features of a Dutchman, as the jolly old gentleman enters nursery lore with his happy errand. Up to this time children of wholly English extraction had probably little association with the Feast of St. Nicholas. The Christmas season had hitherto been regarded as pagan in its origin by people of Puritan or Scotch descent, and was celebrated only as a religious festival by the descendants of the more liberal adherents to the Church of England. The Dutch element in New York, however, still clung to some of their traditions; and the custom of exchanging simple gifts upon Christmas Day had come down to them as a result of a combination of the church legend of the good St. Nicholas, patron of children, and the Scandinavian myth of the fairy gnome, who from his bower in the woods showered good children with gifts.[148-A] But to celebrate the day quietly was altogether a different thing from introducing to the American public the character of Santa Claus, who has become in his mythical entity as well known to every American as that other Dutch legendary personage, Rip Van Winkle. In the "Visit from St. Nicholas" Mr. Moore not only introduced Santa Claus to the young folk of the various states, but gave to them their first story of any lasting merit whatsoever. It is worthy of remark that as every impulse to write for juvenile readers has lagged behind the desire to write for adults, so the composition of these familiar verses telling of the arrival in America of the mysterious and welcome visitor on "The night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," fell at the end of that quarter of the nineteenth century to which we are accustomed to refer as the beginning of the national period of American literature. It is, of course, true that the older children of that period had already begun to enjoy some of the writings of Irving and Cooper, and to learn the fortunately still familiar verses by Hopkinson, Key, Drake, and Halleck. School-readers have served to familiarize generation after generation with "Hail Columbia," "The Star Spangled Banner," and sometimes with "The American Flag." It is, doubtless, their authors' jubilant enthusiasm over the freedom of the young Republic that has caused the children of the more mature nation to delight in the repetition of the patriotic verses. The youthful extravagance of expression pervading every line is reëchoed in the heart of the schoolboy, who likes to imagine himself, before anything else, a patriot. But until "Donder and Blitzen" pranced into the foreground as Santa Claus' steeds, there was nothing in American nursery literature of any lasting fame. Thereafter, as the custom of observing Christmas Day gradually became popular, the perennial small child felt--until automobiles sent reindeer to the limbo of bygone things--the thrill of delight and fear over the annual visit of Santa Claus that the bigger child experiences in exploding fire-crackers on the Fourth of July. There are possibilities in both excitements which appeal to one of the child's dearest possessions--his imagination. It is this direct appeal to the imagination that surprises and delights us in Mr. Moore's ballad. To re-read it is to be amazed that anything so full of merriment, so modern, so free from pompousness or condescension, from pedantry or didacticism, could have been written before the latter half of the nineteenth century. Not only its style is simple in contrast with the labored efforts at simplicity of its contemporaneous verse, but its story runs fifty years ahead of its time in its freedom from the restraining hand of the moralist and from the warning finger of the religious teacher, if we except Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Wonder Book." In our examination of the toy-books of twenty years preceding its publication, we shall find nothing so attractive in manner, nor so imaginative in conception. Indeed, we shall see, upon the one hand, that fun was held in with such a tight curb that it hardly ever escaped into print; and upon the other hand that the imagination had little chance to develop because of the prodigal indulgence in realities and in religious experience from which all authors suffered. We shall also see that these realities were made very uncompromising and uncomfortable to run counter to. Duty spelled in capital letters was a stumbling-block with which only the well-trained story-book child could successfully cope; recreation followed in small portions large shares of instruction, whether disguised or bare faced. The Religion-in-Play, the Ethics-in-Play, and the Labor-in-Play schools of writing for children had arrived in America from the land of their origin. The stories in vogue in England during this first quarter of the nineteenth century explain every vagary in America. There fashionable and educational authorities had hitched their wagon to the literary star, Miss Edgeworth, and the followers of her system; while the religiously inclined pinned their faith also upon tracts written by Miss Hannah More. In this still imitative land the booksellers simply reprinted the more successful of these juvenile publications. The changes, therefore, in the character of the juvenile literature of amusement of the early nineteenth century in America were due to the adoption of the works of these two Englishwomen, and to the increased facilities for reproducing toy-books, both in press-work and in illustrations. Hannah More's allegories and religious dramas, written to coöperate with the teachings of the first Sabbath Day schools, are, of course, outside the literature of amusement. Yet they affected its type in America as they undoubtedly gave direction to the efforts of the early writers for children. Miss More, born in seventeen hundred and fifty-four, was a woman of already established literary reputation when her attention was attracted by Robert Raikes's successful experiment of opening a Sunday-school, in seventeen hundred and eighty-one. During the religious revival that attended the preaching of George Whitefield, Raikes, already interested in the hardships and social condition of the working-classes, was further aroused by his intimate knowledge of the manner of life of some children in a pin factory. To provide instruction for these child laborers, who, without work or restrictions on Sundays, sought occupation far from elevating, Raikes founded the first "Sabbath Day school." The movement spread rapidly in England, and ten years later, in seventeen hundred and ninety-one, under the inspiration of Bishop White, the pioneer First Day school in America was opened in Philadelphia. The good Bishop was disturbed mentally by the religious and moral degeneracy of the poor children in his diocese, and annoyed during church services by their clamor outside the churches--a noise often sufficient to drown the prayers of his flock and the sermons of his clergy. To occupy these restless children for a part of the day, two sessions of the school were held each Sunday: one before the morning service, from eight until half-past ten o'clock, and the other in the afternoon for an hour and a half. The Bible was used as a reader, and the teaching was done regularly by paid instructors. The first Sunday-school library owed its origin to a wish to further the instruction given in the school, and hence contained books thought admirably adapted to Sunday reading. Among the somewhat meagre stock provided for this purpose were Doddridge's "Power of Religion," Miss More's tracts and the writings of her imitators, together with "The Fairchild Family," by Mrs. Sherwood, "The Two Lambs," by Mrs. Cameron, "The Economy of Human Life," and a little volume made up of selections from Mrs. Barbauld's works for children. "The Economy of Human Life," said Miss Sedgwick (who herself afterwards wrote several good books for girls), "was quite above my comprehension, and I thought it unmeaning and tedious." Testimony of this kind about a book which for years appeared regularly upon booksellers' lists enables us to realize that the average intelligent child of the year eighteen hundred was beginning to be as bored by some of the literature placed in his hands as a child would be one hundred years later. To increase this special class of books, Hannah More devoted her attention. Her forty tracts comprising "The Cheap Repository" included "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" and "The Two Shoemakers," which, often appearing in American booksellers' advertisements, were for many years a staple article in Sunday-school libraries, and even now, although pushed to the rear, are discoverable in some such collections of books. Their objective point is best given by their author's own words in the preface to an edition of "The Search after Happiness; A Pastoral Drama," issued by Jacob Johnson of Philadelphia in eighteen hundred and eleven. Miss More began in the self-depreciatory manner then thought modest and becoming in women writers: "The author is sensible it may have many imperfections, but if it may be happily instrumental in producing a regard to Religion and Virtue in the minds of Young Persons, and afford them an innocent, and perhaps not altogether unuseful amusement in the exercise of recitation, the end for which it was originally composed ... will be fully answered." A drama may seem to us above the comprehension of the poor and illiterate class of people whose attention Miss More wished to hold, but when we feel inclined to criticise, let us not forget that the author was one who had written little eight-year-old Thomas Macaulay: "I think we have nearly exhausted the epics. What say you to a little good prose? Johnson's 'Hebrides,' or Walton's 'Lives,' unless you would like a neat edition of Cowper's poems or 'Paradise Lost.'" Miss More's influence upon the character of Sunday-school books in England undoubtedly did much to incline many unknown American women of the nineteenth century to take up this class of books as their own field for religious effort and pecuniary profit. Contemporary with Hannah More's writings in the interest of religious life of Sunday-school scholars were some of the literary products of the painstaking pen of Maria Edgeworth. Mention of Miss Edgeworth has already been made. About her stories for children criticism has played seriously, admiringly, and contemptuously. It is not the present purpose, however, to do other than to make clear her own aim, and to try to show the effect of her extremely moral tales upon her own generation of writers for American children. It is possible that she affected these authors more than the child audience for whom she wrote. Little ones have a wonderful faculty for seizing upon what suits them and leaving the remainder for their elders to discuss. Maria Edgeworth's life was a long one. Born in seventeen hundred and sixty-seven, when John Newbery's books were at the height of their fame, she lived until eighteen hundred and forty-nine, when they were scarcely remembered; and now her own once popular tales have met a similar fate. She was educated by a father filled with enthusiasm by the teachings of Rousseau and with advice from the platitudinous family friend, Thomas Day, author of "Sanford and Merton." Only the truly genial nature and strong character of Miss Edgeworth prevented her genius from being altogether swamped by this incongruous combination. Fortunately, also, her busy practical home life allowed her sympathies full sway and counteracted many of the theories introduced by Mr. Edgeworth into his family circle. Successive stepmothers filled the Edgeworth nursery with children, for whom the devoted older sister planned and wrote the stories afterward published. In seventeen hundred and ninety-one Maria Edgeworth, at her father's suggestion, began to note down anecdotes of the children of the family, and later these were often used as copy to be criticised by the little ones themselves before they were turned over to the printer. Her father's educational conversations with his family were often committed to paper, and these also furnished material from which Miss Edgeworth made it her object in life to interweave knowledge, amusement, and ethics. Indeed, it has been most aptly said that between the narrow banks of Richard Edgeworth's theories "his daughter's genius flowed through many volumes of amusement." [Illustration: _Jacob Johnson's Book-Store._] Her first collection of tales was published under the title of "The Parent's Assistant," although Miss Edgeworth's own choice of a name had been the less formidable one of "The Parent's Friend." Based upon her experience as eldest sister in a large and constantly increasing family, these tales necessarily struck many true notes and gave valuable hints to perplexed parents. In "The Parent's Assistant" realities stalked full grown into the nursery as "Every object in creation Furnished hints for contemplation." The characters were invariably true to their creator's original drawing. A good girl was good from morning to night; a naughty child began and ended the day in disobedience, and by it bottles were smashed, strawberries spilled, and lessons disregarded in unbroken sequence. In later life Miss Edgeworth confessed to having occasionally introduced in "Harry and Lucy" some nonsense as an "alloy to make the sense work well;" but as all her earlier children's tales were subjected to the pruning scissors of Mr. Edgeworth, this amalgam is to-day hardly noticeable in "Popular Tales," "Early Lessons," and "Frank," which preceded the six volumes of "Harry and Lucy." Although a contemporary of Mrs. Barbauld, who had written for little children "Easy Lessons," Miss Edgeworth does not seem to have been well known in America until about eighteen hundred and five. Then "Harry and Lucy" was brought out by Jacob Johnson, a Philadelphia book-dealer. This was issued in six small red and blue marbled paper volumes, although other parts were not completed until eighteen hundred and twenty-three. Between the first and second parts of volume one the educational hand of Mr. Edgeworth is visible in the insertion of a "Glossary," "to give a popular meaning of the words." "This Glossary," the editor, Mr. Edgeworth, thought, "should be read to children a little at a time, and should be made the subject of conversation. Afterwards they will read it with more pleasure." The popular meaning of words may be succinctly given by one definition: "Dry, what is not wet." Could anything be more lucid? Among the stories by Miss Edgeworth are three rarely mentioned by critics, and yet among the most natural and entertaining of her short tales. They were also printed by Jacob Johnson in Philadelphia, in eighteen hundred and five, under the simple title, "Three Stories for Children." "Little Dog Trusty" is a dog any small child would like to read about; "The Orangeman" was a character familiar to English children; and "The Cherry Orchard" is a tale of a day's pleasure whose spirit American children could readily seize. In each Miss Edgeworth had a story to tell, and she told it well, even though "she walked," as has been often said, "as mentor beside her characters." Of Miss Edgeworth's many tales, "Waste Not, Want Not" was long considered a model. In it what Mr. Edgeworth styled the "shafts of ridicule" were aimed at the rich nephew of Mr. Gresham. Mr. Gresham (whose prototype we strongly suspect was Mr. Edgeworth himself) "lived neither in idleness nor extravagance," and was desirous of adopting an heir to his considerable property. Therefore, he invited two nephews to visit him, with the object of choosing the more suitable for his purpose; apparently he had only to signify his wish and no parental objection to his plan would be interposed. The boys arrive: Hal, whose mama spends her days at Bath over cards with Lady Diana Sweepstake, is an ill-bred child, neither deferential to his uncle, nor with appetite for buns when queen-cakes may be had. His cousin Ben, on the contrary, has been taught those virtuous habits that make for a respectful attitude toward rich uncles and assure a dissertation upon the beneficial effect of buns _versus_ queen-cakes. The boys, having had their characters thus definitely shown, proceed to live up to them in every particular. From start to finish it is the virtuous Ben--his generosity, thrift, and foresight are never allowed to lapse for an instant--who triumphs in every episode. He saves his string, "good whipcord," when requested by Mr. Gresham to untie a parcel, and it thereafter serves to spin a fine new top, to help Hal out of a difficulty with his toy, and in the final incident of the story, an archery contest, our provident hero, finding his bowstring "cracked," calmly draws from his pocket the still excellent piece of cord, and affixing it to his bow, wins the match. Hal betrays his great lack of self-control by exclaiming, "The everlasting whipcord, I declare," and thereupon Patty, Mr. Gresham's only child, who has suffered from Hal's defects of character, openly rejoices when the prize is given to Ben. As is usual with Miss Edgeworth's badly behaved children, the reader now sees the error of Hal's ways, and perceives also that in the lad's acknowledgment of the truth of the formerly scorned motto, "Waste not, want not," the era of his reformation has begun. Perpetual action was the key to the success of Miss Edgeworth's writings. If to us her fictitious children seem like puppets whose strings are too obviously jerked, the monotonous moral cloaked in the variety of incident was liked by her own generation, Miss Edgeworth not only pleased the children, but received the applause of their parents and friends. Sir Walter Scott, the prince of story-tellers, found much to admire in her tales, and wrote of "Simple Susan:" "When the boy brings back the lamb to the little girl, there is nothing for it but to put down the book and cry." Susan was the pattern child in the tale, "clean as well as industrious," while Barbara--a violent contrast--was conceited and lazy, and a _lady_ who "could descend without shame from the height of insolent pride to the lowest measure of fawning familiarity." Therefore it is small wonder that Sir Walter passed her by without mention. However much we may value an English author's admiration for Miss Edgeworth's story-telling gifts, it is to America that we naturally turn to seek contemporary opinion. In educational circles there is no doubt that Miss Edgeworth won high praise. That her books were not always easy to procure, however, we know from a letter written from Washington by Mrs. Josiah Quincy, whose life as a child during the Revolution has already been described. When Mrs. Quincy was living in the capital city in eighteen hundred and ten, during her husband's term as Congressman, she found it difficult to provide her family with books. She therefore wrote to Boston to a friend, requesting to have sent her Miss Edgeworth's "Moral Tales," "if the work can be obtained in one of the bookstores. If not," she continued, "borrow one ... and I will replace it with a new copy. Cut the book out of its binding and enclose the pages in packets.... Be careful to send the entire text and title page." The scarcity in Washington of books for young people Mrs. Quincy thought justified the hope that reprinting these tales would be profitable to a bookseller in whose efforts to introduce a better taste among the inhabitants she took a keen interest. But Mrs. Quincy need not have sent to Boston for them. Jacob Johnson in Philadelphia had issued most of the English author's books by eighteen hundred and five, and New York publishers probably made good profit by printing them. Reading aloud was both a pastime and an education to families in those early days of the Republic. Although Mrs. Quincy made every effort to procure Miss Edgeworth's stories for her family because, in her opinion, "they obtained a decided preference to the works of Hannah More, Mrs. Trimmer and Mrs. Chapone," for reading aloud she chose extracts from Shakespeare, Milton, Addison, and Goldsmith. Indeed, if it were possible to ask our great-grandparents what books they remembered reading in their childhood, I think we should find that beyond somewhat hazy recollections of Miss Edgeworth's books and Berquin's "The Looking Glass for the Mind," they would either mention "Robinson Crusoe," Newbery's tales of "Giles Gingerbread," "Little King Pippin," and "Goody Two-Shoes" (written fifty years before their own childhood), or remember only the classic tales and sketches read to them by their parents. Certainly this is the case if we may take as trustworthy the recollections of literary people whose childhood was passed in the first part of the nineteenth century. Catharine Sedgwick, for instance, has left a charming picture of American family life in a country town in eighteen hundred--a life doubtless paralleled by many households in comfortable circumstances. Among the host of little prigs and prudes in story-books of the day, it is delightful to find in Catharine Sedgwick herself an example of a bookish child who was natural. Her reminiscences include an account of the way the task of sweeping out the schoolhouse after hours was made bearable by feasts of Malaga wine and raisins. These she procured from the store where her father kept an open account, until the bill having been rendered dotted over with such charges "per daughter Catharine," these treats to favorite schoolmates ceased. Also a host of intimate details of this large family's life in the country brings us in touch with the times: fifteen pairs of calfskin shoes ordered from the village shoemaker, because town-bought morocco slippers were few and far between; the excitement of a silk gown; the distress of a brother, whose trousers for fête occasions were remodelled from an older brother's "blue broadcloth worn to fragility--so that Robert [the younger brother] said he could not look at them without making a rent;" and again the anticipation of the father's return from Philadelphia with gifts of necessaries and books. After seventeen hundred and ninety-five Mr. Sedgwick was compelled as a member of Congress to be away the greater part of each year, leaving household and farm to the care of an invalid wife. Memories of Mr. Sedgwick's infrequent visits home were mingled in his daughter's mind with the recollections of being kept up until nine o'clock to listen to his reading from Shakespeare, Don Quixote, or Hudibras. "Certainly," wrote Miss Sedgwick, "I did not understand them, but some glances of celestial light reached my soul, and I caught from his magnetic sympathy some elevation of feeling, and that love of reading which has been to me an 'education.'" "I was not more than twelve years old," she continues, "I think but ten--when one winter I read Rollin's Ancient History. The walking to our schoolhouse was often bad, and I took my lunch (how well I remember the bread and butter, and 'nut cake' and cold sausage, and nuts and apples that made the miscellaneous contents of that enchanting lunch-basket!), and in the interim between morning and afternoon school I crept under my desk (the desks were so made as to afford little close recesses under them) and read and munched and forgot myself in Cyrus' greatness." It is beyond question that the keen relish induced by the scarcity of juvenile reading, together with the sound digestion it promoted, overbalanced in mental gain the novelties of a later day. The Sedgwick library was probably typical of the average choice in reading-matter of the contemporary American child. Half a dozen little story-books, Berquin's "Children's Friend" (the very form and shade of color of its binding with its green edges were never forgotten by any member of the Sedgwick family), and the "Looking Glass for the Mind" were shelved side by side with a large volume entitled "Elegant Extracts," full of ballads, fables, and tales delightful to children whose imagination was already excited by the solemn mystery of Rowe's "Letters from the Dead to the Living." Since none of these books except those containing an infusion of religion were allowed to be read on Sunday, the Sedgwick children extended the bounds by turning over the pages of a book, and if the word "God" or "Lord" appeared, it was pounced upon as sanctified and therefore permissible. Where families were too poor to buy story-books, the children found what amusement they could in the parents' small library. In ministers' families sermons were more plentiful than books. Mrs. H.B. Stowe, when a girl, found barrels of sermons in the garret of her father, the Rev. Dr. Beecher, in Litchfield, Connecticut. Through these sermons his daughter searched hungrily for mental food. It seemed as if there were thousands of the most unintelligible things. "An appeal on the unlawfulness of a man's marrying his wife's sister" turned up in every barrel by the dozens, until she despaired of finding an end of it. At last an ancient volume of "Arabian Nights" was unearthed. Here was the one inexhaustible source of delight to a child so eager for books that at ten years of age she had pored over the two volumes of the "Magnalia." The library advantages of a more fortunately placed old-fashioned child we know from Dr. Holmes's frequent reference to incidents of his boyhood. He frankly confessed that he read in and not through many of the two thousand books in his father's library; but he found much to interest him in the volumes of periodicals, especially in the "Annual Register" and Rees's "Encyclopedia." Although apparently allowed to choose from the book-shelves, there were frequent evidences of a parent's careful supervision. "I remember," he once wrote to a friend, "many leaves were torn out of a copy of Dryden's Poems, with the comment 'Hiatus haud diflendus,' but I had like all children a kind of Indian sagacity in the discovery of contraband reading, such as a boy carries to a corner for perusal. Sermons I had enough from the pulpit. I don't know that I ever read one sermon of my own accord during my childhood. The 'Life of David,' by Samuel Chandler, had adventures enough, to say nothing of gallantry, in it to stimulate and gratify curiosity." "Biographies of Pious Children," wrote Dr. Holmes at another time, "were not to my taste. Those young persons were generally sickly, melancholy, and buzzed around by ghostly comforters or discomforters in a way that made me sick to contemplate." Again, Dr. Holmes, writing of the revolt from the commonly accepted religious doctrines he experienced upon reading the Rev. Thomas Scott's Family Bible, contrasted the gruesome doctrines it set forth with the story of Christian told in "Pilgrim's Progress," a book which captivated his imagination. As to story-books, Dr. Holmes once referred to Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Aikin's joint production, "Evenings at Home," with an accuracy bearing testimony to his early love for natural science. He also paid a graceful tribute to Lady Bountiful of "Little King Pippin" in comparing her in a conversation "At the Breakfast Table" with the appearance of three maiden ladies "rustling through the aisles of the old meeting-house, in silk and satin, not gay but more than decent." Although Dr. Holmes was not sufficiently impressed with the contents of Miss Edgeworth's tales to mention them, at least one of her books contained much of the sort of information he found attractive in "Evenings at Home." "Harry and Lucy," besides pointing a moral on every page, foreshadowed that taste for natural science which turned every writer's thought toward printing geographical walks, botanical observations, natural history conversations, and geological dissertations in the guise of toy-books of amusement. A batch of books issued in America during the first two decades of the nineteenth century is illustrative of this new fashion. These books, belonging to the Labor-in-Play school, may best be described in their American editions. One hundred years ago the American publishers of toy works were devoting their attention to the make-up rather than to the contents of their wares. The steady progress of the industrial arts enabled a greater number of printers to issue juvenile books, whose attractiveness was increased by better illustrations; and also with the improved facilities for printing and publishing, the issues of the various firms became more individual. At the beginning of the century the cheaper books entirely lost their charming gilt, flowery Dutch, and silver wrappers, as home products came into use. Size and illustrations also underwent a change. [Illustration: _A Wall-paper Book-Cover_] In Philadelphia, Benjamin and Jacob Johnson, and later Johnson and Warner, issued both tiny books two inches square, and somewhat larger volumes containing illustrations as well as text. These firms used for binding gray and blue marbled paper, gold-powdered yellow cardboard, or salmon pink, blue, and olive-green papers, usually without ornamentation. In eighteen hundred J. and J. Crukshank, of the same town, began to decorate with copper-plate cuts the outside of the white or blue paper covers of their imprints for children. Other printers followed their example, especially after wood-engraving became more generally used. In Wilmington, Delaware, John Adams printed and sold "The New History of Blue Beard" in both peacock-blue and olive-green paper covers; but Peter Brynberg, also of that town, was still in eighteen hundred and four using quaint wall-paper to dress his toy imprints. Matthew Carey, the well-known printer of school-books for the children of Philadelphia, made a "Child's Guide to Spelling and Reading" more acceptable by a charming cover of yellow and red striped paper dotted over with little black hearts suggestive of the old Primer rhyme for the letter B: "My Book and Heart Shall never part." In New York the dealers in juvenile books seem either to have bound in calf such classics as "The Blossoms of Morality," published by David Longworth at the Shakespeare Gallery in eighteen hundred and two, or in decorated but unattractive brown paper. This was the cover almost invariably used for years by Samuel Wood, the founder of the present publishing-house of medical works. He began in eighteen hundred and six to print the first of his many thousands of children's religious, instructive, and nursery books. As was the custom in order to insure a good sale, Wood first brought out a primer, "The Young Child's A B C." He decorated its Quaker gray cover with a woodcut of a flock of birds, and its title-page with a picture, presumably by Alexander Anderson, of a girl holding up a dove in her left hand and holding down a lamb with her right. In New England, Nathaniel Coverly of Salem sometimes used a watered pink paper to cover his sixteen page toy-books, and in Boston his son, as late as eighteen hundred and thirteen, still used pieces of large patterned wall-paper for six-penny books, such as "Tom Thumb," "Old Mother Hubbard," and "Cock Robin." The change in the appearance of most toy-books, however, was due largely to the increased use of illustrations. The work of the famous English engraver, Thomas Bewick, had at last been successfully copied by a physician of New York, Dr. Alexander Anderson. Dr. Anderson was born in New York in seventeen hundred and seventy-five, and by seventeen hundred and ninety-three was employed by printers and publishers in New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia, and even Charleston to illustrate their books. Like other engravers, he began by cutting in type-metal, or engraving upon copper. In seventeen hundred and ninety-four, for Durell of New York, he undertook to make illustrations, probably for "The Looking Glass for the Mind." Beginning by copying Bewick's pictures upon type-metal, when "about one-third done, Dr. Anderson felt satisfied he could do better on wood."[166-A] In his diary we find noted an instance of his perseverance in the midst of discouragement: "Sept. 24. This morning I was quite discouraged on seeing a crack in the wood. Employed as usual at the Doctor's, came home to dinner, glued the wood and began again with fresh hopes of producing a good wood engraving." September 26 found him "pretty well satisfied with the impression and so was Durell." In eighteen hundred he engraved all the pictures on wood for a new edition of the same book, and from this time he seems to have discontinued the use of type-metal, which he had employed in his earlier work as illustrator of the "Pilgrim's Progress" issued by Hugh Gaine, and of "Tom Thumb's Folio" printed by Brewer. After eighteen hundred and twelve Anderson almost gave up engraving on copper also, and devoted himself to satisfying the great demand for his work on wood. For Durell of New York, an extensive reprinter of English books, from toy-books to a folio edition of Josephus, he reproduced the English engravings, never making, according to Mr. Lossing, more than a frontispiece for the larger volumes. Although Samuel Wood and Sons of New York also gave Dr. Anderson many orders for cuts for their various juvenile publications, he still found time to engrave for publishers of other cities. We find his illustrations in the toy-books printed in Boston and Philadelphia; and for Sidney Babcock, a New Haven publisher of juvenile literature, he supplied many of the numerous woodcuts required. The best of Anderson's work as an engraver coincided with the years of Babcock's very extensive business of issuing children's books, between 1805 and 1840. His cuts adorned the juvenile duodecimos that this printer's widely extended trade demanded; and even as far south as Charleston, South Carolina, Babcock, like Isaiah Thomas, found it profitable to open a branch shop. Anderson's illustrations are the main features of most of Babcock's little blue, pink, and yellow paper-covered books; especially of those printed in the early years of the nineteenth century. We notice in them the changes in the dress of children, who no longer were clothed exactly in the semblance of their elders, but began to assume garments more appropriate to their ages, sports, and occupations. Anderson also sometimes introduced into his pictures a negro coachman or nurse in the place of the footman or maid of the English tale he illustrated. While the demand for the engraver's work was constant, his remuneration was small, if we are to judge by Babcock's payment of only fifty shillings for fifteen cuts. For these toy-books Anderson made many reproductions from Bewick's cuts, and although he did not equal the Englishman's work, he so far surpassed his pupils and imitators of the early part of the century that his engravings are generally to be recognized even when not signed. In eighteen hundred and two Dr. Anderson began to reproduce for David Longworth Bewick's "Quadrupeds," and these "cuts were afterwards made use of, with the Bewick letter-press also, for a series of children's books."[168-A] In eighteen hundred and twelve, for Munroe & Francis of Boston, Dr. Anderson made after J. Thompson a set of cuts, mainly remarkable "as the chief of his few departures from the style of his favorite, Bewick."[169-A] The custom of not signing either text or engravings in the children's books has made it difficult to identify writers and illustrators of juvenile literature. But some of the best engravers undoubtedly practised their art on these toy-books. Nathaniel Dearborn, who was a stationer, printer, and engraver in Boston about eighteen hundred and eleven, sometimes signed the full-page illustrations on both wood and copper, and Abel Bowen, a copper-engraver, and possibly the first wood-engraver in Boston, signed a very curious publication entitled "A Metamorphosis"--a manifold paper which in its various possible combinations transformed one figure into another in keeping with the progress of the story. C. Gilbert, a pupil of Mason, who had introduced the art of wood-engraving in Philadelphia from Boston, engraved on wood certainly the two full-page illustrations for "A Present for a Little Girl," printed in eighteen hundred and sixteen for a Baltimore firm, Warner & Hanna. Adams and his pupils, Lansing and Morgan, also did work on children's books. Adams seems to have worked under Anderson's instruction, and after eighteen hundred and twenty-five did cuts for some books in the juvenile libraries of S. Wood and Mahlon Day of New York. Of the engravers on copper, many tried their hands on these toy-books. Among them may be mentioned Amos Doolittle of New Haven, James Poupard, John Neagle, and W. Ralph of Philadelphia, and Rollinson of New York, who is credited with having engraved the silver buttons on the coat worn by Washington on his inauguration as President. But of the copper-plate engravers, perhaps none did more work for children's books than William Charles of Philadelphia. Charles, who is best known by his series of caricatures of the events of the War of 1812 and of local politics, worked upon toy-books as early as eighteen hundred and eight, when in Philadelphia he published in two parts "Tom the Piper's Son; illustrated with whimsical engravings." In these books both text and pictures were engraved, as will be seen in the illustration. Charles's plates for a series of moral tales in verse were used by his successors, Mary Charles, Morgan & Yeager, and Morgan & Sons, for certainly fifteen years after the originals were made. To William Charles the children in the vicinity of Philadelphia were also probably indebted for the introduction of colored pictures. It is possible that the young folks of Boston had the novelty of colored picture-books somewhat before Charles introduced them in Philadelphia, as we find that "The History and Adventures of Little Henry exemplified in a series of figures" was printed by J. Belcher of the Massachusetts town in 1812. These "figures" exhibited little Henry suitably attired for the various incidents of his career, with a movable head to be attached at will to any of the figures, which were not engraved with the text, but each was laid in loose on a blank page. William Charles's method of coloring the pictures engraved with the text was a slight advance, perhaps, upon the illustrations inserted separately; but it is doubtful whether these immovable plates afforded as much entertainment to little readers as the separate figures similar to paper dolls which Belcher, and somewhat later Charles also, used in a few of their publications. [Illustration: _Tom the Piper's Son_] The "Peacock at Home," engraved by Charles and then colored in aqua-tint, is one of the rare early colored picture-books still extant, having been first issued in eighteen hundred and fourteen. The coloring of the illustrations at first doubled the price, and seems to have been used principally for a series of stories belonging to what may be styled the Ethics-in-Play type of juvenile literature, and entitled the "History and Adventures of Little William," "Little Nancy," etc. These tales, written after the objective manner of Miss Edgeworth, glossed over by rhyme, contained usually eight colored plates, and sold for twenty-five cents each instead of twelve cents, the price of the picture-book without colored plates. Sometimes, as in the case of "Cinderella," we find the text illustrated with a number of "Elegant Figures, to dress and undress." The paper doll could be placed behind the costumes appropriate to the various adventures, and, to prevent the loss of the heroine, the book was tied up with pink or blue ribbon after the manner of a portfolio. With engravers on wood and copper able to make more attractive the passion for instruction which marked the first quarter of the nineteenth century, the variety of toy-book literature naturally became greater. Indeed, without pictures to render somewhat entertaining the Labor-in-Play school, it is doubtful whether it could have attained its widespread popularity. It is, of course, possible to name but a few titles typical of the various kinds of instruction offered as amusement. "To present to the young Reader a Little Miscellany of Natural History, Moral Precept, Sentiment, and Narrative," Dr. Kendall wrote "Keeper's Travels in Search of his Master," "The Canary Bird," and "The Sparrow." "The Prize for Youthful Obedience" endeavored to instill a love for animals, and to promote obedient habits. Its story runs in this way: "A kind and good father had a little lively son, named Francis; but, although that little boy was six years old, he had not yet learned to read. "His mama said to him, one day, 'if Francis will learn to read well, he shall have a pretty little chaise.' "The little boy was vastly pleased with this; he presently spelt five or six words and then kissed his mama. "'Mama,' said Francis, 'I am delighted with the thoughts of this chaise, but I should like to have a horse to draw it.' "'Francis shall have a little dog, which will do instead of a horse,' replied his mama, 'but he must take care to give him some victuals, and not do him any harm.'" The dog was purchased, and named Chloe. "She was as brisk as a bee, prettily spotted, and as gentle as a lamb." We are now prepared for trouble, for the lesson of the story is surely not hidden. Chloe was fastened to the chaise, a cat secured to serve as a passenger, and "Francis drove his little chaise along the walk." But "when he had been long enough among the gooseberry trees, his mama took him in the garden and told him the names of the flowers." We are thus led to suppose that Francis had never been in the garden before! The mother is called away. We feel sure that the trouble anticipated is at hand. "As soon as she was gone Francis began whipping the dog," and of course when the dog dashed forward the cat tumbled out, and "poor Chloe was terrified by the chaise which banged on all sides. Francis now heartily repented of his cruel behaviour and went into the house crying, and looking like a very simple boy." [Illustration: _A Kind and Good Father_] "I see very plainly the cause of this misfortune," said the father, who, however, soon forgave his repentant son. Thereafter every day Francis learned his lesson, and was rewarded by facts and pictures about animals, by table-talks, or by walks about the country. Knowledge offered within small compass seems to have been a novelty introduced in Philadelphia by Jacob Johnson, who had a juvenile library in High Street. In eighteen hundred and three he printed two tiny volumes entitled "A Description of Various Objects." Bound in green paper covers, the two-inch square pages were printed in bold type. The first volume contained the illustrations of the objects described in the other. The characterizations were exceedingly short, as, for example, this of the "Puppet Show:" "Here are several little boys and girls looking at a puppet show, I suppose you would like to make one of them." Four years later Johnson improved upon this, when he printed in better type "People of all Nations; an useful toy for Girl or Boy." Of approximately the same size as the other volumes, it was bound with stiff sides and calf back. The plates, engraved on copper, represent men of various nationalities in the favorite alphabetical order. A is an American. V is a Virginian,--an Indian in scant costume of feathers with a long pipe,--who, the printed description says, "is generally dressed after the manner of the English; but this is a poor African, and made a slave of." An orang-outang represents the letter O, and according to the author, is "a wild man of the woods, in the East Indies. He sleeps under trees, and builds himself a hut. He cannot speak, but when the natives make a fire in the woods he will come and warm himself." Ten years later there was still some difficulty in getting exact descriptions of unfamiliar animals. Thus in "A Familiar Description of Beasts and Birds" the baboon is drawn with a dog's body and an uncanny head with a snout. The reader is informed that "the baboon has a long face resembling a dog's; his eyes are red and very bright, his teeth are large and strong, but his swiftness renders him hard to be taken. He delights in fishing, and will stay for a considerable time under water. He imitates several of our actions, and will drink wine, and eat human food." Another series of three books, written by William Darton, the English publisher and maker of toy-books, was called "Chapters of Accidents, containing Caution and Instruction." Thrilling accounts of "Escapes from Danger" when robbing birds'-nests and hunting lions and tigers were intermingled with wise counsel and lessons to be gained from an "Upset Cart," or a "Balloon Excursion." With one incident the Philadelphia printer took the liberty of changing the title to "Cautions to Walkers on the Streets of Philadelphia." High Street, now Market Street, is represented in a picture of the young woman who, unmindful of the warning, "Never to turn hastily around the corner of a street," "ran against the porter's load and nearly lost one of her eyes." The change, of course, is worthy of notice only because of the slight effort to locate the story in America. [Illustration: _a Virginian_] [Illustration: _A Baboon_] An attempt to familiarize children with flowers resulted in two tales, called "The Rose's Breakfast" and "Flora's Gala," in which flowers were personified as they took part in fêtes. "Garden Amusements, for Improving the Minds of Little Children," was issued by Samuel Wood of New York with this advertisement: "This little treatise, (written and first published in the great emporium of the British nation) containing so many pleasing remarks for the juvenile mind, was thought worthy of an American edition.... Being so very natural, ... and its tendency so moral and amusing, it is to be hoped an advantage will be obtained from its re-publication in Freedonia." Dialogue was the usual method of instruction employed by Miss Edgeworth and her followers. In "Garden Amusements" the conversation was interrupted by a note criticising a quotation from Milton as savoring too much of poetic license. Cowper also gained the anonymous critic's disapproval, although it was his point of view and not his style that came under censure. In still another series of stories often reprinted from London editions were those moral tales with the sub-title "Cautionary Stories in Verse." Mr. William James used these "Cautionary Verses for Children" as an example of the manner in which "the muse of evangelical protestantism in England, with the mind fixed on the ideas of danger, had at last drifted away from the original gospel of freedom." "Chronic anxiety," Mr. James continued, "marked the earlier part of this [nineteenth] century in evangelical circles." A little salmon-colored volume, "The Daisy," is a good example of this series. Each rhyme is a warning or an admonition; a chronic fear that a child might be naughty. "Drest or Undrest" is typical of the sixteen hints for the proper conduct of every-day life contained in the innocent "Daisy:" "When children are naughty and will not be drest, Pray what do you think is the way? Why, often I really believe it is best To keep them in night-clothes all day! "But then they can have no good breakfast to eat, Nor walk with their mother and aunt; At dinner they'll have neither pudding nor meat, Nor anything else that they want. "Then who would be naughty and sit all the day In night-clothes unfit to be seen! And pray who would lose all their pudding and play For not being drest neat and clean." Two other sets of books with a like purpose were brought out by Charles about eighteen hundred and sixteen. One began with those familiar nursery verses entitled "My Mother," by Ann Taylor, which were soon followed by "My Father," all the family, "My Governess," and even "My Pony." The other set of books was "calculated to promote Benevolence and Virtue in Children." "Little Fanny," "Little Nancy," and "Little Sophie" were all held up as warnings of the results of pride, greed, and disobedience. [Illustration: _Drest or Undrest_] The difference between these heroines of fiction and the characters drawn by Maria Edgeworth lies mainly in the fact that they spoke in rhyme instead of in prose, and that they were almost invariably naughty; or else the parents were cruel and the children suffered. Rarely do we find a cheerful tale such as "The Cherry Orchard" in this cautionary style of toy-book. Still more rarely do we find any suspicion of that alloy of nonsense supposed by Miss Edgeworth to make the sense work well. It is all quite serious. "Little Nancy, or, the Punishment of Greediness," is representative of this sort of moral and cautionary tale. The frontispiece, "embellishing" the first scene, shows Nancy in receipt of an invitation to a garden party: "Now the day soon appear'd But she very much fear'd She should not be permitted to go. Her best frock she had torn, The last time it was worn; Which was very vexatious, you know." However, the mother consents with the _caution_: "Not to greedily eat The nice things at the treat; As she much wished to break her of this." Arrived at the party, Nancy shared the games, and "At length was seated, With her friends to be treated; So determin'd on having her share, That she drank and she eat Ev'ry thing she could get, Yet still she was loth to forbear." The disastrous consequences attending Nancy's disregard of her mother's admonition are displayed in a full-page illustration, which is followed by another depicting the sorrowful end in bed of the day's pleasure. Then the moral: "My young readers beware, And avoid with great care Such _excesses_ as these you've just read; For be sure you will find It your interest to mind What your friends and relations have said." Perhaps of all the toy imprints of the early century none are more curious in modern eyes than the three or four German translations printed by Philadelphia firms. In eighteen hundred and nine Johnson and Warner issued "Kleine Erzählungen über ein Buch mit Kupfern." This seems to be a translation of "A Mother's Remarks over a Set of Cuts," and contains a reference to another book entitled "Anecdoten von Hunden." Still another book is extant, printed in eighteen hundred and five by Zentler, "Unterhaltungen für Deutsche Kinder." This, according to its preface, was one of a series for which Jacob and Benjamin Johnson had consented to lend the plates for illustrations. Patriotism, rather than diversion, still characterized the very little original work of the first quarter of the century for American children. A book with the imposing title of "Geographical, Statistical and Political Amusement" was published in Philadelphia in eighteen hundred and six. "This work," says its advertisement, "is designed as an easy means of uniting Instruction with Pleasure ... to entice the youthful mind to an acquaintance with a species of information [about the United States] highly useful." "The Juvenile Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository of Useful Information," issued in eighteen hundred and three, contained as its only original contribution an article upon General Washington's will, "an affecting and most original composition," wrote the editor. This was followed seven years later by the well-known "Life of George Washington," by M.L. Weems, in which was printed the now famous and disputed cherry-tree incident. Its abridged form known to present day nursery lore differs from the long drawn out account by Weems, who, like Thomas Day, risked being diffuse in his desire to show plainly his moral. The last part of the story sufficiently gives his manner of writing: "Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. 'George,' said his father, 'do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?' That was a tough question; and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all conquering truth, he bravely cried out, 'I can't tell a lie, Pa; you know I can't tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet!' 'Run to my arms, you dearest boy,' cried his father in transports, 'run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree; for you have paid me for it a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.'" Franklin's "Way to Wealth" was considered to be perfectly adapted to all children's comprehension, and was issued by various publishers of juvenile books. By eighteen hundred and eight it was illustrated and sold "with fine engravings for twenty-five cents." Of patriotic poetry there was much for grown folks, but the "Patriotic and Amatory Songster," advertised by S. Avery of Boston about the time Weems's biography was published, seems a title ill-suited to the juvenile public for whom Avery professed to issue it. Among the books which may be cited as furnishing instructive amusement with less of the admixture of moral purpose was the "London Cries for Children," with pictures of street peddlers. This was imitated in America by the publication of the "Cries of New York" and "Cries of Philadelphia." In the Lenox Collection there is now one of the various editions of the "Cries of New York" (published in 1808), which is valuable both as a record of the street life of the old-fashioned town of ninety-six thousand inhabitants, and as perhaps the first child's book of purely local interest, with original woodcuts very possibly designed and engraved by Alexander Anderson. The "Cries of New York" is of course modelled after the "London Cries," but the account it gives of various incidents in the daily life of old New York makes us grateful for the existence of this child's toy. A picture of a chimney-sweep, for instance, is copied, with his cry of "Sweep, O, O, O, O," from the London book, but the text accompanying it is altered to accord with the custom in New York of firing a gun at dawn: "About break of day, after the morning gun is heard from Governor's Island, and so through the forenoon, the ears of the citizens are greeted with this uncouth sound from figures as unpleasant to the sight, clothed in rags and covered with soot--a necessary and suffering class of human beings indeed--spending their childhood thus. And in regard to the unnecessary bawling of those sooty boys; it is _admirable_ in such a noisy place as this, where every needless sound should be hushed, that such disagreeable ones should be allowed. The prices for sweeping chimneys are--one story houses twelve cents; two stories, eighteen cents; three stories, twenty-five cents, and so on." "Hot Corn" was also cried by children, whose business it was to "gather cents, by distributing corn to those who are disposed to regale themselves with an ear." Baked pears are pictured as sold "by a little black girl, with the pears in an earthen dish under her arm." At the same season of the year, "Here's your fine ripe water-melons" also made itself heard above the street noises as a street cry of entirely American origin. Again there were pictured "Oyster Stands," served by negroes, and these were followed by cries of "Fine Clams: choice Clams, Here's your Rock-a-way beach Clams: here's your fine Young, sand Clams," from Flushing Cove Bay, which the text explains, "turn out as good, or perhaps better," than oysters. The introduction of negroes and negro children into the illustrations is altogether a novelty, and together with the scenes drawn from the street life of the town gave to the old-fashioned child its first distinctly American picture-book. Indeed, with the exception of this and an occasional illustration in some otherwise English reproduction, all the American publishers at this time seem to have modelled their wares for small children after those of two large London firms, J. Harris, successor to Newbery, and William Darton. To Darton, the author of "Little Truths," the children were indebted for a serious attempt to improve the character of toy-books. A copper-plate engraver by profession, Darton's attention was drawn to the scarcity of books for children by the discovery that there was not much written for them that was worth illustrating. Like Newbery, he set about to make books himself, and with John Harvey, also an engraver, he set up in Grace Church Street an establishment for printing and publishing, from which he supplied, to a great extent, the juvenile books closely imitated by American printers. Besides his own compositions, he was very alert to encourage promising authors, and through him the famous verses of Jane and Ann Taylor were brought into notice. "Original Poems," and "Rhymes for the Nursery," by these sisters, were to the old-time child what Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" is to the modern nursery. Darton and Harvey paid ten pounds for the first series of "Original Poems," and fifteen pounds for the second; while "Rhymes for the Nursery" brought to its authors the unusual sum of twenty pounds. The Taylors were the originators of that long series of verses for infants which "My Sister" and "My Governess" strove to surpass but never in any way equalled, although they apparently met with a fair sale in America. [Illustration: _Little Nancy_] Enterprising American booksellers also copied the new ways of advertising juvenile books. An instance of this is afforded by Johnson and Warner of Philadelphia, who apparently succeeded Jacob and Benjamin Johnson, and had, by eighteen hundred and ten, branch shops in Richmond, Virginia, and Lexington, Kentucky. They advertised their "neatly executed books of amusement" in book notes in the "Young Gentlemen and Ladies' Magazine," by means of digressions from the thread of their stories, and sometimes by inserting as frontispiece a rhyme taken from one used by John Harris of St. Paul's Churchyard: "At JO---- store in Market Street A sure reward good children meet. In coming home the other day I heard a little master say For ev'ry three-pence there he took He had received a little book. With covers neat and cuts so pretty There's not its like in all the city; And that for three-pence he could buy A story book would make one cry; For little more a book of Riddles: Then let us not buy drums and fiddles Nor yet be stopped at pastry cooks', But spend our money all in books; For when we've learnt each bit by heart Mamma will treat us with a tart." Later, when engraving had become more general in use, William Charles cut for an advertisement, as frontispiece to some of his imprints, an interior scene containing a shelf of books labelled "W. Charles' Library for Little Folks." About the same time another form of advertisement came into use. This was the publisher's _Recommendation_, which frequently accompanied the narrative in place of a preface. The "Story of Little Henry and his Bearer," by Mrs. Sherwood, a writer of many English Sunday-school tales, contained the announcement that it was "fraught with much useful instruction. It is recommended as an excellent thing to be put in the hands of children; and grown persons will find themselves well paid for the trouble of reading it." Little Henry belonged to the Sunday-school type of hero, one whose biography Dr. Holmes doubtless avoided when possible. Yet no history of toy-books printed presumably for children's amusement as well as instruction should omit this favorite story, which represents all others of its class of Religion-in-Play books. The following incidents are taken from an edition printed by Lincoln and Edmunds of Boston. This firm made a special feature of "Books suitable for Presents in Sunday-School." They sold wholesale for eight dollars a hundred, such tales as Taylor's "Hymns for Infant Minds," "Friendly Instruction," Fenelon's "Reflections," Doddridge's "Principles of the Christian Religion," "Pleasures of Piety in Youth," "Walks of Usefulness," "Practical Piety," etc. The objective point of little Henry's melancholy history was to prove the "Usefulness of Female Missionaries," said its editor, Mrs. Cameron, a sister of the author, who at the time was herself living in India. Mrs. Sherwood based the thread of her story upon the life of a household in India, but it winds itself mainly around the conversion of the faithful Indian bearer who served five-year-old Henry. This small orphan was one of those morbidly religious children who "never said a bad word and was vexed when he heard any other person do it." He also, although himself "saved by grace," as the phrase then ran in evangelical circles, was chronically anxious lest he should offend the Lord. To quote verbatim from this relic of the former religious life would savor too much of ridiculing those things that were sacred and serious to the people of that day. Yet the main incidents of the story were these: Henry's conversion took place after a year and a half of hard work on the part of a missionary, who finally had the satisfaction of bringing little Henry "from the state of grossest heathen darkness and ignorance to a competent knowledge of those doctrines necessary to salvation." This was followed immediately by the offer of Henry to give all his toys for a Bible with a purple morocco cover. Then came the preparations for the teacher's departure, when she called him to her room and catechized him in a manner worthy of Cotton Mather a century before. After his teacher's departure the boy, mindful of the lady's final admonition, sought to make a Christian of his bearer, Boosy. Like so many story-book parents, Henry's mother was altogether neglectful of her child; and consequently he was left much to the care of Boosy--time which he improved with "arguments with Boosy concerning the great Creator of things." But it is not necessary to follow Henry through his ardent missionary efforts to the admission of the black boy of his sinful state, nor to the time when the hero was delivered from this evil world. Enough has been said to show that the religious child of fiction was not very different from little Elizabeth Butcher or Hannah Hill of colonial days, whose pious sayings were still read when "Little Henry" was introduced to the American child. Indeed, when Mrs. Sherwood's fictitious children were not sufficiently religious to come up to the standard of five-year-old Henry, their parents were invariably as pious as the father of the "Fairchild Family." This was imported and reprinted for more than one generation as a "best seller." It was almost a modernized version of Janeway's "Token for Children," with Mather's supplement of "A Token for the Children of New England," in its frequent production of death-bed scenes, together with painful object lessons upon the sinfulness of every heart. To impress such lessons Mr. Fairchild spared his family no sight of horror or distress. He even took them to see a man on the gallows, "that," said the ingenuous gentleman, "they may love each other with a perfect and heavenly love." As the children gazed upon the dreadful object the tender father described in detail its every phase, and ended by kneeling in prayer. The story of Evelyn in the third chapter was written as the result of a present of books from an American _Universalist_, whose doctrines Mrs. Sherwood thought likely to be pernicious to children and should be controverted as soon as possible. Later, other things emanating from America were considered injurious to children, but this seems to be the first indication that American ideas were noticed in English juvenile literature. But all this lady's tales were not so lugubrious, and many were immense favorites. Children were even named for the hero of the "Little Millenium Boy." Publishers frequently sent her orders for books to be "written to cuts," and the "Busy Bee," the "Errand Boy," and the "Rose" were some of the results of this method of supplying the demand for her work. Naturally, Mrs. Sherwood, like Miss Edgeworth, had many imitators, but if we could believe the incidents related as true to life, parents would seem to have been either very indifferent to their children or forever suspicious of them. In Newbery's time it had been thought no sin to wear fine buckled shoes, to be genteelly dressed with a wide "ribband;" but now the vain child was one who wore a white frock with pink sash, towards whom the finger of scorn was pointed, and from whom the moral was unfailingly drawn. Vanity was, apparently, an unpardonable sin, as when in a "Moral Tale," "Mamma observed the rising lass By stealth retiring to the glass To practise little arts unseen In the true genius of thirteen." The constant effort to draw a lesson from every action sometimes led to overstepping the bounds of truth by the parents themselves, as for example in a similar instance of love for a mirror. "What is this I see, Harriet?" asked a mother in "Emulation." "Is that the way you employ your precious time? I am no longer surprised at the alteration in your looks of late, that you have appeared so sickly, have lost your complexion; in short I have twenty times been on the point of asking you if you are ill. You look shockingly, child." "I am very well, Mamma, indeed," cried Harriet, quite alarmed. "Impossible, my dear, you can never look well, while you follow such an unwholesome practice. Looking-glasses were never intended for little girls, and very few sensible people use them as there is something really poisonous in their composition. To use them is not only prejudicial to the health but to the disposition." Although this conception of the use of looking-glasses as prejudicial to right living seems to hark back to the views expressed in the old story of the "Prodigal Daughter," who sat before a mirror when the Devil made his second appearance, yet the world of story-book literature, even though its creators were sometimes either careless or ignorant of facts, now also emphasized the value of general knowledge, which it endeavored to pour in increasing quantity into the nursery. Miss More had started the stream of goody-goody books, while Miss Edgeworth, Mrs. Barbauld, and Thomas Day were the originators of the deluge of conversational bores, babies, boys, and teachers that threatened to flood the family book-shelves of America when the American writers for children came upon the scene. FOOTNOTES: [148-A] As long ago as seventeen hundred and sixty-two, Garrat Noel, a Dutch bookseller in New York, advertised that, "according to his Annual Custom, he ... provided a very large Assortment of Books ... as proper Presents at Christmas." See page 68. [166-A] Linton, _Wood Engraving in America_. Boston, 1882. [168-A] Linton, _Wood Engraving in America_. Boston, 1882. [169-A] Linton, _Wood Engraving in America_. Boston, 1882. CHAPTER VII 1825-1840 Old story-books! old story-books! we owe you much, old friends, Bright-coloured threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. Who can forget? Who can spurn the ministers of joy That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? Talk of your vellum, gold embossed, morocco, roan, and calf; The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half. ELIZA COOKE Their works of amusement, when not laden with more religion than the tale can hold in solution, are often admirable. _Quarterly Review_, 1843 CHAPTER VII 1825-1840 _American Writers and English Critics_ It is customary to refer to the early writings of Washington Irving as works that marked the time when literature pure and simple developed in America. Such writing as had hitherto attracted attention concerned itself, not with matters of the imagination, but with facts and theories of current and momentous interest. Religion and the affairs of the separate commonwealths were uppermost in people's minds in colonial days; political warfare and the defence of the policy of Congress absorbed attention in Revolutionary times; and later the necessity of expounding principles of government and of fostering a national feeling produced a literature of fact rather than of fancy. Gradually all this had changed. A new generation had grown up with more leisure for writing and more time to devote to the general culture of the public. The English periodical with its purpose of "improving the taste, awakening the attention, and amending the heart," had once met these requirements. Later on these periodicals had been keenly enjoyed, but at the same time there appeared American magazines, modelled after them, but largely filled by contributions from literary Americans. Early in the nineteenth century such publications were current in most large towns. From the short essays and papers in these periodicals to the tales of Cooper and Irving the step, after all, was not a long one. The children's literature of amusement developed, after the end of the eighteenth century, in a somewhat similar way, although as usual tagging along after that of their parents. With the constantly increasing population the production of children's books grew more profitable, and in eighteen hundred and two Benjamin Johnson made an attempt to publish a "Juvenile Magazine" in Philadelphia. Its purpose was to be a "Miscellaneous Repository of Useful Information;" but the contents were so largely drawn from English sources that it was probably, like the toy-books, pirated from an English publisher. Indeed, one of the few extant volumes contains only one article of distinctly American composition among essays on _Education_, the _Choice of a Wife_, _Love_, papers on natural history, selections from poems by Coleridge and Cowper; and by anonymous makers of verse about _Consumption_ and _Friendship_. The American contribution, a discussion of President Washington's will, has already been mentioned. In the same year, 1802, the "Juvenile Olio" was started, edited by "Amyntor," but like Johnson's "Juvenile Magazine," was only issued at irregular intervals and was short-lived. Other ventures in children's periodicals continued to be made, however. The "Juvenile Magazine," with "Religious, Moral, and Entertaining Pieces in Prose and Verse," was compiled by Arthur Donaldson, and sold in eighteen hundred and eleven as a monthly in Philadelphia--then the literary centre--for twelve and a half cents a number. In eighteen hundred and thirteen, in the same city, the "Juvenile Portfolio" made its appearance, possibly in imitation of Joseph Dennie's "Port Folio;" but it too failed from lack of support and interest. Boston proved more successful in arousing attention to the possibilities in a well-conducted children's periodical, although it was not until thirteen years later that Lydia Maria Child established the "Juvenile Miscellany for the Instruction and Amusement of Youth." Three numbers were issued in 1826, and thereafter it appeared every other month until August, 1834, when it was succeeded by a magazine of the same name conducted by Sarah J. Hale. This periodical is a landmark in the history of story-writing for the American child. Here at last was an opportunity for the editors to give to their subscribers descriptions of cities in their own land in place of accounts of palaces in Persia; biographies of national heroes instead of incidents in the life of Mahomet; and tales of Indians rather than histories of Arabians and Turks. For its pages Mrs. Sigourney, Miss Eliza Leslie, Mrs. Wells, Miss Sedgwick, and numerous anonymous contributors gladly sent stories of American scenes and incidents which were welcomed by parents as well as by children. In the year following the first appearance of Mrs. Hale's "Juvenile Miscellany," the March number is typical of the amusement and instruction the editor endeavored to provide. This contained a life of Benjamin Franklin (perhaps the earliest child's life of the philosopher and statesman), a tale of an Indian massacre of an entire settlement in Maine, an essay on memory, a religious episode, and extracts from a traveller's journal. The traveller, quite evidently a Bostonian, criticised New York in a way not unfamiliar in later days, as a city where "the love of literature was less strong than in some other parts of the United States;" and then in trying to soften the statement, she fell into a comparison with Philadelphia, also made many times since the gentle critic observed the difference. "New York," she wrote, "has energy, spirit, and bold, lofty enterprise, totally wanting in Philadelphia, ... a place of neat, well regulated plans." Also, like the English story-book of the previous century, this American "Miscellany" introduced _Maxims for a Student_, found, it cheerfully explained, "among the manuscripts of a deceased friend." Puzzles and conundrums made an entertaining feature, and as the literary _chef d'oeuvre_ was inserted a poem supposed to be composed by a babe in South Carolina, but of which the author was undoubtedly Mrs. Gilman, whose ideas of a baby's ability were certainly not drawn from her own nursery. A rival to the "Juvenile Miscellany" was the "Youth's Companion," established at this time in Boston by Nathaniel P. Willis and the Reverend Asa Rand. The various religious societies also began to issue children's magazines for Sunday perusal: the Massachusetts Sunday School Union beginning in 1828 the "Sabbath School Times," and other societies soon following its example. "Parley's Magazine," planned by Samuel G. Goodrich and published by Lilly, Wait and Company of Boston, ran a successful course of nine years from eighteen hundred and thirty-three. The prospectus declared the intention of its conductors "to give descriptions of manners, customs, and countries, Travels, Voyages, and Adventures in Various parts of the world, interesting historical notes, Biography, particularly of young persons, original tales, cheerful and pleasing Rhymes, and to issue the magazine every fortnight." The popularity of the name of Peter Parley insured a goodly number of subscriptions from the beginning, and the life of "Parley's Magazine" was somewhat longer than any of its predecessors. In the south the idea of issuing a juvenile magazine was taken up by a firm in Charleston, and the "Rose Bud" was started in eighteen hundred and thirty. The "Rose Bud," a weekly, was largely the result of the success of the "Juvenile Miscellany," as the editor of the southern paper, Mrs. Gilman, was a valued contributor to the "Miscellany," and had been encouraged in her plan of a paper for children of the south by the Boston conductors of the northern periodical. Mrs. Gilman was born in Boston, and at sixteen years of age had published a poem most favorably criticised at the time. Marrying a clergyman who settled in Charleston, she continued her literary work, but was best known to our grandmothers as the author of "Recollections of a New England Housekeeper." The "Rose Bud" soon blossomed into the "Southern Rose," a family paper, but faded away in 1839. Among other juvenile weeklies of the time may be mentioned the "Juvenile Rambler" and the "Hive," which are chiefly interesting by reason of the opportunity their columns offered to youthful contributors. Another series of "miscellaneous repositories" for the instructive enjoyment of little people was furnished by the Annuals of the period. These, of course, were modelled after the adult Annuals revolving in social circles and adorning the marble-topped tables of drawing-rooms in both England and America. Issued at the Christmas and New Year seasons, these children's Annuals formed the conventional gift-book for many years, and publishers spared no effort to make them attractive. Indeed, their red morocco, silk, or embossed scarlet cloth bindings form a cheerful contrast to the dreary array of black and drab cloth covering the fiction of both old and young. Better illustrations were also introduced than the ugly cuts "adorning" the other books for juvenile readers. Oliver Pelton, Joseph Andrews (who ranked well as an engraver), Elisha Gallaudet, Joseph G. Kellogg, Joseph I. Pease, and Thomas Illman were among the workers in line-engraving whose early work served to illustrate, often delightfully, these popular collections of children's stories. Among the "Annualettes," "Keepsakes," "Evening Hours," and "Infant's Hours" published at intervals after eighteen hundred and twenty-five the "Token" stands preëminent. Edited by Samuel G. Goodrich (Peter Parley) between the years eighteen hundred and twenty-eight and eighteen hundred and forty-two, its contents and illustrations were almost entirely American. Edward Everett, Bishop Doane, A.H. Everett, John Quincy Adams, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Miss Sedgwick, Eliza Leslie, Dr. Holmes, Horace Greeley, James T. Fields, and Gulian Verplanck--all were called upon to make the "Token" an annual treat to children. Of the many stories written for it, only Hawthorne's "Twice Told Tales" survive; but the long list of contributors of mark in American literature cannot be surpassed to-day by any child's book by contemporary authors. The contents, although written in the style of eighty years ago, are undoubtedly good from a literary standpoint, however out of date their story-telling qualities may be. And, moreover, the "Token" assuredly gave pleasure to the public for which its yearly publication was made. [Illustration: _Children of the Cottage_] By eighteen hundred and thirty-five the "Annual" was in full swing as a popular publication. Then an international book was issued, "The American Juvenile Keepsake," edited by Mrs. Hofland, the well-known writer of English stories for children. Mrs. Hofland cried up her wares in a manner quite different from that of the earlier literary ladies. "My table of contents," she wrote in her introduction, "exhibits a list of names not exceeded in reputation by any preceding Juvenile Annual; for, although got up with a celerity almost distressing in the hurry it imposed, such has been the kindness of my literary friends, that they have left me little more to wish for." Among the English contributors were Miss Mitford, Miss Jean Roberts, Miss Browne, and Mrs. Hall, the ablest writers for English children, and already familiar to American households. Mrs. Hofland, herself, wrote one of its stories, noteworthy as an early attempt of an English author to write for an American juvenile public. She found her theme in the movement of emigration strong in England just then among the laboring people. No amount of discouragement and bitter criticism of the United States by the British press was sufficient to stem appreciably the tide of laborers that flowed towards the country whence came information of better wages and more work. Mrs. Hofland, although writing for little Americans, could not wholly resist the customary fling at American life and society. She acknowledged, however, that long residence altered first impressions and brought out the kernel of American character, whose husk only was visible to sojourners. She deplored the fact that "gay English girls used only to the polished society of London were likely to return with the impression that the men were rude and women frivolous." This impression the author was inclined to believe unjust, yet deemed it wise, because of the incredulous (perhaps even in America!), to back her own opinion by a note saying that this view was also shared by a valued friend who had lived fourteen years in Raleigh, South Carolina. Having thus done justice, in her own eyes, to conditions in the new country, Mrs. Hofland, launched the laborer's family upon the sea, and followed their travels from New York to Lexington, Kentucky, at that time a land unknown to the average American child beyond some hazy association with the name of Daniel Boone. It was thus comparatively safe ground on which to place the struggles of the immigrants, who prospered because of their English thrift and were an example to the former residents. Of course the son grew up to prove a blessing to the community, and eventually, like the heroes in old Isaiah Thomas's adaptations of Newbery's good boys, was chosen Congressman. There is another point of interest in connection with this English author's tale. Whether consciously or not, it is a very good imitation of Peter Parley's method of travelling with his characters in various lands or over new country. It is, perhaps, the first instance in the history of children's literature of an American story-writer influencing the English writer of juvenile fiction. And it was not the only time. So popular and profitable did Goodrich's style of story become that somewhat later the frequent attempts to exploit anonymously and profitably his pseudonymn in England as well as in America were loudly lamented by the originator of the "Tales of Peter Parley." It is, moreover, suggestive of the gradual change in the relations between the two countries that anything written in America was thought worth imitating. America, indeed, was beginning to supply incidents around which to weave stories for British children and tales altogether made at home for her own little readers. In the same volume Mrs. S.C. Hall also boldly attempted to place her heroine in American surroundings. Philadelphia was the scene chosen for her tale; but, having flattered her readers by this concession to their sympathies and interest, the author was still sufficiently insular to doubt the existence of a competent local physician in this the earliest medical centre in the United States. An English family had come to make their home in the city, where the mother's illness necessitated the attendance of a French doctor to make a correct diagnosis of her case. An operation was advised, which the mother, Mrs. Allen, hesitated to undergo in an unknown land. Emily, the fourteen-year-old daughter, urged her not to delay, as she felt quite competent to be in attendance, having had "five teeth drawn without screaming; nursed a brother through the whooping-cough and a sister through the measles." "Ma foi, Mademoiselle," said the French doctor, "you are very heroic; why, let me see, you talk of being present at an operation, which I would not hardly suffer my junior pupils to attend." "Put," said the heroic damsel, "my resolution, sir, to any test you please; draw one, two, three teeth, I will not flinch." And this courage the writer thought could not be surpassed in a London child. It is needless to say that Emily's fortitude was sufficient to endure the sight of her mother's suffering, and to nurse her to complete recovery. Evidently residence in America had not yet sapped the young girl's moral strength, or reduced her to the frivolous creature an American woman was reputed in England to be. Among the home contributors to "The American Juvenile Keepsake" were William L. Stone, who wrote a prosy article about animals; and Mrs. Embury, called the Mitford of America (because of her stories of village life), who furnished a religious tale to controvert the infidel doctrines considered at the time subtly undermining to childish faith, with probable reference to the Unitarian movement then gaining many adherents. Mrs. Embury's stories were so generally gloomy, being strongly tinged with the melancholy religious views of certain church denominations, that one would suppose them to have been eminently successful in turning children away from the faith she sought to encourage. For this "Keepsake" the same lady let her poetical fancy take flight in "The Remembrance of Youth is a Sigh," a somewhat lugubrious and pessimistic subject for a child's Christmas Annual. Occasionally a more cheerful mood possessed "Ianthe," as she chose to call herself, and then we have some of the earliest descriptions of country life in literature for American children. There is one especially charming picture of a walk in New England woods upon a crisp October day, when the children merrily hunt for chestnuts among the dry brown leaves, and the squirrels play above their heads in the many colored boughs. [Illustration: _Henrietta_] Dr. Holmes has somewhere remarked upon the total lack of American nature descriptions in the literature of his boyhood. No birds familiar to him were ever mentioned; nor were the flowers such as a New England child could ever gather. Only English larks and linnets, cowslips and hawthorn, were to be found in the toy-books and little histories read to him. "Everything was British: even the robin, a domestic bird," wrote the doctor, "instead of a great fidgety, jerky, whooping thrush." But when Peter Parley, Jacob Abbott, Lydia Maria Child, Mrs. Embury, and Eliza Leslie began to write short stories, the Annuals and periodicals abounded in American scenes and local color. There was also another great incentive for writers to work for children. This was the demand made for stories from the American Sunday School Union, whose influence upon the character of juvenile literature was a force bearing upon the various writers, and whose growth was coincident with the development of the children's periodical literature. The American Sunday School Union, an outgrowth of the several religious publication societies, in eighteen hundred and twenty-four began to do more extensive work, and therefore formed a committee to judge and pronounce upon all manuscripts, which American writers were asked to submit. The sessions of the Sunday-schools were no longer held for illiterate children only. The younger members of each parish or church were found upon its benches each Sunday morning or afternoon. To promote and to impress the religious teaching in these schools, rewards were offered for well-prepared lessons and regular attendance. Also the scholars were encouraged to use the Sunday-school library. For these different purposes many books were needed, but naturally only those stamped with the approval of the clergyman in charge were circulated. The board of publication appointed by the American Sunday School Union--composed chiefly of clergymen of certain denominations--passed upon the merits of the many manuscripts sent in by piously inclined persons, and edited such of them as proved acceptable. The marginal notes on the pages of the first edition of an old Sunday-school favorite bear witness to the painstaking care of the editors that the leaflets, tracts, and stories poured in from all parts of the country should "shine by reason of the truth contained," and "avoid the least appearance, the most indirect insinuations, of anything which can militate against the strictest ideas of propriety." The tales had also to keep absolutely within the bounds of religion. Many were the stories found lacking in direct religious teaching, or returned because religion was not vitally connected with the plot, to be rewritten or sent elsewhere for publication. The hundreds of stories turned out in what soon became a mechanical fashion were of two patterns: the one of the good child, a constant attendant upon Sabbath School and Divine Worship, but who died young after converting parent or worldly friend during a painful illness; the other of the unregenerate youth, who turned away from the godly admonition of mother and clergyman, refused to attend Sunday-school, and consequently fell into evil ways leading to the thief's or drunkard's grave. Often a sick mother was introduced to claim emotional attention, or to use as a lay figure upon which to drape Scripture texts as fearful warnings to the black sheep of the family. Indeed, the little reader no sooner began to enjoy the tale of some sweet and gentle girl, or to delight in the mischievous boy, than he was called upon to reflect that early piety portended an early death, and youthful pranks led to a miserable old age. Neither prospect offered much encouragement to hope for a happy life, and from conversations with those brought up on this form of religious culture, it is certain that if a child escaped without becoming morbid and neurotic, there were dark and secret resolves to risk the unpleasant future in favor of a happy present. The stories, too, presented a somewhat paradoxical familiarity with the ways of a mysterious Providence. This was exceedingly perplexing to the thoughtful child, whose queries as to justice were too often hushed by parent or teacher. In real life, every child expected, even if he did not receive, a tangible reward for doing the right thing; but Providence, according to these authors, immediately caused a good child to become ill unto death. It is not a matter for surprise that the healthy-minded, vigorous child often turned in disgust from the Sunday-school library to search for Cooper's tales of adventure on his father's book-shelves. The correct and approved child's story, even if not issued under religious auspices, was thoroughly saturated with religion. Whatever may have been the practice of parents in regard to their own reading, they wished that of the nursery to show not only an educational and moral, but a religious tendency. The books for American children therefore divided themselves into three classes: the denominational story, to set forth the doctrines of one church; the educational tale; and the moral narrative of American life. The denominational stories produced by the several Sunday-school societies were, as has been said, only a kind of scaffolding upon which to build the teachings of the various churches. But their sale was enormous, and a factor to be reckoned with because of their influence upon the educational and moral tales of their period. By eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, fifty-thousand books and tracts had been sent out by one Sunday-school society alone.[204-A] There are few things more remarkable in the history of juvenile literature than the growth of the business of the American Sunday School Union. By eighteen hundred and twenty-eight it had issued over seven hundred of these religious trifles, varying from a sixteen-page duodecimo to a small octavo volume; and most of these appear to have been written by Americans trying their inexperienced pens upon a form of literature not then recognized as difficult. The influence of such a flood of tiny books could hardly have been other than morbid, although occasionally there floated down the stream duodecimos which were grasped by little readers with eagerness. Such volumes, one reader of bygone Sunday-school books tells us, glimmered from the dark depths of death and prison scenes, and were passed along with whispered recommendation until their well-worn covers attracted the eye of the teacher, and were quickly found to be missing from library shelves. Others were commended in their stead, such as described the city boy showing the country cousin the town sights, with most edifying conversation as to their history; or, again, amusement of a light and alluring character was presumably to be found in the story of a little maid who sat upon a footstool at her mother's knee, and while she hemmed the four sides of a handkerchief, listened to the account of missionary enterprises in the dark corners of the earth. To us of to-day the small illustrations are perhaps the most interesting feature, preserving as they do children's occupations and costumes. In one book we see quaintly frocked and pantaletted girls and much buttoned boys in Sunday-school. In another, entitled "Election Day," are pictured two little lads watching, from the square in front of Independence Hall, the handing in of votes for the President through a window of the famous building--a picture that emphasizes the change in methods of casting the ballot since eighteen hundred and twenty-eight. That engravers were not always successful when called upon to embellish the pages of the Sunday-school books, many of them easily prove. That the designers of woodcuts were sometimes lacking in imagination when obliged to depict Bible verses can have no better example than the favorite vignette on title-pages portraying "My soul doth magnify the Lord" as a man with a magnifying glass held over a blank space. Perhaps equal in lack of imagination was the often repeated frontispiece of "Mercy streaming from the Cross," illustrated by a large cross with an effulgent rain beating upon the luxuriant tresses of a languishing lady. There were many pictures but little art in the old-fashioned Sunday-school library books. It was in Philadelphia that one of the first, if not the first children's library was incorporated in 1827 as the Apprentices' Library. Eleven years later this library contained more than two thousand books, and had seven hundred children as patrons. The catalogue of that year is indicative of the prevalence of the Sunday-school book. "Adventures of Lot" precedes the "Affectionate Daughter-in-Law," which is followed by "Anecdotes of Christian Missions" and "An Alarm to Unconverted Sinners." Turning the yellowed pages, we find "Hannah Swanton, the Casco Captive," histories of Bible worthies, the "Infidel Class," "Little Deceiver Reclaimed," "Letters to Little Children," "Juvenile Piety," and "Julianna Oakley." The bookish child of this decade could not escape from the "Reformed Family" and the consumptive little Christian, except by taking refuge in the parents' novels, collections of the British poets and essayists, and the constantly increasing American writings for adults. Perhaps in this way the Sunday-school books may be counted among that long list of such things as are commonly called blessings in disguise. [Illustration: _A Child and her Doll_] Aside from the strictly religious tale, the contents of the now considerable output of Harper and Brothers, Mahlon Day, Samuel Wood and Sons of New York; Cottons and Barnard, Lincoln and Edmunds, Lilly, Wait and Company, Munroe and Francis of Boston; Matthew Carey, Conrad and Parsons, Morgan and Sons, and Thomas T. Ashe of Philadelphia--to mention but a few of the publishers of juvenile novelties--are convincing proof that booksellers catered to the demand for stories with a strong religious bias. The "New York Weekly," indeed, called attention to Day's books as "maintaining an unbroken tendency to virtue and piety." When not impossibly pious, these children of anonymous fiction were either insufferable prigs with a steel moral code, or so ill-bred as to be equally impossible and unnatural. The favorite plan of their creators was to follow Miss Edgeworth's device of contrasting the good and naughty infant. The children, too, were often cousins: one, for example, was the son of a gentleman who in his choice of a wife was influenced by strict religious principles; the other boy inherited his disposition from his mother, a lady of bland manners and fine external appearance, but who failed to establish in her offspring "correct principles of virtue, religion, and morality." The author paused at this point in the narrative to discuss the frailties of the lady, before resuming its slender thread. Who to-day could wade through with children the good-goody books of that generation? Happily, many of the writers for little ones chose to be unknown, for it would be ungenerous to disparage by name these ladies who considered their productions edifying, and in their ingenuousness never dreamed that their stories were devoid of every quality that makes a child's book of value to the child. They were literally unconscious that their tales lacked that simplicity and directness in style, and they themselves that knowledge of human nature, absolutely necessary to construct a pleasing and profitable story. The watchwords of these painstaking ladies were "religion, virtue, and morality," and heedless of everything else, they found oblivion in most cases before they gained recognition from the public they longed to influence. The decade following eighteen hundred and thirty brought prominently to the foreground six American authors among the many who occasioned brief notice. Of these writers two were men and four were women. Jacob Abbott and Samuel G. Goodrich wrote the educational tales, Abbott largely for the nursery, while Goodrich devoted his attention mainly to books for the little lads at school. The four women, Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, Miss Eliza Leslie, Miss Catharine Sedgwick, and Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, wrote mainly for girls, and took American life as their subject. Mrs. Hale wrote much for adults, but when editor of the "Juvenile Miscellany," she made various contributions to it. Yet to-day we know her only by one of her "Poems for Children," published in Boston in eighteen hundred and thirty--"Mary had a Little Lamb." Mary's lamb has travelled much farther than to school, and has even reached that point when its authorship has been disputed. Quite recently in the "Century Magazine" Mrs. Hale's claim to its composition has been set forth at some length by Mr. Richard W. Hale, who shows clearly her desire when more than ninety years of age to be recognized as the originator of these verses, In fact, "shortly before her death," wrote Mr. Hale, "she directed her son to write emphatically that every poem in her book of eighteen hundred and thirty was of her own composition." Although rarely seen in print, "Mary had a Little Lamb" has outlived all other nursery rhymes of its day; perhaps because it had most truly the quality, unusual at the time, of being told directly and simply--a quality, indeed, that appeals to every generation. Miss Leslie, like Mrs. Hale, did much editing, beginning on adult gift-books and collections of housewife's receipts, and then giving most of her attention to juvenile literature. As editor Miss Leslie did good work on the "Violet" and the "Pearl," both gift-books for children. She also abridged, edited, and rewrote "The Wonderful Traveller," and the adventures of Munchausen, Gulliver, and Sindbad, heroes often disregarded by this period of lack of imagination and over-supply of educational theories. Also, as a writer of stories for little girls and school-maidens, Eliza Leslie met with warm approval on both sides of the Atlantic. Undoubtedly the success of Eliza Leslie's "American Girls' Book," modelled after the English "Boy's Own Book," and published in 1831, added to the popularity attained by her earlier work, although of this she was but the compiler. The "American Girls' Book" was intended for little girls, and by dialogue, the prevailing mode of conveying instruction or amusement, numerous games and plays were described. Already many of the pastimes have gone out of fashion. "Lady Queen Anne" and "Robin's Alive," "a dangerous game with a lighted stick," are altogether unknown; "Track the Rabbit" has changed its name to "Fox and Geese;" "Hot Buttered Beans" has found a substitute in "Hunt the Thimble;" and "Stir the Mush" has given place to "Going to Jerusalem." But Miss Leslie did more than preserve for us these old-fashioned games. She has left sketches of children's ways and nature in her various stories for little people. She shared, of course, in the habit of moralizing characteristic of her day, but her children are childish, and her heroines are full of the whims, and have truly the pleasures and natural emotions, of real children. Miss Leslie began her work for children in eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when "Atlantic Stories" were published, and as her sketches of child-life appeared one after another, her pen grew more sure in its delineation of characters and her talent was speedily recognized. Even now "Birthday Stories" are worth reading and treasuring because of the pictures of family life eighty years ago. The "Souvenir," for example, is a Christmas tale of old Philadelphia; the "Cadet's Sister" sketches life at West Point, where the author's brother had been a student; while the "Launch of the Frigate" and "Anthony and Clara" tell of customs and amusements quite passed away. The charming description of children shopping for their simple Christmas gifts, the narrative of the boys who paid a poor lad in a bookstore to ornament their "writing-pieces" for more "respectable presents" to parents, the quiet celebration of the day itself, can ill be spared from the history of child life and diversions in America. It is well to be reminded, in these days of complex and expensive amusements, of some of the saner and simpler pleasures enjoyed by children in Miss Leslie's lifetime. All of this writer's books, moreover, have some real interest, whether it be "Althea Vernon," with the description of summer life and fashions at Far Rockaway (New York's Manhattan Beach of 1830), or "Henrietta Harrison," with its sarcastic reference to the fashionable school where the pupils could sing French songs and Italian operas, but could not be sure of the notes of "Hail Columbia." Or again, the account is worth reading of the heroine's trip to New York from Philadelphia. "Simply habited in a plaid silk frock and Thibet shawl," little Henrietta starts, under her uncle's protection, at five o'clock in the morning to take the boat for Bordentown, New Jersey. There she has her first experience of a railway train, and looks out of the window "at all the velocity of the train will allow her to see." At Heightstown small children meet the train with fruit and cakes to sell to hungry travellers. And finally comes the wonderful voyage from Amboy to the Battery in New York, which is not reached until night has fallen. This is the simple explanation as to why Eliza Leslie's books met with so generous a reception: they were full of the incidents which children love, and unusually free from the affectations of the pious fictitious heroine. The stories of Miss Catharine Sedgwick also received most favorable criticism, and in point of style were certainly better than Miss Leslie's. Her reputation as a literary woman was more than national, and "Redwood," one of her best novels, was attributed in France to Fenimore Cooper, when it appeared anonymously in eighteen hundred and twenty-four. Miss Sedgwick's novels, however, pass out of nursery comprehension in the first chapters, although these were full of a healthy New England atmosphere, with coasting parties and picnics, Indians and gypsies, nowhere else better described. The same tone pervades her contributions to the "Juvenile Miscellany," the "Token," and the "Youth's Keepsake," together with her best-known children's books, "Stories for Children," "A Well Spent Hour," and "A Love Token for Children." In contrast to Mrs. Sherwood's still popular "Fairchild Family," Catharine Sedgwick's stories breathe a sunny, invigorating atmosphere, abounding in local incidents, and vigorous in delineation of types then plentiful in New England. "She has fallen," wrote one admirer, most truthfully, in the "North American Review" of 1827,--"she has fallen upon the view, from which the treasures of our future literature are to be wrought. A literature to have real freshness must be moulded by the influences of the society where it had its origin. Letters thrive, when they are at home in the soil. Miss Sedgwick's imaginations have such vigor and bloom because they are not exotics." Another reviewer, aroused by English criticism of the social life in America, and full of the much vaunted theory that "all men are equal," rejoiced in the author's attitude towards the so-called "help" in New England families in contrast to Miss More's portrayal of the English child's condescension towards inferiors, which he thought unsuitable to set before the children in America. All Miss Sedgwick's stories were the product of her own keen intelligence and observation, and not written in imitation of Miss More, Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Sherwood, as were the anonymous tales of "Little Lucy; or, the Pleasant Day," or "Little Helen; a Day in the Life of a Naughty Girl." They preached, indeed, at length, but the preaching could be skipped by interested readers, and unlike the work of many contemporaries, there was always a thread to take up. Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, another favorite contributor to magazines, collected her "Poetry for Children" into a volume bearing this title, in eighteen hundred and thirty-four, and published "Tales and Essays" in the same year. These were followed two years later by "Olive Buds," and thereafter at intervals she brought out several other books, none of which have now any interest except as examples of juvenile literature that had once a decided vogue and could safely be bought for the Sunday-school library. The names of Mrs. Anna M. Wells, Mrs. Frances S. Osgood, Mrs. Farrar, Mrs. Eliza L. Follen, and Mrs. Seba Smith were all well beloved by children eighty years ago, and their writings, if long since lost sight of, at least added their quota to the children's publications which were distinctly American. If the quantity of books sold is any indication of the popularity of an author's work, nothing produced by any of these ladies is to be compared with the "Tales of Peter Parley" and the "Rollo Books" of Jacob Abbott. The tendency to instruct while endeavoring to entertain was remodelled by these men, who in after years had a host of imitators. Great visions of good to children had overtaken dreams of making children good, with the result that William Darton's conversational method of instruction was compounded with Miss Edgeworth's educational theories and elaborated after the manner of Hannah More. Samuel Goodrich, at least, confessed that his many tales were the direct result of a conversation with Miss More, whom, because of his admiration for her books, he made an effort to meet when in England in eighteen hundred and twenty-three. While talking with the old lady about her "Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," the idea came to Mr. Goodrich that he, himself, might write for American children and make good use of her method of introducing much detail in description. As a child he had not found the few toy-books within his reach either amusing or interesting, with the exception of this Englishwoman's writings. He resolved that the growing generation should be better served, but little dreamed of the unprecedented success, as far as popularity was concerned, that the result of his determination would prove. After his return to America, the immediate favorable reception of the "Token," under Goodrich's direction, led to the publication in the same year (1828) of "Peter Parley's Tales about America," followed by "Tales about Europe." At this date of retrospection the first volume seems in many ways the best of any of the numerous books by the same author. The boy hero, taken as a child companion upon a journey through several states, met with adventures among Indians upon the frontiers, and saw places of historical significance. Every incident is told in imitation of Miss More, with that detailed description which Goodrich had found so fascinating. If a little overdone in this respect, the narrative has certainly a freshness sadly deficient in many later volumes. Even the second tale seems to lack the engaging spontaneity of the first, and already to grow didactic and recitative rather than personal. But both met with an equally generous and appreciative reception. Parley's educational tales were undoubtedly the American pioneers in what may be readily styled the "travelogue" manner used in later years by Elbridge Brooks and many other writers for little people. These early attempts of Parley's to educate the young reader were followed by one hundred others, which sold like hot cakes. Of some tales the sales reached a total of fifty thousand in one year, while it is estimated that seven million of Peter Parley's "Histories" and "Tales" were sold before the admiration of their style and qualities waned. Peter Parley took his heroes far afield. Jacob Abbott adopted another plan of instruction in the majority of his books. Beginning in eighteen hundred and thirty-four with the "Young Christian Series," the Reverend Mr. Abbott soon had readers in England, Scotland, Germany, France, Holland, and India, where many of his volumes were translated and republished. In the "Rollo Books" and "Franconia" an attempt was made to answer many of the questions that children of each century pour out to astonish and confound their elders. The child reader saw nothing incongruous in the remarkable wisdom and maturity of Mary Bell and Beechnut, who could give advice and information with equal glibness. The advice, moreover, was often worth following, and the knowledge occasionally worth having; and the little one swallowed chunks of morals and morsels of learning without realizing that he was doing so. Most of both was speedily forgotten, but many adults in after years were unconsciously indebted to Goodrich and Abbott for some familiarity with foreign countries, some interest in natural science. Notwithstanding the immense demand for American stories, there was fortunately still some doubt as to whether this remodelled form of instructive amusement and moral story-book literature did not lack certain wholesome features characteristic of the days when fairies and folklore, and Newbery's gilt volumes, had plenty of room on the nursery table. "I cannot very well tell," wrote the editor of the "Fairy Book"[216-A] in 1836,--"I cannot very well tell why it is that the good old histories and tales, which used to be given to young people for their amusement and instruction, as soon as they could read, have of late years gone quite out of fashion in this country. In former days there was a worthy English bookseller, one Mr. Newbery, who used to print thousands of nice little volumes of such stories, which, as he solemnly declared in print in the books themselves, he gave away to all little boys and girls, charging them only a sixpenny for the gold covers. These of course no one could be so unreasonable as to wish him to furnish at his own expense.... Yet in the last generation, American boys and girls (the fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers of the present generation) were not wholly dependent upon Mr. Newbery of St. Paul's church-yard, though they knew him well and loved him much. The great Benjamin Franklin, when a printer in Philadelphia, did not disdain to print divers of Newbery's books adorned with cuts in the likeness of his, though it must be confessed somewhat inferior.[216-B] Yet rude as they were, they were probably the first things in the way of pictures that West and Copley ever beheld, and so instilled into those future painters, the rudiments of that art by which they afterwards became so eminent themselves, and conferred such honour upon their native country. In somewhat later time there were the worthy Hugh Gaine, at the Sign of the Bible and Crown in Pearl street, and the patriotic Samuel Loudon, and the genuine and unadulterated New Yorker, Evert Duyckinck, besides others in Boston and Philadelphia, who trod in the steps of Newbery, and supplied the infant mind with its first and sweetest literary food. The munificent Newbery, and the pious and loyal Hugh Gaine, and the patriotic Samuel Loudon are departed. Banks now abound and brokers swarm where Loudon erst printed, and many millions worth of silk and woolen goods are every year sold where Gaine vended his big Bibles and his little story-books. They are all gone; the glittering covers and their more brilliant contents, the tales of wonder and enchantment, the father's best reward for merit, the good grandmother's most prized presents. They are gone--the cheap delight of childhood, the unbought grace of boyhood, the dearest, freshest, and most unfading recollections of maturer life. They are gone--and in their stead has succeeded a swarm of geological catechisms, entomological primers, and tales of political economy--dismal trash, all of them; something half-way between stupid story-books and bad school-books; being so ingeniously written as to be unfit for any useful purpose in school and too dull for any entertainment out of it." This is practically Charles Lamb's lament of some thirty years before. Lamb had despised the learned Charles, Mrs. Barbauld's peg upon which to hang instruction, and now an American Shakespeare lover found the use of toy-books as mechanical guides to knowledge for nursery inmates equally deplorable. Yet an age so in love with the acquirement of solid facts as to produce a Parley and an Abbott was the period when the most famous of all nursery books was brought out from the dark corner into which it had been swept by the theories of two generations, and presented once again as "The Only True Mother Goose Melodies." The origin of Mother Goose as the protecting genius of the various familiar jingles has been an interesting field of speculation and research. The claim for Boston as the birthplace of their sponsor has long ago been proved a poor one, and now seems likely to have been an ingenious form of advertisement. But Boston undoubtedly did once again make popular, at least in America, the lullabies and rhymes repeated for centuries around French or English firesides. The history of Mother Goose and her brood is a long one. "Mother Goose," writes Mr. Walter T. Field, "began her existence as the raconteuse of fairy tales, not as the nursery poetess. As La Mère Oye she told stories to French children more than two hundred and fifty years ago." According to the researches made by Mr. Field in the literature of Mother Goose, "the earliest date at which Mother Goose appears as the author of children's stories is 1667, when Charles Perrault, a distinguished French littérateur, published in Paris a little book of tales which he had during that and the preceding year contributed to a magazine known as 'Moejen's Recueil,' printed at The Hague. This book is entitled 'Histoires ou Contes du Tems Passé, avec des Moralitez,' and has a frontispiece in which an old woman is pictured, telling stories to a family group by the fireside while in the background are the words in large characters, 'Contes de ma Mère l'Oye.'" It seems, however, to have been John Newbery's publishing-house that made Mother Goose sponsor for the ditties in much the form in which we now have them. In Newbery's collection of "Melodies" there were numerous footnotes burlesquing Dr. Johnson and his dictionary, together with jests upon the moralizing habit prevalent among authors. There is evidence that Goldsmith wrote many of these notes when doing hack-work for the famous publisher in St. Paul's Churchyard. It is known, for instance, that in January, 1760, Goldsmith celebrated the production of his "Good Natur'd Man" by dining his friends at an inn. During the feast he sang his favorite song, said to be "There was an old woman tos't up in a blanket, Seventy times as high as the moon." This was introduced quite irrelevantly in the preface to "Mother Goose's Melodies," but with the apology that it was a favorite with the editor. There is also the often quoted remark of Miss Hawkins as confirming Goldsmith's editorship: "I little thought what I should have to boast, when Goldsmith taught me to play Jack and Jill, by two bits of paper on his fingers." But neither of these statements seems to have more weight in solving the mystery of the editor's name than the evidence of the whimsically satirical notes themselves. How like the author of the "Vicar of Wakefield" and the children's "Fables in Verse" is this remark underneath: "'There was an old Woman who liv'd under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still.' "This is a self evident Proposition, which is the very essence of Truth. She lived under the hill, and if she's not gone, she lives there still. Nobody will presume to contradict this. _Croesa._" And is not this also a good-natured imitation of that kind of seriously intended information which Mr. Edgeworth inserted some thirty years later in "Harry and Lucy:" "Dry, what is not wet"? Again this note is appended to "See Saw Margery Daw Jacky shall have a new master:" "It is a mean and scandalous Practise in Authors to put Notes to Things that deserve no Notice." Who except Goldsmith was capable of this vein of humor? When Munroe and Francis in Boston undertook about eighteen hundred and twenty-four to republish these old-fashioned rhymes, in the practice of the current theory that everything must be simplified, they omitted all these notes and changed many of the "Melodies." Sir Walter Scott's "Donnel Dhu" was included, and the beautiful Shakespeare selections, "When Daffodils begin to 'pear," "When the Bee sucks," etc., were omitted. Doubtless the American editors thought that they had vastly improved upon the Newbery publication in every word changed and every line omitted. In reality, they deprived the nursery of much that might well have remained as it was, although certain expressions were very properly altered. In a negative manner they did one surprising and fortunate thing: in leaving out the amusing notes they did not attempt to replace them, and consequently the nursery had one book free from that advice and precept, which in other verse for children resulted in persistent nagging. The illustrations were entirely redrawn, and Abel Bowen and Nathaniel Dearborn were asked to do the engraving for this Americanized edition. Of the poetry written in America for children before eighteen hundred and forty there is little that need be said. Much of it was entirely religious in character and most of it was colorless and dreary stuff. The "Child's Gem" of eighteen hundred and thirty-eight, considered a treasury of precious verse by one reviewer, and issued in embossed morocco binding, was characteristic of many contemporary _poems_, in which nature was forced to exude precepts of virtue and industry. The following stanzas are no exception to the general tone of the contents of practically every book entitled "Poetry for Children:" "'Be good, little Edmund,' your mother will say, She will whisper it soft in your ear, And often repeat it, by night and by day That you may not forget it, my dear. "And the ant at its work, and the flower-loving bee And the sweet little bird in the wood As it warbles its song, from its nest in the tree, Seems to say, 'little Eddy be good.'" The change in the character of the children's books written by Americans had begun to be seriously noticed in England. Although there were still many importations (such as the series written by Mrs. Sherwood), there was some inclination to resent the stocking of American booksellers' shelves by the work of local talent, much to the detriment of English publishers' pockets. The literary critics took up the subject, and thought themselves justified in disparaging many of the American books which found also ready sale on English book-counters. The religious books underwent scathing criticism, possibly not undeserved, except that the English productions of the same order and time make it now appear that it was but the pot calling the kettle black. Almost as much fault was found with the story-books. It apparently mattered little that the tables were now turned and British publishers were pirating American tales as freely and successfully as Thomas and Philadelphia printers had in former years made use of Newbery's, and Darton and Harvey's, juvenile novelties in book ware. In the "Quarterly Review" of 1843, in an article entitled "Books for Children," the writer found much cause for complaint in regard to stories then all too conspicuous in bookshops in England. "The same egregious mistakes," said the critic, "as to the nature of a child's understanding--the same explanations, which are all but indelicate, and always profane--seem to pervade all these American mentors; and of a number by Peter Parley, Abbott, Todd, &c., it matters little which we take up." "Under the name of Peter Parley," continued the disgruntled gentleman, after finding only malicious evil in poor Mr. Todd's efforts to explain religious doctrines, "such a number of juvenile school-books are current--some greatly altered from the originals and many more by _adopters_ of _Mr. Goodrich's_ pseudonym--that it becomes difficult to measure the merits or demerits of the said _magnus parens_, Goodrich." Liberal quotations followed from "Peter Parley's Farewell," which was censured as palling to the mind of those familiar with the English sources from which the facts had been irreverently culled. The reviewer then passed on to another section of "American abominations" which "seem to have some claim to popularity since they are easily sold." "These," continued the anonymous critic, "are works not of amusement--those we shall touch upon later--but of that half-and-half description where instruction blows with a side wind.... Accordingly after impatient investigation of an immense number of little tomes, we are come to the conclusion that they may be briefly classified--firstly, as containing such information as any child in average life who can speak plainly is likely to be possessed of; and secondly, such as when acquired is not worth having." To this second class of book the Reverend Mr. Abbott's "Rollo Books" were unhesitatingly consigned. They were regarded as curiosities for "mere occupation of the eye, and utter stagnation of the thoughts, full of empty minutiae with all the rules of common sense set aside." Next the writer considered the style of those Americans who persuaded shillings from English pockets by "ingeniously contrived series which rendered the purchase of a single volume by no means so recommendable as that of all." The "uncouth phraseology, crack-jack words, and puritan derived words are nationalized and therefore do not permit cavilling," continued the reviewer, dismayed and disgusted that it was necessary to warn his public, "but their children never did, or perhaps never will, hear any other language; and it is to be hoped they _understand_ it. At all events, we have nothing to do but keep ours from it, believing firmly that early familiarity with refined and beautiful forms ... is one of the greatest safeguards against evil, if not necessary to good." However, the critic did not close his article without a good word for those ladies in whose books we ourselves have found merit. "Their works of amusement" he considered admirable, "when not laden with more religion than the tale can hold in solution. Miss Sedgwick takes a high place for powers of description and traits of nature, though her language is so studded with Americanisms as much to mar the pleasure and perplex the mind of an English reader. Besides this lady, Mrs. Sigourney and Mrs. Seba Smith may be mentioned. The former, especially, to all other gifts adds a refinement, and nationality of subject, with a knowledge of life, which some of her poetical pieces led us to expect. Indeed the little Americans have little occasion to go begging to the history or tradition of other nations for topics of interest." The "Westminster Review" of eighteen hundred and forty was also in doubt "whether all this Americanism [such as Parley's 'Tales' contained] is desirable for English children, were it," writes the critic, "only for them we keep the 'pure well of English undefiled,' and cannot at all admire the improvements which it pleases that go-ahead nation to claim the right of making in our common tongue: unwisely enough as regards themselves, we think, for one of the elements in the power of a nation is the wide spread of its language." This same criticism was made again and again about the style of American writers for adults, so that it is little wonder the children's books received no unqualified praise. But Americanisms were not the worst feature of the "inundation of American children's books," which because of their novelty threatened to swamp the "higher class" English. They were feared because of the "multitude of false notions likely to be derived from them, the more so as the similarity of name and language prevents children from being on their guard, and from remembering that the representations that they read are by foreigners." It was the American view of English institutions (presented in story-book form) which rankled in the British breast as a "condescending tenderness of the free nation towards the monarchical régime" from which at any cost the English child must be guarded. In this respect Peter Parley was the worst offender, and was regarded as "a sad purveyor of slip-slop, and no matter how amusing, ignorant of his subject." That gentleman, meanwhile, read the criticisms and went on making "bread and butter," while he scowled at the English across the water, who criticised, but pirated as fast as he published in America. Gentle Miss Eliza Leslie received altogether different treatment in this review of American juvenile literature. She was considered "good everywhere, and particularly so for the meridian in which her tales were placed;" and we quite agree with the reviewer who considered it well worth while to quote long paragraphs from her "Tell Tale" to show its character and "truly useful lesson." "To America," continued this writer, "we also owe a host of little books, that bring together the literature of childhood and the people; as 'Home,' 'Live and Let Live' [by Miss Sedgwick], &c., but excellent in intention as they are, we have our doubts, as to the general reception they will meet in this country while so much of more exciting and elegant food is at hand." Even if the food of amusement in England appeared to the British mind more spiced and more _elegant_, neither Miss Leslie's nor Miss Sedgwick's fictitious children were ever anaemic puppets without wills of their own,--a type made familiar by Miss Edgeworth and persisted in by her admirers and successors,--but vitalized little creatures, who acted to some degree, at least, like the average child who loved their histories and named her dolls after favorite characters. To-day these English criticisms are only of value as showing that the American story-book was no longer imitating the English tale, but was developing, by reason of the impress of differing social forces, a new type. Its faults do not prevent us from seeing that the spirit expressed in this juvenile literature is that of a new nation feeling its own way, and making known its purpose in its own manner. While we smile at sedulous endeavors of the serious-minded writers to present their convictions, educational, religious, or moral, in palatable form, and to consider children always as a race apart, whose natural actions were invariably sinful, we still read between the lines that these writers were really interested in the welfare of the American child; and that they were working according to the accepted theories of the third decade of the nineteenth century as to the constituents of a juvenile library which, while "judicious and attractive, should also blend instruction with innocent amusement." [Illustration: _The Little Runaway_] And now as we have reached the point in the history of the American story-book when it is popular at least in both English-speaking countries, if not altogether satisfactory to either, what can be said of the value of this juvenile literature of amusement which has developed on the tiny pages of well-worn volumes? If, of all the books written for children by Americans seventy-five years and more ago, only Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Wonder Book" has survived to the present generation; of all the verse produced, only the simple rhyme, "Mary had a Little Lamb," and Clement Moore's "The Night before Christmas" are still quoted, has their history any value to-day? If we consider that there is nothing more rare in the fiction of any nation than the popular child's story that endures; nothing more unusual than the successful well-written juvenile tale, we can perhaps find a value not to be reckoned by the survival or literary character of these old-fashioned books, but in their silent testimony to the influence of the progress of social forces at work even upon so small a thing as a child's toy-book. The successful well-written child's book has been rare, because it has been too often the object rather than the manner of writing that has been considered of importance; because it has been the aim of all writers either to "improve in goodness" the young reader, as when, two hundred years ago, Cotton Mather penned "Good Lessons" for his infant son to learn at school, or, to quote the editor of "Affection's Gift" (published a century and a quarter later), it has been for the purpose of "imparting moral precepts and elevated sentiments, of uniting instruction and amusement, through the fascinating mediums of interesting narrative and harmony of numbers." The result of both intentions has been a collection of dingy or faded duodecimos containing a series of impressions of what each generation thought good, religiously, morally, and educationally, for little folk. If few of them shed any light upon child nature in those long-ago days, many throw shafts of illumination upon the change and progress in American ideals and thought concerning the welfare of children. As has already been said, the press supplied what the public taste demanded, and if the writers produced for earlier generations of children what may now be considered lumber, the press of more modern date has not progressed so far in this field of literature as to make it in any degree certain that our children's treasures may not be consigned to an equal oblivion. For these too are but composites made by superimposing the latest fads or theories as to instructive amusement of children upon those of previous generations of toy-books. Most of what was once considered the "perfume of youth and freshness" in a literary way has been discarded as dry and unprofitable, mistaken or deceptive; and yet, after all has been said by way of criticism of methods and subjects, these chap-books, magazines, gift and story books form our best if blurred pictures of the amusements and daily life of the old-time American child. We are learning also to prize these small "Histories" as part of the progress of the arts of book-making and illustration, and of the growth of the business of publishing in America; and already we are aware of the fulfilment of what was called by one old bookseller, "Tom Thumb's Maxim in Trade and Politics:" "He who buys this book for Two-pence, and lays it up till it is worth Three-pence, may get an hundred per cent by the bargain." FOOTNOTES: [204-A] _Election Day_, p. 71. American Sunday School Union, 1828. [216-A] Mr. G.C. Verplanck was probably the editor of this book, published by Harper & Bros. [216-B] This statement the writer has been unable to verify. _Index_ INDEX ABBOTT, Jacob, 201, 208, 213, 215, 218, 222, 223. Abbott, John S.C., 129. A, B, C Book, 101. A, B, C of religion, 22. Absence from Christ intolerable, 39. Adams, John, 165. Adams, Mrs. John, 91. Adams, J.A., 169. Adams, John Quincy, 196. Addison, Joseph, 159. Adventures of a Peg-top, 109. Adventures of a Pincushion, 109, 111, 112. Adventures of Lot, 206. Aesop, 63, 66, 67, 69, 90, 101, 109. Affectionate Daughter-in-Law, 206. Affection's Gift, 227. Aikin, Dr. John, 139, 140, 163. Ainsworth, Robert, 63. Aitkin, Robert, 100, 101. Alarm to Unconverted Sinners, An, 206. Althea Vernon, 210. American Antiquarian Society, 103. American Flag, 148. American Girls' Book, 209. American Juvenile Keepsake, 197, 200. American Sunday School Union, 201, 202, 204. American Weekly Mercury, 20. Ami des Enfans, 134, 135. Amyntor, 192. Anderson, Dr. Alexander, 166-169, 180. André, Major John, 97. Andrews, Joseph, 196. Andrews, Thomas, 102. Anecdoten von Hunden, 178. Anecdotes of Christian Missions, 206. Animated Nature, 108. Annales of Madame de Genlis, 134. Annual Register, 163. Anthony and Clara, 210. Arabian Nights, 162. Argalus & Parthenia, 90. Arnold, Benedict, 97, 98. Arthur's Geographical Grammar, 99. Art's Treasury, 90. Ashe, Thomas T., 207. Ashton, John, 54. Atlantic Stories, 210. Avery, S., 180. BABCOCK, Sidney, 167, 168. Bache, Benjamin, 100, 101, 104, 105, 127. Bag of Nuts ready Cracked, 107. Bailey, Francis, 123. Banbury Chap-Books, 53, 70, 117. Barbauld, Anna Letitia, 127-129, 132, 140-142, 152, 155, 163, 188, 218. Barclay, Andrew, 102, 103. Baskerville, John, 103. Battelle, E., 102. Battle of the Kegs, 97. Be Merry and Wise, 67, 106. Beecher, Rev. Dr. Lyman, 162. Belcher, J., 170, 171. Bell, Robert, 75, 76, 89, 100, 101. Benezet, Anthony, 101. Berquin, Arnaud, 134, 159, 161. Bewick, Thomas, 117, 118, 135, 166, 168, 169. Bewick's Quadrupeds, 168. Bibliography of Worcester, 102. Big and Little Puzzling Caps, 107. Biography for Boys, 115. Biography for Girls, 114, 115. Birthday Stories, 210. Blossoms of Morality, 165. Blue Beard, The History of, 141, 165. Body of Divinity versified, 22. Book for Boys and Girls; or, Country Rhimes for Children, 11. Book for Boys and Girls; or, Temporal Things Spiritualized, 13. Book of Knowledge, 90, 103. Book of Martyrs, 10. Books for Children, 222. Bookseller of the last century, The, 51, 54. Boone, Daniel, 198. Boone, Nicholas, 17. Boston Chronicle, 74, 75. Boston Evening Post, 38, 43, 73. Boston Gazette and Country Journal, 80. Boston News Letter, 19. Boston Public Library, 74. Bowen, Abel, 169, 221. Boy and his Paper of Plumbs, 12. Boy and the Watchmaker, 12. Boy's Own Book, 209. Boyle, John, 76, 77. Bradford, Andrew, 20, 21, 126. Bradford, Thomas, 59, 90, 100. Brewer, printer, 167. Brooke, Henry, 130. Brooks, Elbridge, 215. Brother's Gift, 80, 111, 112. Browne, Miss, 197. Brynberg, Peter, 165. Buccaneers of America, 90. Bunyan, John, 10-13. Burr, Aaron, 132-134. Burr, Theodosia, 132, 133. Burton, R., 36, 37. Burton's Historical Collections, 36. Busy Bee, 187. Butcher, Elizabeth, 21, 40, 186. Butterworth, Hezekiah, 132. CADET'S Sister, 210. Cameron, Lucy Lyttleton, 152, 184. Canary Bird, The, 172. Carey, Matthew, 165, 206. Carey, Robert, 72. Carnan, Mr., 46, 104. Carter, John, 101. Catechism, 5, 6, 10, 15. Catechism of New England, 7. Cautionary Stories in Verse, 175. Century Magazine, 208. Chandler, Samuel, 163. Chap-Books of the Eighteenth Century, 54. Chapone, Hester, 113, 114, 159. Chapters of Accidents, 174. Charles, Mary, 170. Charles, William, 170, 171, 176, 183. Cheap Repository, 152. Cherry Orchard, The, 156, 177. Child, Lydia Maria, 193, 201. Child and his Book, 11, 45. Children in the Wood, 8. Children's Books and Reading, 132. Children's Friend, 135, 161. Children's Magazine, The, 101. Children's Miscellany, 129, 131. Child's Garden of Verses, Stevenson's, 182. Child's Gem, 221. Child's Guide to Spelling and Reading, 165. Child's Instructor, 122, 123. Child's New Play-thing, 41, 43-45. Choice Spirits, 90. Christmas Box, 64, 106. Cinderella, 62, 171. Clarissa Harlowe, 50, 79-85, 109. Clarke, Edward, 41. Cock Robin, 166. Collection of Pretty Poems, 67. Collins, Benjamin, 47. Complete Letter-Writer, 90. Congress, The, 98. Conrad and Parsons, 206, 207. Contes de ma Mère l'Oye, 219. Cooper, James Fenimore, 148, 191, 203, 211. Cooper, Rev. Mr., 134. Copley, John Stuart, 217. Cotton, John, 6, 9, 30. Cottons and Barnard, 206. Country Rhimes for Children, 11, 13. Coverly, Nathaniel, 166. Cowper, William, 153, 175. Cox and Berry, 80. Cries of London, 80, 180. Cries of New York, 180-182. Cries of Philadelphia, 180. Cross, Wilbur L., 80. Crouch, Nathaniel, 36. Cruel Giant Barbarico, 74. Crukshank, Joseph, 100, 101, 165. Custis, John Parke, 73. Custis, Martha Parke, 73. Cuz's Chorus, 111. DAISY, The, 176. Darton, William, 124, 174, 182, 213. Darton and Harvey, 222. Day, Mahlon, 169, 206, 207. Day, Thomas, 129-132, 142, 145, 154, 179, 188. Daye, John, 7. Dearborn, Nathaniel, 169, 221. Death and Burial of Cock Robin, 124. Death of Abel, 90. Defoe, Daniel, 129. Delight in the Lord Jesus, 39. Description of Various Objects, A, 173. Development of the English novel, 80. Dennie, Joseph, 192. Dilworth, Thomas, 38, 41, 121, 136. Divine emblems, 13. Divine Songs, 38. Doane, Bishop G.W., 196. Doddridge, Philip, 152, 184. Dodsley, Robert, 95. Don Quixote, 161. Donaldson, Arthur, 192. Donnel Dhu, 220. Doolittle, Amos, 169. Dove, The, 134. Drake, Joseph Rodman, 148. Draper, Samuel, 69. Draper and Edwards, 44. Drinker, Eliza, 91, 126. Dryden's Poems, 163. Dunlap, John, 100. Dunton, John, 8, 36. Durell, publisher, 166, 167. Duyckinck, Evert, 217. EARLY Lessons, 155. Earnest Exhortation, 22. Easy Introduction into the knowledge of Nature, 128. Easy Lessons for Children, 127, 128, 132, 155. Economy of Human Life, 152. Edgeworth, Maria, 128, 140, 150, 153-159, 164, 171, 175-177, 187, 188, 207, 212, 213, 226. Edgeworth, Richard Lovell, 154-156, 220. Edwards, Joseph, 43. Elegant Extracts, 162. Embury, Emma C., 200, 201. Emulation, 187. English Empire in America, 36. Entertaining Fables, 109. Errand Boy, 187. Evenings at Home, 128, 139, 163, 164. Everett, Alexander H., 196. Everett, Edward, 196. FABLES in verse, 53, 220. Fabulous Histories, 128, 141. Fair Rosamond, 24. Fairchild Family, The, 152, 186, 212. Fairy Book, 216. Familiar Description of Beasts and Birds, 174. Farrar, Eliza Ware, 213. Father's Gift, The, 111. Female Orators, 82. Fenelon's Reflections, 184. Field, E.M., 11, 45. Field, Walter T., 218. Fielding, Henry, 51, 78, 80, 81, 137. Fields, James T., 196. First Book of the American Chronicles of the Times, 76. Fleet, Thomas, 19, 20, 24, 38. Fleming, John, 74. Flora's Gala, 175. Follen, Eliza L., 213. Food for the Mind, 67, 68, 107. Fool of Quality, 130. Ford, Paul Leicester, 14. Fowle, Zechariah, 20, 40, 69, 103. Fowle and Draper, 72. Fox and Geese, 209. Foxe, John, 10. Franconia, 215. Frank, 155. Franklin, Benjamin, 21-24, 26, 36, 38, 59-62, 103, 105, 123, 179, 193, 216. Franklin, Sally, 62, 63. Franklin and Hall, 59. French Convert, 90. Friendly Instruction, 184. GAFFER Two Shoes, 82. Gaine, Hugh, 64, 65, 67, 68, 89, 167, 217. Gallaudet, Elisha, 196. Garden Amusements, 175. Generous Inconstant, The, 82. Genlis, Madame Stéphanie-Félicité de, 132, 134. Geographical, Statistical and Political Amusement, 178. George's Junior Republic, 139. Gilbert, C., 169. Giles Gingerbread, 74, 110, 140, 159. Gilman, Caroline, 194, 195. Going to Jerusalem, 209. Goldsmith, Oliver, 51, 52, 80, 82, 95, 108, 159, 219, 220. Good Lessons for Children, 18, 127, 227. Good Natur'd Man, 219. Goodrich, Samuel G., 129, 194-196, 198, 199, 201, 208, 213-215, 218, 222-225. Goody Two-Shoes, 52, 53, 55, 89, 101, 110, 116-118, 123, 140-142, 159. Greeley, Horace, 196. Green, Samuel, 10, 13, 14. Green, Timothy, 17. Gulliver's Adventures, 125. Guy of Warwick, 8. HAIL Columbia, 148, 211. Hale, Richard W., 208. Hale, Sarah J., 193, 208, 209. Hall, Anna Maria, 197, 199. Hall, David, 59, 62, 100. Hall, Samuel, 124, 125. Hall, William, 100. Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 148. Hannah Swanton, the Casco Captive, 206. Happy Child, 40. Harper and Brothers, 206, 216. Harris, Benjamin, 14. Harris, John, 182, 183. Harry and Lucy, 155, 156, 164, 220. Harvey, John, 182. Hawkins, Laetitia Matilda, 219. Hawthorne, Julian, 78, 129, 130. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 149, 196, 227. Hebrides, 153. Henrietta Harrison, 211. Hildeburn, Charles R., 65, 93. Hill, George Birbeck, 141. Hill, Hannah, 21, 186. Histoires ou Contes du Tems Passé, 219. Historical Society of Pennsylvania, 69. History of a Doll, 136. History of printing in America, 18, 19. History of the American Revolution, 123. History of the Holy Jesus, 39, 40, 103. History of the Institution of Cyrus, 130. History of the Robins, 129. Hive, The, 195. Hobby Horse, The, 42, 80. Hofland, Barbara, 197, 198. Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell, 162-164, 184, 196, 201. Holy Bible in Verse, 15. Home, 226. Home of Washington, 28. Hopkinson, Joseph, 148. Hot Buttered Beans, 209. House that Jack Built, 19. Howard, Mr., 29. Hudibras, 161. Hunt the Thimble, 209. Hymns for Infant Minds, 184. Hymns in Prose and Verse, 128. "IANTHE." _See_ Embury. Illman, Thomas, 196. Infidel Class, 206. Irving, Washington, 148, 191. JACK and Jill, 219. Jack the Giant Killer, 8, 141. Jacky Dandy's Delight, 107, 108. James, William, 175, 176. Jane Grey, 24. Janeway, James, 17, 186. Jenny Twitchell's Jests, 90. Joe Miller's Jests, 90. Johnson, Benjamin, 164, 178, 183, 192. Johnson, Jacob, 152, 155, 156, 159, 164, 173, 178, 183. Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 36, 50-52, 129, 140, 141, 153, 219. Johnson and Warner, 164, 178, 183. Johnsonian Miscellany, 141. Jones, Giles, 52, 53. Joseph Andrews, 78, 81, 90. Josephus, 167. Julianna Oakley, 206. Juvenile Biographers, 115, 116. Juvenile Magazine, 179, 192. Juvenile Miscellany, 193-195, 208, 212. Juvenile Olio, 192. Juvenile Piety, 206. Juvenile Portfolio, 192. Juvenile Rambler, 195. Juvenile Trials for Robbing Orchards, etc., 139, 140. KEEPER'S Travels in Search of his Master, 172. Kellogg, Joseph G., 196. Kendall, Dr., 172. Key, Francis Scott, 148. Kilner, Dorothy, 109. King Pippin, 55, 110, 159, 163. Kleine Erzählungen über ein Buch mit Kupfern, 178. Knox, Thomas W., 132. LADY Queen Anne, 209. Lamb, Charles, 141, 142, 217. Lansing, G., 169. Lark, The, 90. Launch of the Frigate, 210. Lee, Richard Henry, 28, 29. Legacy to Children, 126. Lenox Collection, 180. Leo, the Great Giant, 74. Leslie, Eliza, 193, 196, 201, 208-211, 225, 226. Letters from the Dead to the Living, 162. Letters to Little Children, 206. Liddon, Mr., 100. Life of David, 163. Lilly, Wait and Company, 194, 206. Lincoln and Edmunds, 184, 206. Linnet, The, 90. Linton, William James, 166, 168, 169. Literary Magazine, 52. Literature of the American Revolution, 98. Little Book for Children, 17. Little Boy found under a Haycock, 123. Little Deceiver Reclaimed, 206. Little Dog Trusty, 156. Little Fanny, 176. Little Helen, 212. Little Henry, 170. Little Henry and his Bearer, 184, 185. Little Jack, 131. Little Lottery Book, 106. Little Lucy, 212. Little Millenium Boy, 186. Little Nancy, 171, 176-178. Little Pretty Pocket-Book, A, 47-50, 67. Little Readers' Assistant, 121, 122. Little Robin Red Breast, 114. Little Scholar's Pretty Pocket Companion, 122. Little Sophie, 176. Little Truths, 124, 125, 182. Little William, 171. Live and Let Live, 226. Lives of Highwaymen, 90. Lives of Pirates, 90. Locke, John, 41-43, 46, 51, 66, 99. London Chronicle, 53. Longfellow, Henry W., 196. Longworth, David, 165, 168. Looking-glass, A, 22. Looking Glass for the Mind, 134, 135, 159, 162, 166. Lossing, Benson J., 28, 29, 167. Loudon, Samuel, 217. Love Token for Children, 212. MACAULAY, T.B., 153. Magnalia, 162. Mary had a Little Lamb, 208, 209, 227. Mason, A.J., 169. Massachusetts Sunday School Union, 194. Master Jacky and Miss Harriot, 135. Mather, Cotton, 6, 7, 9, 16-18, 21, 22, 56, 127, 185, 186, 227. Mather, Elizabeth, 16. Mather, Increase, 16-18. Mather, Samuel, 16. Mein, John, 73-75, 77, 89. Metamorphosis, A, 169. Milk for Babes, 6, 7, 30. Milton, John, 159, 175. Mr. Telltruth's Natural History of Birds, 107. Mitford, Mary Russell, 197. Moejen's Recueil, 218. Moll Flanders, 90. Moore, Clement Clarke, 147-149, 227. Moral Tale, 187. Moral Tales, 159. More, Hannah, 134, 150-153, 159, 188, 212-214. Morgan, engraver, 169. Morgan and Sons, 170, 207. Morgan and Yeager, 170. Morton, Eliza, 95. Moses, Montrose J., 132. Mother Goose Melodies, 19, 20, 53, 114, 218-220. Mother's Gift, 82, 111, 113, 118. Mother's Remarks over a Set of Cuts, A, 178. Munroe and Francis, 20, 168, 206, 220. Murray, James, 91. Museum, The, 60, 61. My Father, 176. My Governess, 176, 182. My Mother, 176. My Pony, 176. My Sister, 182. NATURAL History of Four Footed Beasts, 107. Neagle, John, 169. New England Courant, 21, 22. New England Primer, 6, 7, 13-15, 28, 33, 93, 121. New French Primer, 60. New Gift for Children with Cuts, 40, 69-72, 103. New Guide to the English Tongue, 38. New Picture of the City, 100. New Year's Gift, 64. New York Mercury, 67. New York Weekly, 207. Newbery, Carnan, 54. Newbery, Edward, 54. Newbery, Francis, 46, 51, 54, 82. Newbery, John, 28, 37, 40, 46-56, 60-62, 64, 67, 70, 74, 77, 82, 89, 90, 97, 101, 104, 108, 118, 123, 124, 141, 142, 154, 159, 182, 187, 198, 216, 217, 219, 220, 222. Newbery, Ralph, 46. Nichols, Dr. Charles L., 102, 103. Night before Christmas, The, 147, 148, 227. Noel, Garrat, 68, 148. North American Review, 212. Nutter, Valentine, 89. OLD Mother Hubbard, 166. Olive Buds, 213. Orangeman, The, 156. Original Poems, 182. Osgood, Frances S., 213. Oswald, Ebenezer, 100. PAMELA, 50, 78, 80, 81, 109. Parable against Persecution, 123. Paradise Lost, 153. Parent's Assistant, 155. Parents' Gift, 38. Parker, James, 62. Parley, Peter. _See_ Goodrich, S.G. Pastoral Hymn, 74. Patriotic and Amatory Songster, 180. Peacock at Home, 171. Pearl, The, 209. Pearson, Edwin, 53, 117. Pease, Joseph I., 196. Pedigree and Rise of the Pretty Doll, 136-139. Pelton, Oliver, 196. Pennsylvania Evening Post, 93. Pennsylvania Gazette, 59, 62. Pennsylvania Journal, 59. People of all Nations, 173, 174. Peregrine Pickle, 51, 109. Perrault, Charles, 62, 218. Perry, Michael, 26. Philadelphiad, The, 100. Picture Exhibition, The, 106, 109. Pilgrim's Progress, 10, 36, 95, 126, 163, 167. Pilkington, Mary, 114. Pinckney, Eliza, 91. Play-thing, The, 61. Pleasures of Piety in Youth, 184. Plutarch's Lives, 130. Poems for Children, 208. Poems for Children Three Feet High, 64. Poesie out of Mr. Dod's Garden, 38. Poetical Description of Song Birds, 114. Poetry for Children, 213, 221. Popular Tales, 155. Poupard, James, 169. Power of Religion, 152. Practical Education, 128. Practical Piety, 184. Present for a Little Girl, 169. Preservative from the Sins and Follies of Childhood, 40. Pretty Book for Children, 60, 61, 67. Principles of the Christian Religion, 184. Pritchard, Mr., 100. Private Tutor for little Masters and Misses, 67. Prize for Youthful Obedience, 172, 173. Prodigal Daughter, The, 24-26, 40, 188. Protestant Tutor for Children, 13, 14. Puritan Primer, 13. Puzzling Cap, 80, 82. QUARTERLY Review, 222. Quincy, Mrs. Josiah, 158, 159. RAIKES, Robert, 151. Ralph, W., 169. Rand, Rev. Asa, 194. Rebels, The, 98. Recollections of a New England Housekeeper, 195. Redwood, 211. Rees's Encyclopedia, 163. Reformed Family, 206. Remembrance of Youth is a Sigh, 200. Rhymes for the Nursery, 20, 182. Rice, Mr., 100. Richardson, Samuel, 50, 78-81, 137. Rivington, James, 65, 67, 68. Roberts, Jean, 197. Robin Red Breast, 90. Robin's Alive, 209. Robinson Crusoe, 79, 90, 118, 129, 130, 159. Roderick Random, 51, 109. Roger and Berry, 89. Rollin's Ancient History, 161. Rollinson, William, 169. Rollo Books, 213, 215, 223. Rose, The, 187. Rose Bud, 195. Rose's Breakfast, The, 175. Rowe, Elizabeth, 162. Royal Battledore, 60, 61. Royal Primer, 61. Russell's Seven Sermons, 90. SABBATH School Times, 194. Sanford and Merton, 129, 154. Scotch Rogue, 90. Scott, Sir Walter, 158, 220. Scott's (Rev. Thomas) Family Bible, 163. Search after Happiness, 134, 152. Sedgwick, Catharine Maria, 152, 160, 161, 193, 196, 208, 211, 212, 224, 226. Seven Wise Masters, 90. Seven Wise Mistresses, 90. Sewall, Henry, 9. Sewall, Samuel, 9, 10. Shakespeare, William, 159, 161. Sharps, William, 29. Sheldon, Lucy, 82. Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, 152, 214. Sherwood, Mary Martha, 152, 184, 186, 187, 212, 221. Sigourney, Lydia H., 193, 208, 213, 224. Simple Susan, 158. Sims, Joseph, 27. Sir Charles Grandison, 79-82. Sister's Gift, 80, 111-113. Skyrin, Nancy, 126, 127. Smart, Christopher, 54. Smith, Elizabeth Oakes, 213, 224. Smollett, Tobias, 51, 52, 78, 79. Song for the Red Coats, 97. Songs for the Nursery, 19, 20. Southern Rose, 195. Souvenir, 210. Sparrow, The, 172. Star Spangled Banner, 148. Stevenson, Robert Louis, 182. Stir the Mush, 209. Stone, William L., 200. Stories and Tales, 90. Stories for Children, 212. Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 162. Strahan, William, 61-63. TALE, A: The Political Balance, 123. Tales and Essays, 213. Taylor, Ann, 176, 182. Taylor, Jane, 182, 184. Tell Tale, 225. Thackerary, W.M., 34. Thomas, Isaiah, 18-20, 40, 69, 74, 102-104, 106, 109, 116-118, 129, 168, 198, 222. Thompson, John, 168. Thoughts on Education, 41, 66, 99. Three Stories for Children, 156. Todd, John, D.D., 222. Token, The, 196, 197, 212, 214. Token for Children, 17, 186. Token for the Children of New England, 17, 21, 186. Token for Youth, 40. Tom Hick-a-Thrift, 24. Tom Jones, 51, 78, 80, 109, 110. Tom the Piper's Son, 170. Tom Thumb, 8, 19, 24, 62, 74, 77, 102, 106, 114, 166, 167. Tommy Trapwit, 64. Tommy Trip, 52, 74, 107, 108. Track the Rabbit, 209. Trimmer, Sarah, 128, 129, 141, 142, 159. Trip's Book of Pictures, 64. Triumphs of Love, 90. Troy (N.Y.) Sentinel, 147. Twelve Caesars, 90. Twice Told Tales, 196. Two Lambs, 152. Two Shoemakers, 152. Tyler, Moses Coit, 98. UNTERHALTUNGEN für Deutsche Kinder, 178. Urax, or the Fair Wanderer, 74. VALENTINE and Orson, 90. Verplanck, Gulian C., 196, 216. Vicar of Wakefield, 52, 219. Violet, The, 209. WADDELL, J., 62. Walks of Usefulness, 184. Walters and Norman, 93. Walton's Lives, 153. Warner and Hanna, 169. Washington, George, 28, 29, 72, 73, 93, 122, 123, 170, 179. Waste Not, Want Not, 156-158. Watts, Isaac, 38, 45, 46. Way to Wealth, 179. Webster, Noah, 121, 122, 136. Weekly Mercury, 23, 26, 27, 64, 65, 68. Weekly Post-Boy, 62. Weems's Life of George Washington, 179, 180. Well Spent Hour, 212. Wells, Anna M., 193, 213. Wells, Robert, 102. Welsh, Charles, 46, 49, 51, 54, 61, 70, 124, 142. West, Benjamin, 216. Westminster Review, 224. Westminster Shorter Catechism, 7. White, William, D.D., 151. Whitefield, George, 151. Widdows, P., 126. Wilder, Mary, 113. Willis, Nathaniel P., 194. Winslow, Anna Green, 81-83, 85. Winter Evenings' Entertainment, 37, 90. Wonder Book, 149, 227. Wonderful Traveller, 209. Wonders of Nature and Art, 53. Wood, Samuel, 165, 166, 169, 175. Wood, Samuel, and Sons, 167, 206. Wood-engraving in America, 166-169. Woodhouse, William, 100. Worcester Magazine, 104. XENOPHON, 130. YOUNG, William, 129. Young Child's A B C, 166. Young Christian Series, 215. Young Gentlemen and Ladies' Magazine, 183. Youth's Companion, 194. Youth's Divine Pastime, 37. Youth's Keepsake, 212. ZENTLER, publisher, 178. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: The following errors and inconsistencies have been maintained. Misspelled words and typographical errors: p. ix Edmands for Edmunds p. 46 Newbury for Newbery p. 102 Period missing at end of the sentence "to a boy But" p. 158 Paragraph ends with , "her own generation," p. 208 Sentence ends with a comma: "the originator of these verses," p. 243 Thackerary for Thackeray Inconsistent hyphenation: folk-lore / folklore school-fellows / schoolfellows school-masters / schoolmasters small-pox / smallpox wood-cut / woodcut 
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28130	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 2. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents] IN PROSE. PAGE "Christmas Presents made here" 33 My Dog Jack 37 Bertie's Steamer 40 A Story about Squirrels 41 What a Little Boy in England says 42 First Lesson in Astronomy 46 Papa's Birthday Present 47 Drawing-Lesson 49 The Rescue 50 The Young Sheep-Owner 52 Emma's Choice 55 Help one another 57 Billy and the Pig 61 Jocko, the Raven 62 IN VERSE. The Petition of the Sparrows 35 Ensign Johnny 39 The Froggies' Party 45 The Faithless Friend 59 Chipperee Chip (_with music_) 64 [Illustration: "CHRISTMAS PRESENTS MADE HERE." VOL. XXI.--NO. 2.] "CHRISTMAS PRESENTS MADE HERE." [Illustration: A]BOUT a year ago, Edwin had a Christmas present of a jig-saw. If Santa Claus brought it, then Santa Claus did a good thing for himself; for last Christmas his pack was loaded down with presents of Edwin's manufacture. Nice little brackets to set up against the wall, nice little bedsteads, book-shelves, toy-houses, frames for pictures, card-baskets,--these are but a few of the great variety of things that Edwin makes with his jig-saw. Many little articles he gives away, for he is a generous boy: but he wants books, and his mother cannot always afford to buy him the books he wants; for she has two children, besides himself, to provide for. So one day when Mr. Topliff, who keeps a great toy-shop, said to Edwin, "I'll pay you well for as many of these toy-houses as you can make," Edwin replied, "I'll go to work just as soon as I have finished this bracket; for a little money is just what I want." Edwin had by practice learned to use his saw with great skill, and he took pains always to do his work well. Gradually he learned to do the finer sort of cabinet-work; and then he puzzled his wits to invent new varieties of toys, and other things often sought for as Christmas presents. Mr. Topliff said, "You can earn a living by this kind of work, if you choose, Edwin." But no! Edwin had made up his mind to go to college; and so he replied, "If I can pay my college expenses by working at odd hours, Mr. Topliff, I mean to do it--and I think I can." "So do I," said Mr. Topliff. "You've got the knack. Well, my lad, don't forget the firm of Topliff & Co. Bring us all your pretty things." UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] THE PETITION OF THE SPARROWS. NOW girls and boys of Chester Square, Pray give us of your meals a share. Just have the kindness to remember That this is chilly, bleak December; That snow has covered long the ground Till really nothing's to be found: So throw us out a crumb or two, And, as you would be done by, do. In those snug little cottages That you have placed among the trees, We all were hatched, and so, you see, Are members of the family. Hunger and frost are hard to bear: So, girls and boys of Chester Square, Just throw us out a crumb or two, And, as you would be done by, do. We know bad things of us are told: They call us English upstarts bold; Say we drive off the snow-birds dear, And fight the Yankee sparrows here; That we make havoc in the spring With all the sweet-pea's blossoming: Still throw us out a crumb or two, And, as you would be done by, do. We're not as bad as they declare, O girls and boys of Chester Square! Be sure some little good we do, Even though we pilfer buds a few. Don't grudge them, since your trees we clear Of vermin that would cost you dear: So throw us out a crumb or two, And, as you would be done by, do. Dear girls and boys of Chester Square, We, too, partake the Father's care; And to your kindly hearts he sends The impulse that our race befriends: We know that you, while Winter reigns, For our relief will take some pains; Will throw us out a crumb or two, And, as you would be done by, do. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] MY DOG JACK. I WANT to tell the readers of "The Nursery" about my dog. My mamma bought him for me when he was very young. He is a Newfoundland dog, and is very large. He is black, with a white face and neck. His name is Jack. Jack is very useful in keeping tramps out of our orchard, and is also very kind and playful. I do not like to play with him; for he is so rough, that he sometimes tumbles me over, and hurts me: but I have a good time with him in other ways. He draws me about in a little cart into which I harness him. He minds a pull on the reins, and will go just as I wish him to. But he will insist on chasing pigs whenever he sees them. He does not like pigs. One day, when I was harnessing him, he spied a pig, and away he ran after it--cart and all. He broke one wheel of the cart, and came back panting and wagging his tail, as if he had done something good; but I scolded him well. Jack will sit on his hind-legs, and catch bits of bread or cake in his mouth when I throw them to him. One summer, we went to the seashore, and took him with us. He is a splendid swimmer; and when we took a stick, and threw it into the water, he would plunge through the waves, and bring it back in his mouth. Sometimes an old fisherman took me out sailing, and as there was not room in the boat for Jack, the good old dog would lie on the wharf and wait patiently till I came back. When he saw the boat coming in, he would jump up and bark in great delight; and one day he leaped into the water, and swam out to meet us. Once my cousin and I were sitting in a cleft in the rocks, gathering shells and pebbles, when a great black creature jumped right over our heads. We were much frightened, but soon found that it was only our good friend Jack. He had seen us from the top of the rock, and had jumped down full fifteen feet to get to us. PAUL EATON. [Illustration] ENSIGN JOHNNY. THIS is Ensign Johnny: See him armed for fight! Mice are in the garret; Forth he goes to smite. Ready for the battle, He is not afraid; For the cat, as captain, Will be by to aid. Now, good-by, my Johnny! Soldiers must be brave: While puss does the fighting, You the flag can wave. Do not, like a coward, From the field retreat: Forward, Ensign Johnny, And the mice defeat! IDA FAY. BERTIE'S STEAMER. BERTIE has taken much pleasure in hearing me read about the different ways in which the little "Nursery" people amuse themselves. He is very anxious that they should, in return, know about the steamboat which his uncle brought him from the Centennial,--a _real_ little steamboat. It is nearly a foot long, made of brass, with a "truly" boiler, as Bertie says, and a little alcohol lamp to convert the water in the boiler into steam. The older folks were as much interested in its trial trip as Bertie. The biggest tub was brought up, and half filled with water. The little boiler was also filled, and the lamp lighted; and we all waited patiently for the steam to start the little wheel. A stick was put across the tub, and a string fastened from its centre to the end of the steamer, to keep it from running against the side of the tub. The rudder was turned to guide the boat in a circle, and soon the steamer started. But it did not run easily. Could it be that it would prove a failure? Bertie's face began to put on a disappointed look. "Can't Uncle Nelson fix it?" said he. "Uncle Nelson can do most any thing." So Uncle Nelson took the delicate machinery apart, and found some particles of dirt, which prevented the piston from working smoothly. Then he cleaned and oiled it, put it together again, and once more it started. This time it was a complete success. How Bertie clapped his hands, as the steam hissed, and the boat went round and round, as if it were alive! It was half an hour before the water in the little boiler gave out. BERTIE'S MAMMA. A STORY ABOUT SQUIRRELS. [Illustration] FREDDIE is a bright little boy six years old. He goes with his papa and mamma every summer to stay a few months at a nice place in the country. In front of the house, near the fence, stands a large elm-tree, which is the home of many little squirrels. One day Freddie got his papa to build him a small shelf on the tree, about four feet from the ground, so that he could put nuts on it to feed the squirrels. At first the little fellows were very shy, and would not come near the shelf, but sat on the branches of the tree; and we fancied that we heard them saying to each other, "Do you think that little boy would hurt us, if we should run down, and take one of those nuts?" But, after a while, they came down, one by one, took the nuts, and went scampering up to the top branches; and in a few minutes down came the empty shells. They grew so tame before the summer was over, that if we put any thing on their shelf, and took a seat a few steps away, they would come down quite boldly, and get their breakfast. One day we put a small ear of sweet-corn on the shelf. Pretty soon a little squirrel came after it; but it was too heavy for him: so he sat down on the shelf, as though quite at home, ate off about half of the kernels of corn, to make his burden lighter, and, after trying many times, finally got it up to his hiding-place. Presently we saw all the squirrels running to that part of the tree, and we thought he might be having a squirrel-party in his best parlor. There was a large pond not very far away; and we often saw the squirrels go from tree to tree, jump a fence here and there, and run down behind a stone wall to the pond to get a drink, and then run home again. If they had only known as much as some squirrels we read about, what a nice sail they might have had by jumping on a piece of wood, and putting their bushy tails up in the air for a sail! Wouldn't it look funny to see a squirrel yacht-race? As we sit in our warm rooms this cold weather, we often wonder what the little fellows are doing, and if they are eating any of the nuts they stored away last summer. FREDDIE'S PAPA. WHAT A LITTLE BOY IN ENGLAND SAYS. MY grandfather and grandmother live in the country. Everybody in their house is very fond of birds, and very thoughtful for the comfort of all dumb creatures. Among the birds that flock about grandfather's house are the bright little tom-tits. They fly very quickly, and look very pretty, darting in and out of a tall evergreen-tree that grows in front of the dining-room window. [Illustration] In winter, my Aunt Emily has a pole, about four feet high, stuck in the ground near this tree. Across the top of the pole, a light bamboo stick is fastened, not quite as long as the pole is high. On strings tied at the ends of the bamboo stick, netted bags, filled with fat or suet, are hung. Now, tom-tits are, I think, the only birds in England that can cling to a thing with their heads hanging down; and they are very fond of fat. So they come to aunty's bags, cling to them as they sway to and fro in the wind, and eat to their little hearts' content. We watch them from the windows, and see what is going on. Sometimes other birds try very hard to get a share of the feast, particularly when the weather is very cold, and they cannot find much else. Then they will stand on the ground, looking at the bags, and now and then make an awkward spring at them, sometimes snatching a piece of suet, but generally failing to reach it. A tiny robin (an English robin is not at all like an American one) has practised so much, this cold weather, that he can not only get a taste of the suet by darting at it, but, better still, will sit on the top of the bag, and get at it in that way. But he seems very much afraid of falling off, and I think the tom-tits would laugh at him: perhaps they do, in bird fashion. When they cling, they do not mind where it is, and often seem to take the very bottom of the bag by choice, and hang there, with their heads down, so long, that it seems as though they would surely get the headache. I have often seen two, and sometimes three birds on a bag at a time. H. B. BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND. [Illustration: OFF IN A HURRY.] THE FROGGIES' PARTY. THE frog who would a-wooing go Gave a party, you must know; And his bride, dressed all in green, Looked as fine as any queen. Their reception numbered some Of the best in Froggiedom. Four gay froggies played the fiddle,-- Hands all round, and down the middle. In the room were stern old croakers, Yellow vests and snow-white chokers. Froggie belles with rush-leaf fans, Froggie beaux in green brogans, Flirted in the bowers there, Hidden from the ball-room's glare. Three old froggies tried a reel,-- Twist 'em, turn 'em, toe and heel. [Illustration] One young miss was asked to sing; But she had a cold that spring. Little frogs were sound asleep, Late hours--bad for them to keep. Each one wished the couple joy; No bad boys came to annoy. This next fall,--the news is spreading,-- They will have their silver-wedding! GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration: THE FIRMAMENT SHEWETH HIS HANDYWORK] FIRST LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star: How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky!" I AM going to tell all the wondering children just what that little star is, and I want them to go to the window this minute, and take a good look at it. Have you been? And was it "up above the world so high"? Some of you are laughing at me, perhaps, because it is broad daylight, when stars do not show themselves. But do not laugh yet. If the sun is out, you can certainly see a star. To be sure you cannot take a good look at it, it is so bright; but there it is,--the star that gives us light and heat,--the sun himself. Now, were you ever told before, that the sun is a star, just like the little diamonds you see in the sky before you go to bed? Why shouldn't it look like a star then? Because it is not "up above the world so high" as all the rest of the stars are. It is near enough to us to keep us warm, and make every thing grow. But what is more wonderful than that our sun is a star, is, that all the stars are suns. They keep the worlds that are near them warm and bright, just as our sun does this world. They are great globes of fire that never go out. Some are red fire, some are blue, some yellow, and some white, like ours. How should you like to have it all red, or blue, or green, out doors, instead of white? It would seem a good deal like fireworks to us, I think. Now look out of the window again, and try to pick out a red star. I know one you can all see before you go to bed, unless you are too sleepy to see any thing. It is nearly overhead about supper-time. If you find it, write a little letter to "The Nursery," and tell me. M. E. R. PAPA'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT. HARRY is a little boy six years old. He always wants to be doing something; and many funny pictures he makes, both on his slate and with a lead pencil on paper. Mamma saves all the blank pieces of paper she can to give him. When he is tired of pictures, he plays with his blocks, and makes boats, and cars and bridges, and towers and churches. Harry lives on the west bank of the Mississippi River, where there is a bridge right in sight from his home. He often watches the cars go across the bridge, and the boats go through the draw. He is an observing little fellow, and he notices that just before the cars get to the bridge they stop, and then go over very slowly. Then they start up faster and faster; and soon the bridge is left behind, and the cars are out of sight. The cars always have to wait for the boats to go through the bridge; and Harry thinks that is too bad; for the cars would not keep the boats waiting half as long as the boats keep them. So mamma tells him that the river was there first, and the boats have the first right. But about the present. There had been a week of rain; but papa's birthday was pleasant, and Harry was glad to get out of doors. He ran till he was tired, and then, as he sat down to rest, he thought he would get some clay, and make something to show mamma. So he began. First he made a round ball like a marble, then a larger ball; then he put them together, and thought, "I will make a man, and this little ball shall be his head." He put a stick in to hold the head to the body, and put clay around the stick, and that made the neck. Then he made a long piece for the legs, and cut out between them with a knife to form two. Then he made the arms, and joined them to the body. He was very much pleased with his work so far; but to complete it was the most fun. He got little stones, and stuck them into the clay for eyes, nose, and buttons; made a cut for the mouth; and, for a head-dress, made use of the green spikes from a pine-tree. This made the figure look so much like an Indian, that Harry danced with joy. Then he took it to mamma, who was so pleased that she told him to put it on papa's study-table to dry, and said that it would do for papa's birthday present. Papa thinks so much of it, that he has locked it up in his curiosity cabinet. This is a true story. COUSIN VIDA. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXI.--NO. 2.] THE RESCUE. JANE is a bright little girl, about six years old, who lives not far from a wharf in a seaport town, where her father is employed in a junk store. She has an elder sister named Susan, a baby-brother named Charlie, and a doll named Anna Maria. One pleasant summer day Susan took the baby in her arms, Jane took Anna Maria in her arms, and all together, and all bareheaded, they took a stroll down the wharf. It was not a safe place for young children; and Susan ought to have known better than to take them there. They wandered about, enjoying the cool sea-air, and pretty soon stood on the very edge of the wharf, looking down into the water. Just then, by some accident (I don't know exactly how it happened), Anna Maria slipped out of Jane's arms, and fell overboard. Well, this was not so bad as if Jane herself had fallen over; but it was almost as bad to poor Jane. She burst into tears, and raised a cry of distress. There was her dear little Anna Maria in the water, beyond her reach, and she could do nothing to save her. Now there happened to be a smart boy, named Tom Williams, not far off. He heard Jane's outcry, and came running down the wharf to see what was the matter; and another bright boy, named Sam Brown, came with him. The two saw what the trouble was in a moment. [Illustration] They lay down on the wharf, and tried to reach Anna Maria. But it was of no use. Their arms were not long enough. Poor Jane's heart sank within her. She cried and sobbed, and was in more distress than ever. "Don't cry," said Tom. "Crying's of no use. Wait a minute: I know how to do it." And off he ran into the old junk shop. In a moment he came back, bringing a pair of tongs. "Now I'll show you!" said he. Down he lay again, with his bare feet sticking up, as you see in the picture, reached over the side of the wharf, took Anna Maria in the tongs, just as she was near floating under the wharf, and placed her, all wet and dripping, in Jane's arms. How happy the little girl was to get her darling safe back again! And how thankful she was to Tom, for coming to the rescue so bravely! Anna Maria soon got over the effects of her bath: she did not even catch cold. But I hope that both Jane and Susan will learn a lesson from her mishap, and not go so near the edge of the wharf another time. UNCLE SAM. THE YOUNG SHEEP-OWNER. SEVERAL years ago, on the Island of Nantucket, lived a little boy named Frank Simmons. His grandfather, with whom he was a great favorite, owned about two hundred sheep. Many other persons on the island owned sheep at that time; and there was a broad plain of open ground, over which all the flocks roamed in common. Every year, in the month of June, all the sheep were driven into a large enclosure near a pond, in which they were washed until their wool was white and clean. This was the preparation for shearing, or taking off their heavy coats of wool. Each separate flock was marked by a little cut made in the ears. The ears of one flock, for instance, were clipped at the ends; of another, notched at the sides; of another, marked by a slit. [Illustration] This last was the mark which Frank looked for when he went with his grandfather to catch his sheep. Frank thought it was cruel to cut the ears so; but, when his grandfather told him it was the only way by which each owner could know his own sheep, he was satisfied. Whenever he caught one, he would lead it along to his grandfather's pen, where a man was waiting to take it on his back, and carry it into the pond. After being washed, the sheep were left to find their own way to the shore, which they did very quickly. It took two days to wash all the sheep on the island. The washing was finished on Saturday. The sheep were allowed to rest and dry themselves on Sunday; and on Monday morning, bright and early, Frank was ready to start with his grandfather to catch the sheep for the shearing. The shearing occupied two days more; and, after their heavy coats were off, the sheep would feel so smart, that they would frisk about like young lambs; and some of them would jump five or six feet up in the air. During all this time, their poor little lambs had been kept apart by themselves. They must have felt lonely enough without their mothers; but, as soon as the shearing was over, all the sheep and lambs were set at liberty. Such a bleating and baa-ing as there was! The sheep ran round for the lambs, and the lambs for their mothers; and away they skipped over the plains like children at play. Frank had made himself so useful in catching the sheep, that his grandfather gave him two sheep and two lambs as a reward, and put a new mark on them for him. So Frank became a young sheep-owner, and, the next year, had his own sheep to catch. CARTWRIGHT. [Illustration] [Illustration] EMMA'S CHOICE. THREE young children, Emma, Charles, and Arthur Payson, had been left to the care of their old grandfather, through the death of their parents. Grandpa Payson was not rich: he was a day-laborer, and had to work hard for the support of a family, which would have been large enough without the addition of three hungry little ones. But grandpa's heart was large enough to take them all in; and they proved such good and lovable children, that he soon became very much attached to them. Little Emma was his especial favorite; and one December day he said to her, "What shall I get you, darling, for a Christmas present? A nice pair of shoes would be just the thing, I'm thinking." "Oh, no, grandpa! Give me a book--a book with pictures in it: that will be better than new shoes. By going barefoot, I can make my old shoes last me a year longer." Well, in the shop where Grandpa Payson bought a beautiful bound copy of "The Nursery" for his darling, he happened to mention to the shopkeeper the fact that Emma had preferred a new book to a new pair of shoes. An old lady who stood near could not help hearing the conversation. That evening, while Grandpa Payson, Emma, and the two boys, were gathered around the table, feasting their eyes on the new book, there was a knock at the door, and a package was left, directed to "Miss Emma Payson." "Dear me! What can it be? I never had a package left for me before in all my life," cried Emma. She opened the package, and there found several pairs of shoes, and a note, telling her to select two pairs that would fit her, and to send the rest to the shopkeeper. In the note the old lady wrote: "You must not only fill your head with knowledge, but keep your feet warm, if you would preserve your health. If your brothers will go to Mr. Lane's to-morrow, he will fit them both to new shoes, a gift from me. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!" IDA FAY. [Illustration] HELP ONE ANOTHER. ONE day, passing through a meadow, I saw a sheep much troubled by flies. Presently I saw it walk to a small pond where there were some young ducks, and stand there quietly. Soon the ducks took notice of the flies, and, coming out from the water, began snapping them up, as if to punish them for worrying the poor sheep. By and by a starling, from a tree near by, flew down, lighted on the sheep's back, and helped in the good work of ridding her of the flies. This, thought I, is a clear case of putting into practice the golden rule of "Help one another." Perhaps you will say, that the ducks and the starling wanted to make a meal of the flies; but I like to think that some less selfish motive was mingled with their work. ALFRED SELWYN. THE FAITHLESS FRIEND. MY little lamb, in early spring, Was but a timid, weakly thing: His old sheep-mother did not own him: He would, no doubt, have soon been dead, If I had not some pity shown him, And seen that he was warmed and fed. I was the only friend he knew, And fond of him each day I grew; And, as I stroked his woolly head, "Wherever you may be, I know, my little lamb," I said, "You will remember me." But, when the fields grew green in May, They sent my little pet away To pasture, where the brooks were flowing Through yellow beds of cowslip flowers, Where purple violets were growing, And scented blossoms fell in showers From off the shading chestnut-trees, And daisies nodded in the breeze: And many mates my lambkin found, As young and gay as he, And all day long they frisked around And gambolled full of glee. But when the robin-redbreasts flew, And loud and shrill the north-winds blew, Back from the pastures hard and frozen, Through winter in the barn to keep, The little lamb that I had chosen They brought with all the other sheep; And, oh! how glad my face to see, I thought, my pretty pet will be! But when to meet him I went out, And tried to coax and call, He drew away, and turned about, And would not come at all. With his white fleece and playful ways, My lamb now all about me praise; But dearer far to me the sickly, Poor, shivering thing he used to be; When to my call he came so quickly I thought that he was fond of me! But if I pet him now, I know He'll take my gifts, and off he'll go; For I, to my regret, have found I can no more depend On one who will go frisking round, And quite forget a friend. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] BILLY AND THE PIG. HERE is another story about my father's wise old horse, Billy. One day, when my father wished to go away to the mill, he sent my brother Robert down to the pasture to catch Billy. Robert brought the horse up to the house, tied him to the fence in the backyard, and gave him some oats in a pail. In a pen back of the house we kept three pigs: two of them were white; and the other was spotted,--black and white. These pigs had got out of the pen by pushing off a board from one side of it. Soon after Billy began to eat his dinner, the two white pigs came running through the yard. They saw Billy eating his oats; and, thinking it would be nice for them to have some as well as he, they ran up to his pail, and without as much as saying, "By your leave," began to help themselves. Billy had no idea of sharing his dinner with such company as this: so he lopped back his ears, looked as cross as he possibly could, snapped at the pigs fiercely with his teeth, raised his hind-feet from the ground, as if to kick them, and at last succeeded in frightening them away. Scarcely had they left the yard, however, before the spotted pig got his eye upon the pail of oats; and he at once ran for it with all his might. Billy tried to scare him as he had the others; but Spotty was not so easily frightened. He took no notice of any thing but the oats. Finding that threats were of no use, Billy seized him by the back of the neck, raised him about two feet from the ground, shook him a little, and then let him drop. Spotty was satisfied. He lost his appetite for oats, and ran squealing out of the yard. EDITH'S PAPA. JOCKO, THE RAVEN. THE raven is a sly bird, and has not many friends. He will steal from you, if he can. He can crow like a cock, mew like a cat, and bark like a dog; and sometimes he will imitate the sound of the rattle with which the farmer tries to frighten him away from the corn. The raven, like the parrot, can learn to talk a little. He is even capable of learning a little Latin. Dr. J. Franklin's raven, which was named Jocko, pronounced the word _aqua_ (water) distinctly; but he much preferred wine to water. Sad to say, Jocko was a toper. "One day," says the doctor, "my housekeeper placed a glass of red wine on the table: in an instant the bird plunged in his beak, and began sucking up the wine, drop by drop. The housekeeper, fearing he would break the glass, took it away; but at this Jocko was very angry, and tried to peck at her face. "If three glasses are placed on the table,--one of water, another of beer, and the third of wine,--Jocko will leave the first two, and will pay his respects only to the glass of wine." [Illustration] The raven has a strong memory, great prudence, and some capacity for reasoning. The keen watchfulness with which he will regard a man armed with a gun has often been noticed. A traveller in the arctic regions relates that he once saw some ravens outwit a dog. While the dog was at his dinner, they would make him angry, and entice him away in pursuit of them; and, when they had led him some distance, they would fly quickly back, and snatch up the best bones, before he could prevent it. That was hardly honest, was it? The raven, you see, does not set a good example. He drinks wine, he fights, and he steals. But I suppose he knows no better, and has not been taught, like you and me, that to do such things is very wrong. ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration: Music] CHIPPEREE, CHIP. Words by G. COOPER. Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1. I once knew a couple that liv'd in a wood,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! The summer it came and the summer it went,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And there they lived on though they never paid rent,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! 2. When winter came on with its frost and its snow,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! For wrapp'd in their feathers they lay down to sleep,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes did peep,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! 3. Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! Their kitchen was warm and their pantry was full,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And four little babies peep'd out at the sky,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! You never saw darlings so pretty and shy,-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number. 
28131	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 3. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents] IN PROSE. An Old-Time Scene 65 Nelly's First Lesson in Dancing 69 Old Jim 71 Second Lesson in Astronomy 73 How a Rat was once Caught 74 To Sea in a Tub 76 Drawing-Lesson 81 A Woodchuck Hunt 82 The Schoolmistress 85 Peter and Polly 88 Tommy and the Blacksmith 89 In the Country 91 Dodger 93 The Mother-Hen 94 IN VERSE. Tom-Tit 68 A Lenten-Song 79 A Mew from Pussy 86 Down on the Sandy Beach 90 Song of the Cat (_with music_) 96 [Illustration] [Illustration: VOL. XXI. No. 3.] AN OLD-TIME SCENE. [Illustration: L]OOK at the picture, and see if you can tell what has roused all those children up so early in the morning. There is Mary in her stocking-feet. There is Ann in her night-dress. There is Tom, bare armed and bare legged. Why have they all left their beds, and run into the play-room in such haste? And why is little Ned, the baby, sitting up in the bed, as though he wanted to come too? It is plain enough that the children use that room for a play-room; for you can see playthings on the mantle-piece. But why are they all flocking about the fireplace? And why is mamma coming upstairs with a dust-brush in her hand? And why is that cloth hung over the fireplace? And whose are those bare feet peeping from under it? "Oh!" perhaps you will say, "it is Santa Claus; and the children are trying to catch him." Oh, no! Santa Claus never allows himself to be caught in that way. You never see even his feet. He never leaves his shoes on the floor, nor dirty old brushes, nor shovels. It is not Santa Claus--it is only a chimney-sweeper. "But what is a chimney-sweeper?" I think I hear you ask. Well, we do not have such chimney-sweepers now-a-days, at least not in this part of the world. But ask your grandfathers and grandmothers to tell you about the chimney-sweepers that were to be seen in Boston forty or fifty years ago, and I warrant that many of them will remember just such a scene as you see in the picture. In those days, before hard coal fires had come in use, chimney-sweepers were often employed. They were small boys, working under the orders of a master in the business, who was very often a hard master. Generally they were negroes; but, whether so or not, they soon became so black with soot, that you could not tell them from negroes. The chimney-sweepers always came early in the morning, before the fires were lighted; and their coming was a great event to the children of a household. "When a child," says a famous English writer, speaking of the chimney-sweepers of London, "what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their operation!--to see a chit no bigger than one's self enter into that dark hole--to pursue him in imagination, as he went sounding on through so many stifling caverns--to shudder with the idea, that 'now surely he must be lost forever!'--to revive at hearing his feeble shout of discovered daylight,--and then (oh, fulness of delight!) running out of doors, to come just in time to see him emerge in safety!" There are chimney-sweepers even now; but none of the old-fashioned kind. In many places it is forbidden by law to send boys up the chimneys. So the modern chimney-sweeper puts his brush on the end of a pole, which is made in joints, like a fishing-rod, and, by attaching joint after joint, thrusts it farther and farther up the chimney. [Illustration: THE MODERN CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.] [Illustration] TOM-TIT. WHAT is it? What is it? Only a feather Blown by the wind In this cold stormy weather, Hunted and hurried so Hither and thither? Leaf or a feather, I know not if either. There, hark now, and see! 'Tis alight on a tree, And sings, "Chick-a-dee-dee, Chick-a-dee-dee!" I know it! you know it! 'Tis little Tom-tit. Look at it! Look at it Flutter and hover! Only a tuft of down On it for cover! Only a bare bough To shelter it over! Poor little rover, Snow-fields for clover Are all that you see! Yet listen the glee Of its "chick-a-dee-dee, Chick a-dee-dee!" Hark to it! look at it! Little Tom-tit! How is it? Why is it? Like a snow-flurry, With swish of wings, And a swoop and a scurry, Comes a whole flock of them Now in a hurry! Busy and merry The little things, very; Watch them, and see How blithe they can be With their "Chick-a-dee-dee, Chick-a-dee-dee!" Each one such a bit Of a little Tom-tit! MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. [Illustration] NELLY'S FIRST LESSON IN DANCING. GRANDPA MASON has not quite forgotten his dancing days. So one day, when little Nelly said, "I wish I knew how to dance like Emma Drake!" grandpa replied, "I'll teach you, Nelly, if you will bring me my accordion." So Nelly brought the accordion; and grandpa seated himself in his old wooden arm-chair. First he taught her the steps, and then said, "Now, Nelly, you must try to move round just as you saw Emma do; and be sure and keep time to the music." Nelly made a courtesy, and began to dance; and, as grandpa looked on, his heart seemed to dance with her; for he felt young once more, and went back, in thought, to the times when he was about as old as she. That was a long while ago--more than seventy years. He sighed as he thought of his little brothers and sisters, all now gone to the better world. But Nelly's merry look soon drove away his sad mood. "Well done, Nelly!" said he. "You will make a dancer; for you follow the music well, and step out lightly and easily. Now let me see you rise a little on your left foot, and whirl round once." Nelly did it, and grandpa said, "Bravely done, little girl! Here ends your first lesson in dancing. To-morrow we will have another. Now get your new 'Nursery,' and let me hear one of the stories; for we must take care of the head, as well as the heels." Nelly laughed; but, when she began to read, the tune she had just heard came back to her, and she could hardly keep from dancing up and down. "One thing at a time, darling," said grandpa. "If we would do one thing well, we must not let our thoughts wander to something else. Tell me when you think you can give your thoughts to reading. I can wait." Nelly took a few more dancing-steps, whirled around twice, made a courtesy, then came, and read so well, that grandpa said, "You deserve a good mark for reading, my dear. Now, whether you read, or whether you dance, mind this:-- "What you do, if well you would do it, Rule your thoughts, and give them all to it." IDA FAY. [Illustration] OLD JIM. JIM is a fine large horse. He lives in the engine-house, and draws the hose-carriage. His stall is so made that, when the alarm-bell strikes, it opens in front of him, leaving the way clear for him to rush out and take his place in front of the hose-carriage. One night, the hoseman (who sleeps upstairs in the engine-house, so as to be all ready if there is an alarm of fire) heard a great noise down below,--a stamping and jumping, as if the horses were getting ready to go to a fire, when there was no alarm at all. He went softly to the stairway, and looked down; and there was Jim, jumping over the shafts of the hose-carriage, first one way, then another, just to amuse himself. One day old Jim was in the yard behind the engine-house, and a man went out to catch him, and lead him in. But he rushed and pranced around the yard, and would not be caught. Then the man set out to drive him in; and what do you think Jim did? Instead of going in at the open door, he made a leap, and went in at the open window, without breaking a glass, or hurting himself in the least. No one who saw the window would believe that such a great horse could possibly have gone through it. When Jim is fed, he sometimes puts his nose in the oats, and throws them all out on the floor. Then he begins to eat them up, and, after he has eaten all he can reach standing, he goes down on his knees, and reaches out with his long tongue, and picks up every oat he can find. Outside of his stall, on one side, is a watering-trough, where Jim is taken to drink. The water comes through a pipe, and is turned on by a faucet. Two or three times the water was found running, so that the trough overflowed, when no one had been near to meddle with it. At last the men suspected that Jim was the rogue, and they kept very still, and watched one night till Jim thought he was all alone. Then they saw him twist himself almost double in his stall, stretch his long neck out, take the faucet in his teeth, turn on the water, and get a good drink. But he could not shut it off again. Jim is a brave horse to go to a fire; but there is one thing that frightens him dreadfully, and that is--a feather duster! He is not afraid of any thing he sees in the streets, and the greatest noise of the Fourth of July will not scare him; but show him a feather duster, and his heels will fly up, and he will act as if he were going out of his senses. The firemen think Jim a most amusing horse; and they sometimes say that he understands as much as some people do, and can do most every thing but talk. H. W. [Illustration] SECOND LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star: How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky!" DID any of you find the red star I asked you to look for last month? I hope you did; for I want you to look at it again while I tell you something about the "twinkle" of it. Look very carefully, first at the red star, and then at just as large a white star; and, if your eyes are bright, you will see that the white one twinkles the most. I wish I could tell you why; but I think nobody knows. Be very careful, though, not to choose a white star that is not a star; for, as that twinkles very little, you may think I am mistaken. "A star that is _not_ a star?" I think I hear you say, "How I wonder what you are!" Well, I will tell you. Although most of the "diamonds in the sky," commonly called stars, are real stars, or suns like our sun, a few of them are not suns, but solid globes or worlds like that which we inhabit, warmed and lighted by our sun. When the sun is shining on them, they look bright to us; but it is only the light of our own sun thrown back, or reflected. They give no light themselves. Because they have our sun, we and they are like members of one family. We call them "planets" (just as our earth is called "a planet"), and are as familiar with their names as if they were our brothers and sisters. One of them, for instance, is called Venus; another, Jupiter; and another, Saturn. Can you remember these hard names? Now you would never notice the difference between these few stars and all the others, if you did not look very carefully to see whether they twinkle or not. And I would advise you to ask somebody to point them out to you whenever they are in sight. I cannot tell you exactly where to look for them, because they wander about a good deal, and I do not know where they will be when you happen to read this number of "The Nursery." From all this you will see that you will have to be very particular what kind of a star you look at when you say,-- "Twinkle, twinkle, little star." M. E. R. HOW A RAT WAS ONCE CAUGHT. DO you know what sly and cunning creatures rats are? The picture shows how they sometimes contrive to carry off eggs. The old fox in the background seems to be watching the performance with great interest. But, cute as they are, they sometimes get caught. I am going to tell you how a rat was once caught by a clam. It happened when I was a little child, and lived with my mother. Whether such a thing ever happened before or since, I do not know; but this is a true story. [Illustration] One day, my father went to town, and bought some clams. When he came home, I took them down cellar in a basket, and laid them on the brick floor of the cellar. Now, when clams are put where it is dark and cool and quiet, they open their shells. If you should go softly up, and put a straw in one of their mouths, it would clasp its shells together so tightly, that you could not get them open. The cellar was under my mother's bed-room; and in the night she heard a great noise, like something bumping and slamming, down below. Being a brave woman, she lighted a candle, and went down stairs; and what do you think she found? I will tell you; for I am sure you would never guess. When the house came to be still with the night-stillness, and every one was in bed, an old rat had come out of his hole, and gone foraging around for his supper. As he walked majestically along, swinging his long tail after him, it happened to switch into a clam's opened shell, when, presto change! the clam was no longer only a clam: it was a rat-trap. It pinched hard; and I am sure it hurt the old rat very much. He ran across the cellar to his hole; and the clam bounced on the bricks as he went; and that was what my mother had heard. The rat could not get the clam into the hole. It held him fast by the tail all the rest of his life, which was not long; for he was killed soon after. LIZZIE'S MAMMA. TO SEA IN A TUB. HERE is a picture of a boy trying his new boat in a tub of water. His brothers and sisters are looking on. His elder brother seems to be pointing out some fault in the rig of the boat. Perhaps he thinks the sails are too large. The dog Tray takes a good deal of interest in the matter. I wonder what he thinks of it. But the story I am going to tell you is about a little girl named Emma, and what happened one day, when she went out in the yard to play. Her mother had told her not to go outside the gate: so she looked around the doorway to see what she could find to play with. There stood a great tub full of water; and there, close by, was a pile of chips. "Boats!" said Emma to herself: "I'll sail boats!" It didn't take a minute to get six of the nicest chips well afloat; but after all they were not much better than rafts. "I must put on sails," said Emma. And running into the sitting-room, and getting some pins, and then putting a bit of paper on each pin, and sticking a pin upright in each chip, at last she had her little boats with little sails, going straight across the tub with a fair wind. [Illustration] Once a fly alighted on one of the boats, and took quite a long voyage. That made Emma think of trying to find other passengers; and she picked up a great ground beetle, and put him aboard. Poor beetle! he didn't want to go, and he wasn't used to it. He tumbled about on the deck; the boat tipped under him, and the next thing Emma knew he was overboard. "Oh, he mustn't drown!" she cried. "I must get him out!" And she stooped over in great haste to save the poor beetle. But it was a large tub, and a very deep one too; and what did little Emma know about being careful? She lost her balance, and down into the water she went, with a great splash that wrecked all the boats in the same instant. "Mother, mother!" screamed a choking, sputtering voice, as Emma managed to lift her head. Her mother heard it, and flew to the spot. It didn't take long to get Emma into the warm kitchen, to pull off the wet clothes, to wrap her in a blanket, and set her before the fire in the big rocking-chair, with a bowl of hot ginger-tea to drink. There Emma sat, and steamed, and begged for stories. By eleven o'clock she couldn't stand it any longer, and by noon she was out in the yard again, playing tea-party, and not one whit the worse for her sudden cold bath. But what became of the poor beetle? MARY L. B. BRANCH. [Illustration] [Illustration] A LENTEN-SONG. FROM THE GERMAN. QUOG, quog, quog, quog! A very unmusical note: This eminent basso, Mr. Frog, Has surely a cold in his throat. But he does his best, with a good intent, The little speckled man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! When the morning sky is red, He sits on the slippery, mossy log, With the rushes over his head. He does his best, with a good intent, The little sprawling man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! When the evening sky is pale, He nestles low in the sheltering bog, While the gentle dews exhale. He does his best, with a good intent, The little struggling man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! He strains till he shakes the reeds, And scares his neighbor, Miss Polly Wog As she hides in the water-reeds. He does his best, with a good intent, The little panting man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! Oh! aren't you afraid you'll burst? You should have put on, dear Mr. Frog, Your girdle of leather first. But on he goes, with his good intent, The little gasping man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. OLIVE A. WADSWORTH. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR.] A WOODCHUCK HUNT. ONE September morning, before breakfast, Ned and Harry went woodchuck hunting. They took Dick, who is a big, fat, spotted coach-dog, and Gyp, a little black-and-tan, with short ears, and afraid of a mouse,--both "such splendid hunters," Harry said. Gyp ran ahead on three legs; and Dick walked sedately behind. Ned carried the bow, and Harry, the three arrows: and it was enough to make any wise woodchuck tremble to see them. First they crossed a potato-field, and then a meadow where there was a brook, and where they lost Gyp so often among the bogs, that Harry carried him at last so as to know where he was. Dick ran through the brook, and shook himself over Ned's new sailor-suit; but that was no matter. Then they came to a rickety old stone wall, and Dick barked. "It must be a woodchuck in the wall. We've got him!" shouted Ned. "Down comes the wall!" Then the stones fell; and Gyp jumped up and down with excitement, while Dick gave a low and terrible growl. "He must be here," said Ned. But, as he was not to be found, Dick was reproved for giving a false alarm; and they all jumped over the stones of the old wall, and ran up the hill towards the walnut-grove, where woodchucks were sure to be as thick as nuts. "Here's a fresh hole!" shouted Harry. "Now it's almost breakfast-time: he'll be out before long. Come on, Mr. Chuck, we're waiting for you." So the boys lay down flat on the mound of earth, and peered into the hole, by way of inviting its owner to come out and be shot; while Dick and Gyp gave persuasive growls and yelps. [Illustration] Strangely enough no woodchuck appeared; and after waiting an "age,"--five minutes long,--the brave hunters decided to dig in. "We ought to have brought spades," they said; but sticks and stones and hands did very well in the soft, wet earth. About the time that Harry got out of breath, and Ned had dropped a stone on his foot, Dick barked furiously at something moving under a hazel-bush. "Shoot, Ned, shoot!" Harry shouted. "Whiz" went an arrow straight into the bushes, where it lodged, and never more came out. "A chase, a chase!" cried Ned, throwing down his bow; and away they went,--Harry and Ned, Dick and Gyp,--over stones and fences, bushes and bogs, in pursuit of something; but whether it was a woodchuck or a cat they never got near enough to tell. Suddenly it disappeared in a corn-field. Dick and Gyp put their tails between their legs, and dropped their ears; but Ned and Harry spied some pumpkins ripening among the stacked corn. "Gay for Jack-o-lanterns!" said Harry. "Wouldn't they frighten Belle and Lucy, though!" So two of the biggest pumpkins were cut off. "Now let's take 'em home," said Harry, thinking of his breakfast. But, oh, how heavy those pumpkins grew! In getting over a wall, Harry's fell and was smashed: so the boys took turns in carrying the other one. Mamma stood on the piazza, in a fresh white morning-dress. She heard Dick and Gyp, and then she saw her little boys. Oh, what a sight!--the striped stockings and blue sailor-suits all one shade of yellow brown earth! "Did you have good sport?" asked papa, coming to the door. "Splendid! Found lots of _holes_," said Ned, dumping the pumpkin. And what they did with the pumpkin, perhaps I'll tell you another time. MISS A. H. R. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. "THERE are many thousand words in our language," said Ellen, reading from a book, "and some words are used for one purpose, and some for another; and the same word may be used in different ways. When your uncle gave you a lot of shells last December, what did you do with them, Edwin?" "I classified them: that is, I put one kind into one heap, and another kind into another heap; and so on." "Well, that is just the way we do with words; we put them in classes which we call Parts of Speech. Now, there is one class of words which is made up of name-words or nouns; that is, of words that are used as names of persons or things. In the sentence, 'Birds fly,' _birds_ is a noun, and _fly_ is a verb." "I think I knew that much already, Schoolmistress." "Well, sir, since you know so much, let me hear you correct the mistakes in the following sentence: 'A pear or peach, when they are ripe, are good food for the boy or girl who like them.'" "It should be: 'A pear or a peach, when it is ripe, is good food for the boy or girl who likes it.'" "Well done, Edwin! go up to the head of your class." Edwin walked round his sister, as she sat in her chair, and then gravely took his place again before her. "Here are two sentences, Edwin: 'I fell down,' and 'I fell down stairs.' _Down_ is not the same Part of Speech in the two sentences. What is it in the first?'" "An Adverb; and in the second it is a Preposition." "Well, sir, school is dismissed. You may go. I shall give you a good mark in grammar." IDA FAY. A MEW FROM PUSSY. IN ANSWER TO "A SQUEAK."[A] I AM only the lazy old cat That sleeps upon somebody's mat: I sit in the sunshine, And lick my soft paws, With one eye on mousie, And one on my claws. Little mouse, little mouse! look out how you boast! Of just such as you I have eaten a host! I'm a much smarter cat than you seem to suppose; I have very keen eyes, and, oh--such a nose! [Illustration] I'm an innocent looking cat; I am well aware of that: I squint up my eyes, And play with the flies, But underneath I am wondrous wise: I know where your nest is, And just where you hide When you have been thieving, And fear you'll be spied. I saw your small tracks all over the meal; And I saw your tail, and I heard you squeal When grandmamma's broom Nearly sealed your doom, And you went whisking out of the room. I am only a lazy old cat: I care not much for a _rat_; But a nice tender _mouse_ About in the house Might prove a temptation too great, Should I be in a hungry state. Little mouse, little mouse! Beware, beware! Some time, when you think not, I shall be there, And you'll not only look at, But feel of, my paws; And, the first thing you know, I'll be licking my jaws, And washing my face with an innocent air, And mousie will be--oh, where? oh, where? RUTH KENYON. FOOTNOTE: [A] See January number, page 18. [Illustration] _Peter._--Fresh baked peanuts! Give a fellow some, Polly. _Polly._--Yes, Peter, you shall have a good share. [Illustration] TOMMY AND THE BLACKSMITH. _Tommy._--Do you shoe horses here, Mr. Blacksmith? _Blacksmith._--Yes, little man: that's my business. _Tommy._--Well, I want my horse shod. _Blacksmith._--How much can you pay for the job? It will take a good deal of iron to shoe such a big horse as that. _Ruth._--He wants you to do it for nothing, Mr. Blacksmith. _Blacksmith._--Every trade must live, my little lady. If Tommy can afford to keep a horse, he ought to be able to pay for having it shod. _Tommy._--I will pay you next Christmas. _Blacksmith._---Never run in debt, my lad. If you can't pay for a thing on the spot, do without it. Shun debt as you would poison. _Ruth._--That is just what my grandfather says. _Tommy._--Well, when I get some money, I'll come again, Mr. Blacksmith; for this horse must be shod, if there's iron enough to do it with. Good-by! _Blacksmith._--Good-by, Tommy! Good-by, Ruth! ARTHUR SELWYN. DOWN ON THE SANDY BEACH. DOWN on the sandy beach, When the tide was low; Down on the sandy beach, Many years ago, Two of us were walking, Two of us were talking Of what I cannot tell you, Though I'm sure you'd like to know. Down in the water A duck said, "Quack!" Up in the tree-top A crow answered back, Two of us amusing, Two of us confusing: So we had to give up talking, And just listen to their clack. "Quack!" said the little duck, Swimming with the tide; "Caw!" said the saucy crow, Swelling up with pride, "I'm a jolly rover, And I live in clover: Don't you wish that you were here, Sitting by my side?" "Quack, quack!" said the duck, Very much like "No." "Caw, caw!--ha, ha!" Laughed the silly crow: Two of us delighting, Two of us inviting To join the merry frolic With a ringing ho, ho, ho! Crack!--and a bullet went Flying from a gun! Duck swimming down the stream, We on a run, Wondered why or whether We couldn't be together Without another coming in And spoiling all the fun! JOSEPHINE POLLARD. [Illustration] IN THE COUNTRY. FANNY and Willy are having a nice ride on the back of the great cart-horse. Mamma points at Willy with her sun-shade, and says, "Hold on tight, little boy." Pink, the dog, says, "Bow-wow! Take me up there with you." [Illustration] Kate and Jane have the care of the biddies. They feed them with corn every day. The hens flock around the door as soon as the two girls come out. Kate and Jane both say that the hens are fond of them; but I think they are still more fond of the corn. A. B. C. [Illustration] DODGER. DODGER is a full-blooded Scotch terrier. His eyes are the brightest of all bright eyes; and he acts just as one might suppose from his name. He dodges here and there,--under the sofa, and behind the stove, and up in a chair, and sometimes puts his paws up on the baby's cradle. The other day, the baby's red sock dropped off from his foot; and Dodger slyly picked it up, and, going to a corner of the room, ate off the red tassels that were on it. I don't think he will do it again; for he did not act as though they tasted very good. Dodger has many cunning ways. He will bring his master's slippers, sit up straight, pretend to be dead, and do many other funny things. Just now his master is trying to teach him to shut a door. Dodger belongs to a little boy in Hartford, Conn., who has read "The Nursery" for five years. The little boy's name is Georgie, and I am GEORGIE'S MAMMA. THE MOTHER-HEN. BY the side of my home a river runs; and down close by the banks of it lives a good family named Allen. Mr. Allen keeps a large number of hens and ducks. One old hen had twice been put to sit on ducks' eggs, and hatched two broods of ducks. The first brood she hatched took to the water as soon as they saw it, as all little ducks will. The old hen was almost crazy at such behavior on the part of her chicks, and flew down to the water's edge, clucking and calling at a great rate. However,--to her great surprise, probably,--they all came safely to land. Every day after that, when the little ducks went for a swim, their hen-mother walked nervously back and forth on the shore, and was not easy till they came out of the water. By and by, after those ducks had all grown large, the hen hatched another brood. These, too, at first sight of the water, went in for a swim. The old hen was not quite as frightened as before, but stood and looked at them, clucking a little to herself, as if to say, "Strange chickens these of mine; but yet, if they like it, I don't know as I need care, so long as they don't ask me to go with them." So, after a while, that brood grew to be big ducks. One day last summer, as I sat on the bank of the river, looking at the pretty blue rippling water, who should come walking proudly down to the water's-edge but, Mrs. Hen with another brood of little, waddling, yellow ducks behind her! She led them clear to the edge of the water, saw them start off, and, turning away, went contentedly to scratching at some weeds on the shore, taking no more notice of her little family. She had come to regard this swimming business as a matter of course. Now one little duck, for some reason,--maybe he was not so strong as the others,--had not gone into the water with the rest, but remained sitting on the shore. Presently the mother-hen, turning round, happened to spy him. She stopped scratching, and looked at him as if she were saying, "All my chickens swim: now what is the matter with you? I know it must be laziness; and I won't have that." Then spreading out her wings, and making an angry clucking, she flew towards the unlucky duckling, took him by the back of his neck in her beak, and threw him as far as possible into the water. As she walked back to her weeds again; it seemed almost as if I could hear her say,-- "The chicken who can swim and _won't_ swim must be made to swim." L. W. E. [Illustration: Music] SONG OF THE CAT. Words by A. LLOYD. Music by T. CRAMPTON 1. The cat and her kittens recline in the sun, Mew! mew! mew! They're fond of their food and they're fond of their fun; Mew! mew! mew! Their old mother says they must sit in a row, The biggest is Jack and the little one Joe, And now altogether they make the place ring, With the one song they know and the chorus they sing: Mew! mew! mew! . . . Mew! mew! mew! 2. My dear little kittens when you are well grown, Mew! mew! mew! Some day you will each have a home of your own; Mew! mew! mew! You'll catch all the mice and you'll kill all the rats, And grow up, I hope, both respectable cats, Don't get in the cupboard, nor kill the poor lark, Keep away from big dogs and get home before dark; Mew! mew! mew! . . . Mew! mew! mew! 3. The kittens they listen'd and said they'd be good, Mew! mew! mew! And not kill the birds nor destroy the young brood! Mew! mew! mew! They lov'd their good mother, and tho't 'twould be nice, To grow strong and hearty and catch and kill mice. She wash'd all their faces and put them to bed, And now what do you think was the last thing they said; Mew! mew! mew! . . . Mew! mew! mew! * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number. A comma was changed to a period on page 94 (tasted very good). 
28132	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 4. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents] IN PROSE. "Why did Elfrida go to Sleep?" 97 The Prairie-Dog 100 Strut 101 Third Lesson in Astronomy 103 The Robbery 104 The Little Recruit 107 One good turn deserves another 109 A Letter from Texas 110 Drawing-Lesson 113 A Story of a Seal 114 Fun in Winter 117 Old Whitey 118 Why do they all Love Freddy? 122 My Rabbits 125 The Council of Buzzards 127 IN VERSE. The Caterpillars 102 Puss and her Three Kittens 106 Fred and Ned 120 How the Morning comes 124 A Mother Goose Melody (_with music_) 128 [Illustration] [Illustration: "WHY DID ELFRIDA GO TO SLEEP?" VOL. XXI.--NO. 4.] "WHY DID ELFRIDA GO TO SLEEP?" [Illustration: T]HAT was the question, "Why did Elfrida go to sleep?" She had been sent to the grocer's in the village; and the grocer's was only half a mile off from Brook Cottage, where she lived with her aunt and five cousins. She had been sent to buy a pound of sugar, half a pound of coffee, and five small rolls of bread. Usually she would go to the shop and return in less than half an hour. Now a whole hour went by, and no Elfrida was to be seen. What could be the matter? Had she run a thorn into her foot, and been lamed? Had she stopped to talk with the children on their way home from school? Had she been run over by a fast horse? "Let us go and find her," cried James, the eldest of the three boys. "Let us all go!" echoed Susan, his youngest sister. "Shall Sport go with us?" asked Emma. "By all means!" said James. "Here, Sport, Sport! Where are you, old fellow?" A big black-and-white Newfoundlander soon rushed frisking in, wagging his tail, and seeming ready to eat up every one of the children, just to show them how fond he was of them all. Then the children all set out for Mr. Spicer's shop. There they learned that no Elfrida had been seen in the shop that afternoon. "Where can she be?" cried James, a little anxious. "Sport, where is Elfrida?" Sport stopped his nonsense of playing with a stick, and began to look serious. Then he made a bee-line for the nearest turning on the right, on the way home. This was an old lane, on which some old gardens backed, and which led, by a little longer way, to Brook Cottage. By the time the children had arrived at the head of the lane, Sport was seen galloping back in a state of great excitement. "Bow-wow!"--"Oh, you have found her, have you, old fellow?"--"Bow-wow!"--"Well and good! You are a jolly old Sport!" On the step of the gate of an old garden sat Elfrida, fast asleep, with her empty basket in her lap. Emma proposed to tickle her nose with a straw. "No! I will pull that thick braid of hair," said Susan. "No! let me whisper in her ear," said James. But, before anybody did any thing, Sport settled the question by putting his paws up on her shoulders, and crying, "Bow-wow!" Elfrida started, and looked around as if in a dream. "What does it mean? How long have I been here?" cried she. "Why did you go to sleep?" asked the two girls. "Yes, why, why, did you go to sleep?" echoed all the boys. "Oh, that's my secret," said Elfrida. "Now who can catch me in my run to Mr. Spicer's?" So off she started, followed by Sport and all the children. "Now tell us why did you go to sleep?" said the children, as they were all on their way home, after she had made her purchases. "Will you promise not to tell anybody, if I tell you?" asked Elfrida. "We promise, we promise!" cried all the children. "Now, then, why did you go to sleep?"--"Hush! I went to sleep because--because--because I was sleepy," said Elfrida. ARTHUR SELWYN. [Illustration] THE PRAIRIE-DOG MY friend John lives in Colorado, not far from Denver; and he writes me, that he and his sister, not long ago, walked out to see some prairie-dogs. The prairie-dog is about the size of a full-grown squirrel, and of a like color. It makes a hole for itself in the ground. This hole is in the shape of a tunnel, and as large round as a man's hat. [Illustration] Now, this little dog is so gentle, that he lets the owl and the rattlesnake come and live with him, if they like. All three are often found dwelling together. For my part, I should not much like such neighbors. The prairie-dogs live on the roots of grass. Scattered all around the entrance to their homes, you may see remnants of the dry roots which they have got for food. They are quick in their movements, and quite playful. Johnny writes me, that, when some of these little dogs saw him and his sister approaching, they sat down on their hind-legs, and began barking. Then they dropped into their holes backwards. As Johnny did not care to wake up any of the other lodgers, he and his sister went home, well content with their first sight of a prairie-dog. AUNT ALICE. [Illustration] STRUT STRUT was the name of a hen that lived on Father Nunn's farm, nine miles from Norwalk, Ohio. She was very vain; that is, she had a very good opinion of herself. She always would strut when walking. Indeed, it was hard for her to pick up grains of corn as other chickens did. I think she never saw her feet in her life: certainly she never looked where she stepped. Worse than all this, when she saw any person in the yard, instead of dodging away, as a modest hen should, she would strut right up to such a person, and look saucily in his face, as though asking, "Who are you? Where are you going? What for?" At last, however, Strut received a severe rebuke for her evil ways. Cousin William Bird, who is soon to be a doctor, was visiting at Father Nunn's. Having occasion to climb the ladder to the barn-loft, he saw Strut on the farther side. He knew that she would come straight to him; and he also knew that she would not look where she stepped. So he held still to see what would happen; for exactly between them was an opening in the floor for throwing down hay. Sure enough, Strut started for Cousin William, and, stepping off the edge of the hole, fell fluttering, cackling, and frightened, to the floor beneath. She was humbled by her fall; for she never strutted again, but walked and ate afterwards like other chickens. UNCLE JOE. THE CATERPILLARS EIGHT great cabbages growing in the ground; Crowds of little caterpillars crawling all around; Caterpillars squirmed about, and wriggled in the sun; Said, "These cabbages look sweet: suppose we taste of one!" Down flew a hungry bird, coming from the wood, Saw the caterpillars there, and said, "Won't those taste good!" Up crept pussy-cat, hunting round for mice, Saw the bird, and smacked her lips, and said, "Won't he taste nice!" Dog saw pussy creeping there, and he began to run, Said, "Now I will frighten puss, and then there will be fun!" So doggy barked; and pussy hid; and birdie flew away; And caterpillars lived to eat a cabbage up that day. FLETA F. [Illustration] THIRD LESSON IN ASTRONOMY I HAVE told you about the sun and the stars. Can you think of any thing else in the sky that you would like to know a little about? Of course, I do not mean the dark clouds, but something bright and pretty, that all children love to look at. I think you must have guessed that I mean the moon,--the beautiful moon. Now, I want you to make another guess: Is the moon bright because it is made of fire, like the sun; or because the sun shines on it, as it does on Venus and Jupiter? If any of you think it is made of fire, you must try to warm your little toes and fingers in the moonlight, as you do in the sunshine, and you will find out for yourselves that it is not a great fire, like the sun, and that you cannot get warm in the light of it. And now you will guess at once, that, if it is not fire itself, it must shine from the sun's fire; and that is right. The moon itself is cold and dark. It is the light of the sun that makes it look bright to us. We might call it the sun's looking-glass, in which we see his image or reflection. But we cannot at all times see the whole of it. When we do, we call it a full moon, and, when we see only the edge of it, we say it is a new moon. The moon itself does not change its shape. It is always round, like an orange--a dark round ball, which we should never see at all, if the sun did not light it up for us; and it is only a part of the time we can see the side which is lighted up. Which do you suppose is the larger,--the moon, or the stars? Now I know you will say the moon, because it looks so much larger; but you must remember that the stars are so far away, we can hardly see them at all, and the moon is our own moon, and much nearer to us than our own sun. We can see more of it than we can see of the stars; but it is a very small thing indeed, compared with one of them. It would take about fifty moons to make one such earth as we live on, and it would take more earths than you can count to make one star or sun. M. E. R. THE ROBBERY. I MUST tell you of something that happened one day last summer, when I was at the Zoölogical Garden in Philadelphia. Among the persons standing around the cage where the monkeys were kept, was an old lady who had on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. All at once, a big brown monkey stretched out his paw between the bars, snatched the spectacles, and scampered away, chattering and grinning with delight. Of course, the poor lady was in distress. The keeper came to the rescue, and, by driving the monkey about the cage with a long pole, forced him at last to drop the spectacles. But one of the glasses had come out of it; and this the thief still held in his mouth, and refused to give up. [Illustration] The keeper followed him sharply with the pole. Away he went, swinging from one rope to another, screaming and scolding all the time, until the keeper was so tired, that I feared he would have to let the monkey keep the glass. But this the keeper said would never do; for he knew, that, if he let the monkey carry the day, he never could control him again. So the keeper still plied his pole. The monkey dodged it as well as he could, until the blows came so thick and fast, that he could bear them no longer, when he opened his mouth, and let the glass drop. Now comes the funniest part of the story. The glass fell quite near the bars, just where the old lady was standing; and a gentleman took her parasol, which had a hooked handle, to draw it within reach. But he put the parasol in a little too far, and it slipped out of his hand. Instantly a large yellow monkey wrapped his long tail around it, and started off. Imagine the feelings of the poor old lady--first robbed of her spectacles, and then of her parasol! But her property was all recovered at last; the robbers were both punished; and she went on her way in peace. MRS. E. S. R. PUSS AND HER THREE KITTENS. OUR old cat has kittens three; What do you think their names should be? One is a tabby with emerald eyes, And a tail that's long and slender; But into a temper she quickly flies, If you ever by chance offend her. I think we shall call her this-- I think we shall call her that; Now, don't you fancy "Pepper-pot" A nice name for a cat? One is black, with a frill of white, And her feet are all white fur, too; If you stroke her, she carries her tail upright, And quickly begins to purr, too. I think we shall call her this-- I think we shall call her that; Now, don't you fancy "Sootikin" A nice name for a cat? One is a tortoise-shell, yellow and black, With a lot of white about him: If you tease him, at once he sets up his back: He's a quarrelsome Tom, ne'er doubt him! I think we shall call him this-- I think we shall call him that; Now, don't you fancy "Scratchaway" A nice name for a cat? Our old cat has kittens three, And I fancy these their names will be: "Pepper-pot," "Sootikin," "Scratchaway,"--there! Were there ever kittens with these to compare? And we call the old mother--now, what do you think? "Tabitha Longclaws Tiddleywink." THOMAS HOOD. THE LITTLE RECRUIT. THERE had been an insurrection in Dolldom. _Insurrection_ is a big word: what does it mean, I wonder? I will tell you: it means an uprising, a rebellion. If a number of persons should refuse to obey the law, and rise up in arms to resist it, they would be guilty of an insurrection. [Illustration] Now, it happened (according to Tommy's story) that all the dolls in the house, headed by a naughty male doll of African descent, and known as "Dandy Jim," rose in insurrection against their lawful queen, Lucy the First, whose brother, Duke Tommy, was commander-in-chief of her Majesty's forces. The rebels were well fortified in one corner of the play-room. They had mounted several cannon on alphabet-blocks; and a whole company of tin soldiers defended the outworks. Besides this, a china dog and a wooden elephant had been enlisted as allies, and stood bravely in front. General Tommy felt a weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, and, like a prudent soldier, he resolved not to go into battle until his army was large enough to make victory certain. So he enlisted Queen Lucy the First as a recruit. Queen Lucy looked very grand in her paper cocked hat, with a feather at the top. She carried a gun; and General Tommy taught her how to fire it off. When all were ready for the onset, he blew a trumpet. The army marched in excellent order along the entry, into the play-room; and not a soldier drew back as they came within sight of the enemy. "Halt!" cried General Tommy. The army halted. The traitor, "Dandy Jim," stood pointing his sword, and the dolls all kept still. One long blast of the trumpet, and then the brave General Tommy cried out, "Now, soldiers, on, on to victory!" On they went. The tin soldiers were soon swept down. The dog and the elephant were handsomely beaten; and, rushing into the fort, General Tommy seized the traitor, "Dandy Jim," by the throat, and said, "Now, sir, your doom is a dungeon!" The dolls all fell on their knees, and thus was the great insurrection in Dolldom put down without bloodshed, and the authority of Queen Lucy the First fully restored. Of course, there was great rejoicing; and, when the reporter left, General Tommy was preparing for a grand illumination. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. ON a fine summer day, a dove, that was perched upon the branch of a tree, saw a bee fall into a stream that was flowing past. The poor bee tried to get out of the water, but could not. The dove, seeing that the bee was struggling for her life, dropped a leaf close beside her, so that she might climb on to it, and save herself. This the bee at once did, and very glad she was to find herself safe once more. Not long after this, a sportsman, who was roaming through the woods for game, saw the dove flying about, and lifted his gun to shoot her. But, just as he was taking aim, something happened, that checked him in the act. The bee, whose life had been saved by the dove, was going about from flower to flower in search of honey, when she saw the sportsman taking aim at the good dove that had befriended her in her time of need. "That dove once saved my life, and now I will save hers," thought the bee to herself. With that she flew at the sportsman, and stung him on the lip. The poor fellow dropped his gun with a loud cry of pain, which so startled the dove, that she flew away; and the man did not have another chance to shoot her. "Surely one good turn deserves another," thought the bee, as she turned merrily to her work. LEONORA. A LETTER FROM TEXAS. _Dear Children_,--I am writing this letter at my office-desk in San Antonio, Texas, a long way off from some of you who will read it. I am the big brother of a lot of little ones, and they call me "Doc." We take "The Nursery," and the little folks think it is splendid. As soon as it comes, mamma reads the stories, and shows them the pictures. They crowd around her to listen: some of them sit down on chairs like little ladies; some sit on the floor like beggars; and some--I am sorry to say--lie flat down on the carpet, like--certainly not like ladies and gentlemen. What do you think, children, of boys and girls who lie on the floor, and kick up their heels in the air? _You_ would not do so, would you? [Illustration] Now listen! I want to tell you something about our cat. When we first got her, she was a tiny kitten, and we fed her on milk in a saucer. You ought to have seen her lap it up with her little tongue! Don't you think it is a pretty sight to see a kitten drinking milk? I do. But our cat isn't a kitten any longer, but a great, big, grown cat. Well, the other night she got locked up in the schoolroom. You know Miss Anna and Miss Emma teach a big school in our house, and Willie, Pressley, Eddie, May, and Emily go to it. Sadie, "Little Lalla," and baby are too young for school yet. These are my little brothers' and sisters' names. There are eight of them mentioned here. See if you can count them. As soon as Emily found out that Kitty was locked up, she ran to Miss Eliza and mamma, and asked them to let her out; but they said, "No," for they knew that, if she got out of the schoolroom, she would surely run into the dining-room, and drink up the baby's milk. So she had to stay there all night. Early next morning, Miss Eliza went into the schoolroom to let Kitty out; and what do you think she saw? There was Kitty, fast asleep in Willie's little wagon, and four little kittens lying by her side, fast asleep too. When Miss Eliza went back to the nursery, and told the children what she had seen, Eddie, May, Emily, Sadie, and even "Little Lalla" set up a big shout, and, bursting out of the nursery, ran shouting and laughing to the little wagon in the schoolroom, where, sure enough, there they were, four little ones. Three were gray and white, and one gray and black. Kitty looked so pleased and so happy! You ought to have seen her. Wasn't that a nice surprise? May chose the one that looked most like Kitty: Emily and Sadie each chose one of the gray-and-white ones, and Eddie took the gray-and-black fellow. To-day is Emily's birthday. She is seven years old, and may have a little party. If she _does_, how I would like to have you all here to play with her! However, at some future time I may write, and tell you all about it. But it is time for me to run home, and get some dinner: so good-by. "DOC." [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXI.--NO. 4.] A STORY OF A SEAL. "THE seal is an amphibious quadruped." "Oh, come now, Aunt Emily, do not puzzle us with your hard names," cries Johnny. "But, Johnny, a lad seven years old ought to know that _amphibious_ means 'capable of living on land or water;' and that _quadruped_ means 'having four feet.'" "Oh, now I understand," said Johnny. "But does the seal have feet?" "It has a sort of feet; but they are so wrapped up in the skin, that they are not of much use on land, except to help it to creep, after a fashion. So the seal passes most of its time in the sea, coming on shore only to bask and sleep in the sun, or to suckle its young ones. It is covered with a close thick fur and is a very good swimmer." "But let us have the story," said Jane. "The story is this: once a fisherman, after harpooning an old seal, found one of its young ones on the sand, and took it home. Here it became the playmate of the children, whom it seemed to love very much. They named it Blue-eyes. It would play with them from morning till night, would lick their hands, and call them with a gentle little cry, not unlike the human voice in its tone. "It would look at them tenderly with its large blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. It was very fond of music. It would follow its master to fish, swimming around the boat, and taking a great many fish, which it would give up without even biting them. No dog could have been more faithful, or more quick to learn what was wanted. "But the fisherman's half-sister was a silly old woman. She had come to help nurse his wife, who was ill. This half-sister took it into her head that the poor seal would bring bad luck to the family. She told her brother that he must get rid of it. [Illustration] "Weary of her teasing, he at last took the poor seal, rowed with it out into the open sea, and there, more than seven miles from the shore, threw it into the water, and then hurried home as fast as sails would carry him. "But, when he entered his cottage, the first thing he saw was the faithful seal lying close beside the cradle of one of his children. As soon as it saw its master, it showed great joy, and tried to caress him. But he took the seal and gave it away to a sailor, who was going on a long voyage. Two weeks afterward, as the fisherman came back from his boat, he saw the seal at play with the children. "'If you do not kill that seal, I will kill it myself,' said the old aunt. The children began to cry. 'No, no, you shall not kill it!' cried Hans with flashing eyes. 'You shall kill me first,' cried little Jane. 'You have no right to kill it,' cried Mary, the eldest girl. "'Am I to be ruled by these children?' said the silly aunt, turning to her brother. "'The seal shall live,' said he: 'the children shall have their way. Your notion that the poor seal brings bad luck is a very silly notion. You ought to be ashamed of it.' "'Hurrah!' cried Hans. 'Blue-eyes, the vote is taken: you are to live, and all this nonsense about your bringing bad luck is blown away.' "The seal began to flop about as if in great joy. "'I shall leave the house at once,' said the silly aunt. "'Do as you please,' said the fisherman. "And so it turned out, that the only ill luck brought to the family by the seal was the departure of the cross and silly old aunt. And, if the truth were known, this was found to be a very good thing for all. The fisherman prospered, the mother of the children got well at once; and all were happier than ever before, including Blue-eyes, who now was the jolliest seal that ever played with children." EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] [Illustration] FUN IN WINTER. THE ground was white with snow. The sky looked black as though another storm were coming. The day was very cold; but the tough boys and girls did not mind the cold weather. They were out to have some fun. Their rubber boots, and thick coats and mittens, kept them dry and warm. One of the boys, though, had come out bare-headed. He was the boy who never _could_ find his cap when he wanted it. His name was Tom. "Now look here, Tom," said his brother Sam, a sturdy little chap, who was always trying to keep Tom in order; "this won't do. You go into the house and get your cap. Go quick, or you'll get this snowball right in your face." "Fire away!" said Tom, dancing around, and putting up his arm to keep off the snowball. "I'm going to have a hand in this game," said Joe, aiming a snowball at Sam. "Look out for yourself, old fellow." "Clear the track!" cried Bill and Ned, rolling a huge snowball down the hill. Mrs. O'Sullivan, who was just going up the back-steps to ask for cold victuals, looked around to see what was going on; while Charles had his own fun in dragging his little sister up the hill on her sled. All this time, a little boy named Jim, who had been having a private coast in the field near the house, was peeping over the fence, and wishing he were old enough to play with the other boys. He didn't venture to join them, for he was bashful, and rather timid: but he saw all that took place, and he will remember all about it when he sees this picture. UNCLE SAM. OLD WHITEY. I AM a great boy six years old, and I take "The Nursery." Some of the stories I spell out myself; but the most of them mamma reads aloud to my little brother Albert and me. Last summer, we all went to visit an uncle who lives on a large farm. We had just the best kind of a time. There was a big dog, named Rover, that would play with us for hours. He would run after and bring back a ball or stick, or any thing that we would throw for him. He would "speak," "roll over," "sit up and read," and do lots of funny tricks. Then there was a white horse twenty-five years old, and just as sleek and fat as a colt. Old Whitey has lived on the farm ever since he was a little colt. Old as he is, he is still able to do a great deal of work. [Illustration] One day Uncle Wash was ploughing, and he put me on the back of Old Whitey. Well, I liked that very much, and began to cluck, and jerk the reins, to make him go along; when in an instant, without any warning, he pricked up his ears, kicked up his heels, and ran away, leaving the plough behind. I can't tell you how scared I was. I held on as long as I could; but it was of no use. The old horse ran through swamps and bogs, and dropped me, head first, in the mud and dirt. I was hurt on my head and side, but I would not cry because I was too big for that. When the men got to me, I was hunting for my hat. After getting rid of his load, the runaway coolly walked up to the barn, and stood looking as mild as a lamb. I didn't have any faith in Old Whitey after that, though his master said he never knew him to do such a thing before. NELSON. WOODSTOCK, VT. FRED AND NED. [Illustration] "OH, this is weather for play, for play! And I will not go to school to-day," Said Master Frederic Philip Fay. So he hung his satchel upon a tree: And over the hills to the pond went he, To frolic, and see what he could see. He met a boy on the way to school, And said, "Ned Foster, you're a fool To study and plod because it's the rule." Quoth Ned, "You'll find that _he's_ the fool Who, for his pleasure, shirks his school: Sun, moon, and stars, all go by rule." Then Ned passed cheerily on his way, And not another word did say To Master Frederic Philip Fay. Fred sat him down on a rock near by, And cast a look on the bright blue sky, And then at the sun, that was mounting high. "Yes, truly, the sun has no time for play: He has to go in a certain way," Said Master Frederic Philip Fay. "Oh! what would become of us all, suppose The sun, some morn, should say, as he rose, 'A truant I'll be to-day--here goes!' "Then off should whirl in a mad career, And leave it all night and winter here,-- No blue in the sky, no flower to cheer? "Yes, there is a duty for every one, For Master Fay, as well as the sun: A law must be minded, a task must be done." Up started Frederic Philip Fay: He took from the tree his satchel away, And ran off to school without delay. IDA FAY. [Illustration] WHY DO THEY ALL LOVE FREDDY? "BUT do they all love Freddy, mamma?" "I think there is no doubt of it, Freddy. The cat loves you; for she will let you pull her about, and never try to scratch you." "Yes; and I think old Towser loves me. He lets me get on his back: he never bites me." "I would like to catch him at it--biting my little Freddy! He knows too much for that; and, besides, he loves you." "But does the old cow love me, mamma?" "Why, didn't she let you play with her calf, and never try to hook you? The old cow loves Freddy, and will give him all the fresh milk he wants." "The hens love me because I feed them." "Yes, the hens love you; and, more than that, the little sparrows love you; for they follow you, and hop about your feet, as if they wanted to say, 'Good-morning, Freddy! We all love you, Freddy.'" "But I will tell you one beast that does not love me, mamma. The old sow does not love me." "Don't you believe it, little boy! The old sow loves you just as well as Towser does; just as well as the cow does; just as well as old Scamper, the horse, loves you." "I should like to be sure that the sow loves me." "Come with me, and I will put you on her back; and, if she does not like it, it will be a sign that she does not love you; but, if she does like it, it will be a sign that she loves my little Freddy just as much as the others do." So mamma took Freddy, and placed him on the back of the old sow. The old sow gave a look over her ears, saw it was Freddy, and then uttered a contented grunt, as much as to say, "All right! Freddy, you are a darling, and I love you." [Illustration] "Did I not tell you that the old sow loved you, like the rest?" "Yes, mamma; but why, why, do they love me? Tell me that." Mamma snatched Freddy up in her arms, took him into the house, and then said, "I think they must love you, Freddy, because you love them. Love wins love, you know. The person who says that no one loves him should ask himself the question, 'But do I love any one?'" IDA FAY. HOW THE MORNING COMES. CHEERY, cheery, Out of the dreary Dark there glows A tint of yellow, a purple gleam, A shine of silver, a brazen beam, A flush of rose; The darkness, meanwhile, flying, gone: Thus does the morning dawn. Creeping, creeping, Daintily peeping, Hastes the light Through the window to see where lies The little girl with the sleepy eyes; Glistens bright With very joy to find the place Where lies her dreaming face. Drowsy, drowsy, A little frowzy Gold-locked head Turns on its pillow, yawns, and winks; Lifts from its pillow, peeps, and blinks; Turns in bed; Then with a slow, reluctant shake, Is almost wide awake. MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. [Illustration] MY RABBITS. ONE day Cousin John asked me if I would like two nice rabbits. I said I would like them very much. So he gave them to me, and I had a pen made for them. One I called Pink, and the other White. They were very tame, and soon got to know their names. I took them out and let them run about the yard every fine day. Once Pink ran away, and I thought he was lost. I had a long chase after him through the bushes; but I caught him at last and brought him home. My brother George kept a lot of chickens in the yard, and while I fed my pet rabbits, he would feed his chickens. HATTIE. [Illustration] THE COUNCIL OF BUZZARDS. THE buzzard is a large black bird, nearly as large as a turkey. He never kills that he may eat, but devours the refuse in the city streets, and the dead animals on the prairies and swamps of the Southern States. It is against the law to shoot buzzards; for they are the health officers of the South. Here, in beautiful, sunny Louisiana, I seldom look out doors without seeing one or more buzzards slowly circling around in the air in quest of food. Before they begin to eat, they arrange themselves in a solemn row, as if holding a council, and "caw" in a very wise manner. Then one flies down, and then another, and another; and as they eat, they seem to comment on their repast. At last nothing is left of it but the bare bones to bleach in the sun. They will eat an ox in a day. AUNT ANN. LA TECHE, LA. [Illustration] A MOTHER GOOSE MELODY. Music by ANNIE MOORE. [Illustration: Music] Three little dogs were basking in the cinders, And three little cats were playing in the windows, Three little mice popp'd out of a hole, And a piece of cheese they stole, they stole! The three little cats jump'd up in a trice, And crack'd the bones of the three little mice, The three little mice. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number. 
28129	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 1. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Work and Play 1 Billy and Tom 5 The Wise Hare and her Pursuers 6 Gentle Jessie and the Wasp 8 Friends in Need 10 The Bear that put on Airs 14 Drawing-Lesson 17 What you do, do well 20 In the Winter 23 A Letter to Minnie 26 The Hedgehog 27 The Little Scissors-Grinder 30 [Illustration] IN VERSE. PAGE Bumble-Bee 4 Gretchen 9 A Noonday Lullaby 12 A Squeak 18 My Little Sister 25 Little Black Monkey 29 The Old Year and New (_with music_) 32 [Illustration] [Illustration: WORK AND PLAY. VOL. XXI.--NO. 1.] WORK AND PLAY. "[Illustration: D]O you want your sidewalk shovelled?" This was the question asked of Mr. Prim, as he sat reading his newspaper, one New Year's morning. The question came through a servant who had just answered the door-bell. Mr. Prim looked out of the window. The snow was still falling. So he sent out word, "No shovelling wanted till the storm's over," and went on with his reading. By and by there was another ring at the door; and in a moment the servant-girl came in, saying, "The snow-shovellers are here again, sir, and they want to see you." Mr. Prim stepped out into the entry, where he found two rough-looking boys, both of whom greeted him at once with, "Wish you a happy new year! Please, sir, it's done snowing now." "That means," said Mr. Prim, "that you both want the job of clearing off the sidewalk; but which am I to give it to?" "Oh, sir!" said the bigger boy, "we are partners. I shovel, and Mike sweeps." "And what are your names?" "Mine is Tom Murphy, and his is Mike Flynn." "Then," said Mr. Prim, "the firm is 'Murphy & Flynn.'" "That's it," said both boys with a grin. "Well, Murphy & Flynn, I will employ you to do my shovelling to-day, and I will give you fifty cents for the job; but I am very particular. You must not leave a bit of snow anywhere about the steps or sidewalk." "All right, sir," said the boys; and they went to work, while Mr. Prim went back to his newspaper. He had not been reading many minutes, when a loud shout in front of the house led him to look out of the window. The picture shows what he saw. There were the two boys, each mounted on one of the stone lions at the head of the steps, and shouting at the top of his lungs in the excitement of an imaginary race. Mr. Prim was first astonished, then angry, then amused, at this performance. He opened the window, and called out sharply, "Look here, boys! do you call that work, or play?" The boys jumped down, and began to ply their broom and shovel with great vigor. But Murphy looked up roguishly, and said, "We were just polishing off the lions, sir." "Yes," said Mr. Prim, "and a paroxysm of fun got the better of you. Well, it's excusable on New Year's Day. But, if the firm of Murphy & Flynn expect to succeed in business, they must not mix so much play with their work." And Mr. Prim shut the window. "I say, Mike," said Tom, "what was it the old man said had got the better of us?" "That's more than I can tell," said Mike. "I can't remember such hard words. But I know what he meant, and I guess he was about right." UNCLE SAM. [Illustration] BUMBLE-BEE. [Illustration] BUMBLE-BEE superbly dressed, In velvet, jet, and gold, Sailed along in eager quest, And hummed a ballad bold. Morning-Glory clinging tight To friendly spires of grass, Blushing in the early light, Looked out to see him pass. Nectar pure as crystal lay In her ruby cup; Bee was very glad to stay, Just to drink it up. "Fairest of the flowers," said he, "'Twas a precious boon; May you still a Glory be, Morning, night, and noon!" M. A. C. [Illustration] BILLY AND TOM. WHEN I was a little boy, six or seven years old, my father had two white horses, named Billy and Tom. Billy had one black foot, and a little dark spot on his face; but Tom did not have a black hair on his whole body. Billy was the old family horse, kind, gentle, and loving. Anybody could catch him, or lead him, or drive him. He liked to be petted, and in return seemed to take pride in being kind to all in the family. Tom was a good horse too; but we had not owned him so long, and he did not care much to have any one pet him. Billy was a little lame; and though he worked everywhere on the farm, and in drawing loads on the road, yet he was generally excused from going with the carriage, except when it was necessary for some of us children to drive. One day my father went to the village with Tom, leaving Billy at home alone, in a field near the house. He missed his old friend Tom. They had worked together so much, that they had become great friends; and either one was very lonesome without the other. Billy ran about here and there, neighing loudly whenever another horse appeared in sight upon the road, hoping that it might be his friend Tom coming back. At last I went out to comfort him. I patted his head and his neck, and leading him by the mane to the fence, climbed first upon the fence, and then upon his back. He seemed pleased, and started in a gentle walk along the farm-road leading down into the field, away from the house. When he had gone as far as I wished to ride, I called out, "Whoa!" But he was a wise old horse. Instead of stopping in the middle of the road, where he then was, he turned out at one side, and stopped close by the fence, for me to get off upon that; as much as to say, "A boy that is not large enough to get upon my back without climbing a fence, is not large enough to climb from my back to the ground." EDITH'S PAPA. [Illustration] THE WISE HARE AND HER PURSUERS. A POOR little hare was one day closely pursued by a brace of greyhounds. They were quite near her, when, seeing a gate, she ran for it. She got through it easily; but the bars were too close together for the hounds to get through, so they had to leap over the gate. As they did so, the hare, seeing that they would be upon her the next instant, turned around and ran again under the gate where she had just before passed. The hounds, in their speed, could not turn at once. Their headway took them on some distance; and then they had to wheel about, and leap once more over the upper bar of the gate. [Illustration] Again the hare doubled, and returned by the way she had come; and thus she went backward and forward, the dogs following till they were fairly tired out, while the little hare, watching her chance, happily made her escape. Thus you see that wit and self-possession are sometimes more than a match for superior strength and speed. If the little hare could not run so fast as the greyhounds, she could outwit them, and they saw no way to prevent it. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] GENTLE JESSIE AND THE WASP. THERE is a little girl in our village whom we call "Gentle Jessie;" for she is so kind and gentle, that even the dumb animals and the insects seem to find it out, and to trust her. On a dry pleasant day, last autumn, I saw her seated on the grass. I went up to tell her not to sit there; for it is not safe to sit on the ground, even in dry weather. As I drew near to Jessie from behind, I heard her talking. To whom could she be talking? There was no one by her side; that is to say, no human being. But soon I found she was talking to a wasp that was coming as if to sting her. "Wasp, wasp, go away, and come again another day," said she. But the wasp did not heed her. It flew quite near to her face. Instead of striking at the bold insect, she merely drew back a little out of its way; for she thought, "Surely the wasp will not harm me, if I do not harm it." And she was right. It alighted near her for a moment, but did not sting her; and gentle Jessie did not try to harm it. Then the wasp flew to the flowers on her hat; but, not finding the food it wanted, at last it flew away. "Well done, Jessie," said I, lifting her from the ground, and giving her a kiss. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] GRETCHEN. GRETCHEN'S old; she's neat and good: See her coming from the wood! She bears fagots on her back, Lest her darlings fire may lack. [Illustration] Here you see her far from town, With her darlings sitting down: Gretchen, Emma, Fritz, and Paul,-- They are happy, happy all. M. A. C. FRIENDS IN NEED. ONCE a poor crippled sparrow fell to the ground, and fluttered about in a vain attempt to regain a place of safety. Some of its mates gathered around it, and seemed eager to help it; but they did not know what to do. Their chirping drew together a good many of the sparrow tribe. One thought this thing ought to be done, and another thought that. Some tried to lift the helpless bird by catching its wings in their beaks; but this failed, and such a chattering and scolding as took place! "I told you that wasn't the way to do it."--"How stupid!"--"You should have taken my advice." Perhaps such were the speeches which were uttered in bird-language; for all the little creature seemed much excited. [Illustration] Presently two of the birds flew away, but soon came back with a twig six or seven inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. This was dropped before the poor little cripple, and at each end was picked up by a sparrow, and held so that the lame bird was able to catch the middle of the twig in its beak. Then the crippled bird, with the aid of the other two, flew off, till they came to the wall covered with ivy, where it had its home. There it chirped to show how glad it was. All the other sparrows followed, as if to share in the pleasure of the rescue. This is a true story. IDA FAY. A NOONDAY LULLABY. [Illustration] "TIC, tac! Tic, tac!" Says the clock on the wall: "Sleep now, my darling, for 'tis time, 'tis time; Soon I will wake you with my merry chime,-- Tic, tac! Tic, tac!" "Purr-r-r! Purr-r-r!" Tabby sings on the sill: "Shut your eyes, deary, and sleep in a trice, Then I will stay here, and scare off the mice,-- Purr-r-r! Purr-r-r!" "Coo-oo! Coo-oo!" Says the dove on the roof: "Go to sleep, pet, while I strut here and coo, As for my own pretty nestlings I do,-- Coo-oo! Coo-oo!" [Illustration] "Cut, cut, ca-dah-cut!" Cackles kind biddy-hen: "Listen, my little one: if you'll not weep, I'll lay an egg for you while you are asleep,-- Cut, cut, ca-dah-cut!" "Moo-oo! Moo-oo!" Says the good moolly-cow: "Sleep, my wee man, and I'll make it fair, For I'll give you milk from bossy's own share,-- Moo-oo! Moo-oo!" "Hum, hum! Buz, buz!" Drones the bee on the wing: "Fret not, my baby, but croon in your bed, I'll bring you honey to eat on your bread,-- Hum, hum! Buz, buz!" "Hush-sh-sh! Hush-sh-sh!" Whisper leaves on the tree: "As through our shadow soft sunlight streams, See how the angels send smiles in his dreams! Hush-sh-sh! Hush-sh-sh!" M. A. C. [Illustration] THE BEAR THAT PUT ON AIRS. THERE was once a bear that had been tamed and made to dance by a man who beat him when he did not mind. This bear was called Dandy, and he had been taught many queer tricks. He could shoulder a pole as if it were a gun, and could balance it on his nose, or stand on his hind-legs and hold it by his fore-paws behind his back. He did all these things at his master's bidding because he stood in great fear of his master's whip. His master made a show of him; and, though Dandy did not like it, he was forced to submit. [Illustration] But one day, when he had been left alone, the chain, that held him by a ring in his nose, got loose from the ring; and Dandy was soon a free bear. Taking his pole, he made his way, as fast as he could, to a mountain where the woods were high and thick. Here he found a number of fellow-bears. Instead of treating them as equals, he put on fine airs, told them what a rare life he had led among men, how many nice tricks he had learned, and how much wiser he was than all the bears that had ever lived. For a time the other bears were simple enough to take him at his word. They thought, because he said so, that he must be a very great bear indeed. He never was at a loss when they asked him a question, never would confess his ignorance, and so had to say much that was not true. Dandy boasted so of the respect which men had paid him, that he made the other bears think he was doing them a great honor by living with them. He made them all wait on him. But at last a young bear, that had escaped from a trap which some men had set for him, said to Dandy, "Is that ring in your nose for ornament or for use?" "For ornament, of course," said Dandy. "This ring was a gift from a man who was once my partner. He was so fond of me, and so pleased with my dancing, that he never tired of serving me. He brought me all my food. In fact I had him at my beck and call." "My friends," said the young bear, "he tells a fib. That ring was put in his nose to be fastened to a chain. He was held a slave by the man who, he says, treated him so finely. He was made to dance through fear of being touched up with a red-hot iron. In short, he is what men call a 'humbug.'" "Yes, he is a humbug," cried the others, though they did not know what the word meant. "We will have no more of his fine airs."--"I never liked him."--"Drive him off."--"Send him back to his dancing-master!"--"Kick him!"--"Stone him!"--"Beat him!"--"We'll have no humbug here." And so poor Dandy was driven out from the woods, and forced to get his living by himself; while the knowing young bear that had exposed him, looked on and laughed at his misfortune. If Dandy had not been so boastful; if he had spoken the truth, and been modest,--he might have been respected by his fellow-bears to the end of his days. ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXI.--NO. 1.] A SQUEAK! I'M only a little brown mouse That lives in somebody's house, And in that same house there's a cat; But oh, ho! what care I for that? She sits in the sunshine, And licks her white paws, With one eye on me, And one on her claws. How she watches the crack Where she sees my brown back! But she'll never catch me! For oh, ho! don't you see That I'm just the smartest young mouse That lives anywhere in the house? I'm only a little brown mouse That lives in somebody's house, And in that same house there is Rover: He has chased me the whole house over. And there, too, is fat Baby Tim; But oh, ho! what care I for him? When he sprawls on the carpet, And bumps his pink nose, I scamper around him, And tickle his toes. How he kicks and he crows! For he knows, oh, he knows, That I'm only a little brown mouse That lives in his grandmother's house. [Illustration] I'm only a little brown mouse That lives in somebody's house; And in that same house there's a clock, That says, "Tick-a-tock, tick-a-tock!" And I've not forgotten yet quite, How once, on a very still night, I was sitting just over the clock, When it gave such a terrible knock, With a whirring and whizzing, And buzzing and fizzing, That I tumbled headlong from my perch on the shelf, And, scampering wildly, I crowded myself Right under the door, through such a small crack, That I scraped all the hairs off the top of my back. Oh, I am the merriest mouse That lives anywhere in a house! I love toasted cheese, and I love crusts of bread, And bits of old paper to make a soft bed. Oh! I tell you it's nice To be one of the mice, And when the night comes, And the folks are abed, To rattle and race On the floor overhead. And, say, don't you wish _you_ could run up a wall As I do, every day, without getting a fall? And don't you wish _you_ were a mouse, Living in somebody's house? FLETA F. WHAT YOU DO, DO WELL. "WHY do you take such pains in cutting out these little figures?" asked Winifred of her brother Ernest. "I will tell you why, sister," replied Ernest. "I take pains because my teacher tells me, that, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well." "Did he mean that we should try to do well even in trifles?" asked Winifred. "Yes," answered Ernest, "because, as a great man once said, 'Perfection is no trifle.'" Winifred sat looking at her brother, as, handling a pair of scissors, he carefully cut out figures of horses, dogs, pigs, and various other animals. Three years afterward she remembered this conversation; for it happened at that time, that, her father having died, her widowed mother was left almost destitute with a family of seven children to support. [Illustration] What should the poor woman do? At first she thought she would take in washing, then that she would try to keep a little shop. While she was hesitating, Mr. Mason, a brisk old gentleman, came to the door, and asked, "Where is the boy who cuts these figures and faces in profile?" One of his grandchildren had brought him home from school some specimens of Ernest's skill; and Mr. Mason saw at once that they were the work of a gifted and painstaking artist. "You must mean my little Ernest," said the mother. "Poor little fellow! He little dreams what is coming. I shall soon have to take him away from school." "Why so?" cried Mr. Mason. "Take him away from school? You shall do no such a thing. I'll not allow it." "We are destitute, sir, and I have no means of support," said the mother with a sigh. "No means of support! Nonsense! With a boy in the house who can cut figures like that, do you say you have no means of support?" exclaimed Mr. Mason. "Good woman, I will insure your boy good wages every week for the next year, if you will let him come between school-hours, and cut pictures under my direction." The rest of my little story may soon be told. Ernest became the staff and stay of his family. The little talent he had cultivated so carefully and diligently was the means of giving him not only an honest employment, but a liberal support. He rose to distinction; and his productions were much sought after by all good judges of art. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration: ST. CATHERINE'S ROCK, SOUTH WALES.] IN THE WINTER. [Illustration] THERE are some nice apples in the cellar, and William is going down with a light to get a dish full. He will pick out some that are as yellow as gold, and some that are as red as a rose. [Illustration] This man is cutting a hole through the ice, so that the cows may drink. The stream is all frozen over. When the thick ice is broken, they can drink all they want. Walk up, old Brindle, and help yourself. [Illustration] Here are the fowls, and each stands on one leg. The ground is covered with snow, and their toes are very cold. So they all hold their feet under their feathers, to keep them warm. [Illustration] The old gray cat comes in the morning, and jumps up on the children's bed. Then she creeps towards them, and rubs her soft fur on the little boy's face, and wakes him up. She would like to say, "Good morning!" but she only says, "Mew, mew!" W. O. C. [Illustration] MY LITTLE SISTER. GOOD folks who read "The Nursery," this is my little sister; The picture shows you truly how I caught her up, and kissed her: She is so sweet, so very sweet, that I am quite decided If you could see her as she is you would do just as I did. BROTHER CARLOS. A LETTER TO MINNIE. The following is an exact copy of a letter found in little Minnie's stocking last Christmas:-- SITTING ROOM, AT MAMMA'S DESK. MY DEAR LITTLE MINNIE. You must excuse my calling you by your pet name; but you see I'm so fond of all good children that I can't _Master_ and _Miss_ them, and they're all Tommie, and Johnnie, and Fannie, and Minnie, to me. Your stocking is so small that I can't put much of any thing into it: but if that piano, with the nice white cloth on it, isn't for presents, then I'm mistaken. I shall put yours there, and I hope I sha'n't crock that tablecloth; for your mamma wouldn't like to find my sooty marks all over it. Though I don't see how she could expect me to be clean when she has had a soft-coal fire burning in her grate all the evening, and that does make the chimney so black! If you will look at the picture of me in your new book (they call me St. Nicholas there), you'll see how fat I am; and how do you suppose I get down such a small place? I never could if I didn't love children so much, and if I hadn't done it for so many hundred years. But I began, you see, before I grew so fat; and so now I know the easiest way to do it. I hope you'll have all you wanted this year; but you all grow so fast, and have so many wants from year to year, that I sometimes fear that I sha'n't always be able to satisfy you. Still, as it's only the good little children that I visit, I fancy they will be pleased, whatever I bring. I must confess, though, that it isn't _all_ guesswork. I know pretty well what my little folks want. But if you knew the amount of listening at doors and windows and registers, that I do to find out all these wants, you'd be astonished. And now, if I don't hurry off, you'll be waking up, and catch me here; besides, I've staid a deal longer than I ought, for I've lots to do before daylight. But, seeing your mamma's desk and writing-materials so handy, I really couldn't help sitting down to write you a letter. Tell your brother Walter, that as I brought him presents ten years before you came, he mustn't expect quite so many now; for he can have no idea how many little folks I have to provide for. And if my reindeers weren't the kindest, and strongest, and fleetest of creatures, we never could get through the amount of work we have to do "the night before Christmas." Wishing you, and your brother, and papa, and mamma, a "Merry Christmas," I remain, with a heart full of love, yours, SANTA CLAUS. [Illustration] THE HEDGEHOG. THE hedgehog is a queer little animal with short limbs. It feeds mostly on insects. It has its body covered with sharp spines instead of hairs, and can roll itself up in a ball, and thus show an array of prickles pointing in every direction. Slow of foot, this little creature cannot flee from danger; but in the sharp, hard, and tough prickles of its coat, it has a safeguard better than the teeth and claws of the wildcat, or the fleetness of the hare. The hedgehog has powerful muscles beneath the skin of the back; and by the aid of these, on the slightest alarm, it rolls itself up so as to have its head and legs hidden in the middle of the ball it thus makes of itself. Our dog Snip saw a hedgehog, the other day, for the first time. As soon as it saw him, the little creature seemed to change from a live thing into a ball. Snip did not know what to make of it. His curiosity was much excited. He went up, and looked at it. If the two could have spoken, I think this would have been their talk:-- _Snip._--"Of all the queer things I ever saw, you are the queerest. What _are_ you anyhow?" _Hedgehog._--"Suppose you put out your paw, and try." _Snip._--"I don't like the look of those prickles." _Hedgehog._--"Don't be a coward, Snip! Put your nose down, and feel of my nice soft back." Whether the cunning hedgehog really cheated him by any such remarks as these, I cannot say. But Snip at last mustered courage enough to put his nose down to the ball. Rash Snip! Up rose the bristles, and pricked him so that he ran back to the house, howling and yelping as if he had been shot. Having put Snip to flight, the hedgehog quietly unrolled itself, thrust out its queer little head with the long snout, and crept along on its way rejoicing. As for Snip, I am quite sure he will never put his nose to the back of a hedgehog again, as long as he lives. CHARLES SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration: Little Black Monkey] LITTLE black monkey sat up in a tree; Little black monkey, he grinned at me; He put out his paw for a cocoanut, And he dropped it down on my occiput. The occiput is a part, you know, Of the head which does on my shoulders grow; And it's very unpleasant to have it hit, Especially when there's no hair on it. I took up my gun, and I said, "Now why, Little black monkey, should you not die? I'll hit you soon in a vital part, It may be your head, or it may be your heart." I steadied the gun, and I aimed it true: The trigger it snapped, and the bullet it flew; But just where it went to, I cannot tell, For I never _could_ see where that bullet fell. Little black monkey still sat in the tree, And placidly, wickedly, grinned at me: I took up my gun, and walked away, And postponed his death till another day. LAURA E. RICHARDS. THE LITTLE SCISSORS-GRINDER. WILLIE is a three-year-old darling. This summer he visited his aunt in the city, and was very much interested in the curious sights and sounds which abound there. A few days after his return home, when his mamma sat on the piazza with some friends, Willie marched up the gravel path with his little wheelbarrow on his back. He stopped at the foot of the steps, set his burden down, resting it upon the handles, so that it stood upright. Then holding it with one hand, and rolling the wheel with the other, he kept his foot rising and falling, just as if he were at work with a genuine treadle. He looked very sober, and said, "Please, madam, have you any scissors to sharpen?" The ladies handed him several pairs, which he ground in the best style, trying the edge with his finger, and at last passing them to the owner with the request for ten cents. [Illustration] Mamma gave him a bit of paper, which he put into his pocket, returning the change in the form of two leaves. When he had finished his task, he shouldered the wheelbarrow, and was saying "Good-afternoon," when one of the party ran after him, calling to him to kiss her. "Scissors-grinders don't kiss," he said; but the fun sparkled in his bright black eye, and he burst into a hearty laugh, which must have been a relief to the merry boy after being sober so long. MRS. G. [Illustration] [Illustration: Music] THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. Words by MARIAN DOUGLAS. Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1. The north winds blow o'er drifts of snow. Out in the cold who goes from here? "Good-by! good-by!" loud voices cry; "Good-by!" returns the brave Old Year. But looking back what word leaves he? "Oh, you must all good children be!" 2. A knock, a knock! 'tis twelve o'clock! This time of night, pray who comes here? Oh, now I see, 'tis he! 'tis he! All people know the glad New Year! What has he brought? and what says he? "Oh, you must all good children be!" [Illustration: THE NURSERY PREMIUM-LIST.] INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. [Illustration: T]HE publication of "The Nursery" was begun in 1867. The work met a want which was then wholly unsupplied, and it was at once received with a high degree of public favor. Since then it has gone on increasing, from year to year, in circulation and in reputation,--maintaining its supremacy over all imitators and rivals,--and it now holds a firmly established place among first-class American periodicals, and is admitted to be the _best magazine in the world for the class of readers to whom it is addressed_. Its articles, whether in prose or verse, are adapted with the greatest care to the capacities of children, and are, with very rare exceptions, wholly original. Its illustrations, which are given with great profuseness, are engraved in the highest style of art, and, in most cases, from designs made expressly for "The Nursery," by the best American artists. Such as are not original, are reproductions of the choicest pictures to be found in the foreign juvenile periodicals. A song set to music by a skilful composer, and specially adapted to children's voices, is given in every number of the magazine. Altogether, its pages furnish just such a variety as is best fitted to the wants of children from infancy up to the age of twelve years. In schools it is found to answer admirably as a first-Reader; and in remote districts, where there are no schools, it takes the place of a teacher; for thousands of children have been taught to read by "The Nursery" alone. A work which is at once so useful and so attractive, cannot fail to be in demand in every family where there are young children. Its low price, ($1.60 a year, free of postage), places it within the reach of all classes. We rely upon its merits alone to secure its circulation, and send a sample copy by mail, for ten cents, to any person who wishes to examine it. We do not _hire_ anybody to subscribe; but if any one procures subscriptions for us, we are always ready to make a suitable compensation. With this view, we present the following list of Premiums. 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It is advisable always to have the letter _registered_. Letters can be registered in any Post Office. [Illustration: Right index] If, in making change, you find any difficulty in procuring Postal currency, bear in mind that we will accept _Postage-stamps_ as currency. _All remittances are at the risk of the sender._ Direct to the publisher, JOHN L. SHOREY. No. 36 Bromfield Street, _BOSTON, MASS._ * * * * * [Illustration: OFFICE OF "THE NURSERY."] PREMIUMS. * * * * * SECTION I. FOR TWO SUBSCRIBERS. =Two subscriptions, with three dollars and twenty cents in payment therefor, will entitle the sender to any book or other article described in this section. All Premiums will be sent postpaid.= BOOKS. =Half-Yearly Volumes of "The Nursery,"=--Two volumes a year have been issued since the commencement of the magazine in 1867, so there is now a large number to choose from. They are beautifully bound in cloth and gilt, and form, all together, a complete juvenile library. Price, per volume =$1.00= =The Beautiful Book.=--This is a collection of some of the best poems that have appeared in "The Nursery." It is an elegant volume of 128 pages, exquisitely illustrated. Price =.75= =The Easy Book.=--Prepared expressly for children just learning to read. In large Old English type, with a profusion of pictures and delightful object-lessons. 128 pages. Price =.75= =Oxford's Junior Speaker.=--A collection of exercises for declamation and recitation, with many dialogues never before published. Adapted to the young of both sexes. With numerous illustrations. 216 pages. Price =.90= =Simple Addition and Nursery Jingles.=--Contains Simple Addition and fifty-five Nursery Jingles, with twenty-two full-page, and four double-page illustrations in colors. Price =1.00= =Little Folks' Colored Picture Book.=--Contains thirty-six stories, with sixteen full-page illustrations in colors. Royal 8vo. Cloth. Price =1.00= =Uncle John's Drolleries.=--Contains THE ARK ALPHABET, DASH'S HOLIDAY, MISS MOUSER'S TEA PARTY, and THE TEN LITTLE NIGGERS, with four double-page, eighteen full-page, and twelve half-page illustrations. Royal 8vo. Price =1.00= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. LITTLE CLASSIC SERIES. A series of exquisitely printed little volumes, in flexible binding and red edges. =Any volume of "The Little Classics."= Price, per volume =1.00= This is a series of handy volumes, containing many of the choicest short Stories, Sketches and Poems in English Literature. The following list presents the contents of each volume, viz.:-- 1.--EXILE. Ethan Brand _Hawthorne_ The Swans of Lir _Gerald Griffin_ A Night in a Workhouse, _Jas. Greenwood_ The Outcasts of Poker Fiat, _Bret Harte_ The Man without a Country _Hale_ Flight of a Tartar Tribe _DeQuincey_ 2.--INTELLECT. The House and the Brain _Bulwer_ L'Outre Mort _Harriet Prescott Spofford_ The Fall of the House of Usher _Poe_ Chops, the Dwarf _Dickens_ Wakefield _Hawthorne_ Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts _DeQuincey_ The Captain's Story, _Rebecca Harding Davis_ 3.--TRAGEDY. The Murders in Rue Morgue _Poe_ The Lauson Tragedy _DeForest_ The Iron Shroud _Wm. Mudford_ The Bell Tower _Herman Melville_ The Kathayan Slave _Mrs. Judson_ The Story of La Roche, _Henry Mackenzie_ The Vision of Sudden Death _DeQuincey_ 4.--LIFE. Rab and his Friends _Dr. John Brown_ A Romance of Real Life _W. D. Howells_ The Luck of Roaring Camp _Bret Harte_ Jerry Jarvis's Wig _R. H. Barham_ Beauty and the Beast _Willis_ David Swan _Hawthorne_ Dreamthorp _Alexander Smith_ A Bachelor's Reverie _D. G. Mitchell_ The Grammar of Life _B. F. Taylor_ My Chateaux _G. W. Curtis_ Dream Children _Charles Lamb_ The Man in the Reservoir _C. F. Hoffman_ Westminster Abbey _Addison_ The Puritans _Macaulay_ Gettysburg _Abraham Lincoln_ 5.--LAUGHTER. A Christmas Carol _Dickens_ The Haunted Crust _Katherine Saunders_ A Dissertation upon Roast Pig _Lamb_ The Total Depravity of Inanimate Things _Mrs. E. A. Walker_ The Skeleton in the Closet _Hale_ Sandy Wood's Sepulchre _Hugh Miller_ A Visit to the Asylum for Decayed Punsters _Holmes_ Mr. Tibbot O'Leary the Curious, _Gerald Griffin_ Neal Malone _William Carleton_ 6.--LOVE. Love and Skates _Theodore Winthrop_ The Maid of Malines _Bulwer_ The Story of Ruth _From the Bible_ The Rise of Iskander _Disraeli_ 7.--ROMANCE. Iris _Holmes_ The Rosicrucian _Miss Mulock_ The South Breaker, _Harriet Prescott Spofford_ The Snow Storm _Christopher North_ The King of the Peak, _Allan Cunningham_ 8.--MYSTERY. The Ghost _W. D. O'Connor_ The Four-Fifteen Express, _Amelia B. Edwards_ The Signal Man _Dickens_ The Haunted Ship _Cunningham_ A Raft that no Man Made, _Robt. T. S. Lowell_ The Invisible Princess, _Francis O'Connor_ The Advocate's Wedding Day, _Catherine Crowe_ The Birthmark _Hawthorne_ 9.--COMEDY. Barney O'Reirdon, the Navigator _Lover_ Hadad-Ben-Ahab, the Traveller _John Galt_ Bluebeard's Ghost _Thackeray_ The Picnic Party _Horace Smith_ Father Tom and the Pope _Samuel Ferguson_ John Darbyshire _William Howitt_ The Gridiron _Lover_ The Box Tunnel _Reade_ 10.--CHILDHOOD. A Dog of Flanders _Ouida_ The King of the Golden River _Ruskin_ The Lady of Shalott _Miss Phelps_ Marjorie Fleming _John Brown_ Little Jakey _Mrs. S. H. DeKroyft_ The Lost Child _Henry Kingsley_ Goody Gracious! and the Forget-me-Not _John Neal_ A Faded Leaf of History, _Rebecca Harding Davis_ A Child's Dream of a Star _Dickens_ 11.--HEROISM. Little Briggs and I _Fitz-Hugh Ludlow_ Ray _Harriet Prescott Spofford_ Three November Days _B. F. Taylor_ The Forty-Seven Ronins _A. B. Mitford_ A Chance Child _Isabella Mayo_ A Leaf in the Storm _Ouida_ 12.--FORTUNE. The Gold Bug _Poe_ The Fairy Finder _Lover_ Murad the Unlucky _Maria Edgeworth_ The Children of the Public _Hale_ The Rival Dreamers _John Banim_ The Three-fold Destiny _Hawthorne_ 13.--NARRATIVE POEMS. The Deserted Village _Goldsmith_ The Ancient Mariner _Coleridge_ The Prisoner of Chillon _Byron_ Bingen on the Rhine _Mrs. Norton_ O'Connor's Child _Campbell_ Kilmeny _Hogg_ The Dream of Eugene Aram _Hood_ Lady Barbara _Alexander Smith_ The Sensitive Plant _Shelley_ The Eve of St. Agnes _Keats_ Paradise and the Peri _Moore_ The Raven _Poe_ The Skeleton in Armor _Longfellow_ The Haunted House _Hood_ The Writing on the Image _Morris_ Tam O'Shanter _Burns_ The Forging of the Anchor _Samuel Ferguson_ Morte D'Arthur _Tennyson_ Horatius _Macaulay_ 14.--LYRICAL POEMS. Locksley Hall _Tennyson_ My Lost Youth _Longfellow_ Intimations of Immortality _Wordsworth_ Ode to Happiness _Lowell_ L'Allegro and Il Penseroso _Milton_ Elegy in a Country Churchyard _Gray_ The Bridge of Sighs _Hood_ The Problem _Emerson_ The Passions _Collins_ The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee _Scott_ At Port Royal _Whittier_ How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix _Browning_ Ode on the Duke of Wellington _Tennyson_ Commemoration Ode _Lowell_ And many other Poems. 15.--MINOR POEMS. The Chambered Nautilus _Holmes_ The Children's Hour _Longfellow_ The Courtin' _Lowell_ Evelyn Hope _Browning_ Highland Mary _Burns_ Kubla Khan _Coleridge_ My Child _Pierpont_ My Psalm _Whittier_ Oh? Why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? (President Lincoln's favourite Poem.) She was a Phantom of Delight _Wordsworth_ Thanatopsis _Bryant_ The Three Fishers _Kingsley_ Toujours Amour _Stedman_ A Woman's Question _Adelaide Anne Proctor_ Bugle Song _Tennyson_ The Age of Wisdom _Thackeray_ I Remember, I Remember _Hood_ The Ivy Green _Dickens_ A Lament _Shelley_ Maid of Athens _Byron_ Night and Death _Blanco White_ The Old Man's Idyl _Richard Realf_ A Petition to Time _Barry Cornwall_ The Skylark _James Hogg_ Philip, My King _Miss Mulock_ Tom Bowling _Dibdin_ Virtue _George Herbert_ And numerous other poems. 16.--AUTHORS. Containing Brief Biographies of all the Authors from whose writings the fifteen preceding volumes of "Little Classics" have been taken. With complete Index. Sixteen volumes. 32mo. Tastefully bound. Price, per volume, $1.00 [Illustration: Holy Bible] =A neat English Bible=, with gilt clasp, and gilt edges. Price =$1.00= =Book of Common Prayer=, with gilt clasps and gilt edges. Price =1.00= =Whittier's Poetical Works.= Complete. Fully Illustrated. 8vo. Paper. Price =1.00= =Tennyson's Poetical Works.= Complete. Fully illustrated. 8vo. Paper. Price =1.00= =Longfellow's Poems.= Complete. Fully Illustrated. 8vo. Paper =1.00= These inexpensive editions of the most popular living poets, are tasteful, excellently printed, and well illustrated. =Diamond Editions of the following Poets.= Price, per volume =1.00= _BURNS._ _HARTE._ _LONGFELLOW._ _LOWELL._ _PROCTOR._ _SAXE._ _SCOTT._ _TENNYSON._ _WHITTIER._ _LONGFELLOW'S CHRISTUS._ _OWEN MEREDITH'S LUCILLE._ =Dickens's Works.=--Any one of the popular Household Edition. Paper. 8vo. Price per vol. =1.00= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index]Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. =Every Woman her own Flower Gardener.= By Daisy EYEBRIGHT (Mrs. S. O. Johnson). A delightful little Treatise on Out-door Gardening for Ladies--practical, timely, charmingly written. Contains valuable information about Pansies, Roses, Geraniums, Climbing Plants, Annuals, Perennials, Fuchsias, Ribbon Beds, &c. Printed in excellent taste. Bound in cloth. Price =$1.00= [Illustration: Right index]=We will give as a Premium for two Subscriptions, at 1.60 each, any book the price of which does not exceed One Dollar. It may be selected from any publisher's catalogue.= * * * * * MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. [Illustration: Building blocks] =Alphabet and Building Blocks.=--Containing Roman Alphabets--large and small letters--Numerals and Animals--Painted Blocks. Price =1.00= =Crandall's Alphabet-Blocks.=--RED, WHITE, and BLUE. Water-proof. All children are pleased with them. Price =1.00= =Combination Toy-Blocks;= IRREGULAR SHAPES.--These Blocks are made up of geometrical figures, cut with mathematical precision from fine maple wood. They are very instructive, and are often used in schools for drawing exercises and geometrical illustrations. They will make finished architectural designs, such as churches, forts, monuments, boats, &c.; also every letter of the alphabet. Mode of using simple and easy. Put up in cherry boxes with sliding covers, fine label, and illustrated book of directions. Price =1.00= =One Hundred Funny Fellows.=--LARGE SHOWY CUBES.--When matched together, make a hundred comical figures. Printed in colors. Price =1.00= =A Checker-Board and Checkers.= Price =1.00= =A Microscope.=--For examining insects, flowers, etc. Price =1.00= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index]Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. =Ladies' Shawl Strap.=--With two long straps, handle, and bar. Price =1.00= =Child's Table Set.=--Consisting of Knife, Fork, and Spoon. Price =1.00= =A Pocket Compass.=--Accurate.--Watch pattern. Price =1.00= =Dissected Map Of the United States.=--Printed in colors, judiciously arranged so as to bring out prominently the different states. Price =1.00= [Illustration: Checkered Game of Life] This game is so simple that any child who can read may learn to play it. It is not simply a game of chance, but in every move there is an opportunity for the exercise of the judgment. The accompanying cut represents the game board. Two, three, or four can play, and each player is represented by one counter, or man, which is entered at infancy, and by various means regulated by the throw of a tetotum, or die, passes through school, college, industry, success, perseverance, etc., to wealth or happy old age; or through idleness, intemperance, gambling, crime, etc., to disgrace, poverty, ruin, suicide, or prison. Price =1.00= =A small Rubber Pencil Case.=--Gold-tipped. Price Price =1.00= =A small Writing-Desk.=--Embossed cloth; made to contain paper, envelopes, etc. Price =1.00= [Illustration: Tool holder] =A Patent Pocket Tool-Holder.=--It is made of hard Maple. In it are neatly packed 20 cast steel tools. It can be carried in the pocket, and yet the tools it contains are so many and so varied, and of such convenient size, as to make it almost a necessity to any boy or to any family. Price =1.00= =A Pocket Knife.=--Two blades. Nice English steel. Very neat. Price =1.00= =A nice Morocco Portmonnaie.=--Made of the best materials. New pattern. Price =1.00= =A Butter Knife.=--Silver-plated. Extra quality. Price =1.00= =A Sugar-Shell.=--Extra quality. Silver-plated. A handsome pattern. Price =1.00= [Illustration: Plated pencil] =A Gold-Plated Pencil.=--Price =1.00= =A neat Portfolio.=--Beautifully embossed, well made, with four pockets, and blotting-paper, lock and key. Price =1.00= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. =The Florence Steel Skate.=--The runners are of highly tempered steel castings. Metal sole and heel plates. Very strong and durable. Price =$1.00= [Illustration: Send length of Boot when ordering.] [Illustration: Sleeve buttons] =Sleeve Buttons.=--Best Gold Plate. New style. This size. Price =1.00= [Illustration: Ladies cuff pins] =Ladies' Cuff Pins.=--Fine Gold Plate. New Pattern. This size. Price =1.00= [Illustration: Forget me not] =Illuminated Silk-woven Book Marks.=--These new and beautiful productions of the Loom are the wonder and admiration of all who see them. Each design is woven in silk in beautiful colors. The engraving here given is a careful reproduction of one of them on a very small scale, and will give a faint outline of its beauty. From the large list of Mottoes and Designs, we have made the following selections, which we specially commend. For two subscribers select two of Series 1, or one of Series 2. SERIES No. 1. Price 50 Cents Each. NO. The Busy Bee 76 Little Red Riding Hood 85 For a Good Girl 88 Mistress Mary 94 To my Darling 96 The Lily 68 Compliments of the Season 70 God is Good 73 A Blessing 78 To my dear Brother 79 Unchanging Love 82 To my dear Sister 83 To my dear Father 84 To my dear Mother 86 To One I love 101 A Happy Christmas SERIES No. 2. Price $1.00 Each. NO. Honor thy Father and Mother 161 Remember the Sabbath Day 162 The Lord's Prayer 163 Blessed are the Merciful 164 The Doxology 167 The Lord is my Shepherd 170 A Happy New Year 174 Remember Me 175 Faith, Hope and Charity 180 Hope, the Anchor of my Soul 252 Remember now Thy Creator 257 A Happy New Year 260 A Birthday Blessing 266 Many Happy Returns of the Day 269 I Love Thee 278 The Priceless Gem 288 Unchanging Love 289 True Love 293 May our Hearts be United * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. SECTION II. FOR THREE SUBSCRIBERS. =Three subscriptions, with four dollars and eighty cents in payment therefor, will entitle the sender to any book or other article described in this section. All Premiums will be sent postpaid.= BOOKS. =Any Yearly Volume of "The Nursery."=--Beautifully bound in cloth. (The magazine began in 1867.) Price =$1.75= =Oxford's Senior Speaker.=--A collection of exercises in declamation and recitation, for advanced classes, comprising many dialogues and select pieces never before published. With ninety illustrations. Price =1.50= =Sargent's Original Dialogues.=--A collection for school and family reading and representation. Price =1.50= =An Elegant Edition of Shakspeare.=--Complete in one volume; full cloth, extra gilt and gilt edges. Price =1.50= =Any one of the Standard British Poets.=--In one volume; full cloth, extra gilt and gilt edges. Price =1.50= =Aunt Louisa's Little Treasure.=--Contains four stories--TIT, TINY, AND TITTENS, THREE GOOD FRIENDS, FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS, and THREE LITTLE KITTENS. Twenty-four full-page illustrations in colors. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration mounted on cover. Price =1.50= =Good Old Stories.=--Contains--MOTHER HUBBARD, THREE BEARS, COCK ROBIN, and TOM THUMB. Twenty-four full-page illustrations in colors. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration mounted on cover. Price =1.50= =Oft-Told Tales (New).=--Contains--ROBINSON CRUSOE, CHILDREN IN THE WOOD, HARE AND TORTOISE, and WORLD-WIDE FABLES. Twenty-four full-page illustrations in colors. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration mounted on cover. Price =$1.50= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale postpaid, at the prices named. =Sunnybank Stories.=--Compiled by Rev. Asa Bullard. Profusely illustrated. Bound in high colors. The whole set--six volumes in all--put up in a neat box. Price =1.50= =Aunt Louisa's Wee-Wee Stories.=--Comprises--COUNTRY ALPHABET, BABY, HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE, and MY MOTHER. Twenty-four full-page illustrations. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration on cover. Price =1.50= =Aunt Louisa's Child's Delight.=--Contains--RIP VAN WINKLE, YANKEE DOODLE, POCAHONTAS, and PUTNAM. Twenty-four full-page illustrations in colors. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration mounted on cover. Price =1.50= =Aunt Louisa's Fairy Legends.=--Contains--PUSS N BOOTS, JACK AND THE BEAN STALK, WHITE CAT, and CINDERELLA. Twenty-four full-page illustrations in colors. 4to. Cloth, beveled edges, embossed in black and gold, with fine chromatic illustration mounted on cover. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Window gardening] =Window Gardening.=--An elegant book, with 250 fine engravings and 300 pages, containing a descriptive list of all plants suitable for window culture, directions for their treatment, and practical information about plants and flowers for the parlor, conservatory, wardian case, fernery or window garden. Tells all about bulbs for house culture, geraniums, hanging baskets, insects, plant decoration of apartments. The illustrations are unusually beautiful, and many of them perfect gems of exquisite beauty. Price =1.50= =Household Elegancies.=--A splendid new book on household art, devoted to a multitude of topics, interesting to ladies everywhere. Among the most popular subjects are transparencies on glass, leaf work, autumn leaves, wax work, painting, leather work, picture frames, brackets, wall pockets, work boxes and baskets, skeleton leaves, etc. Hundreds of exquisite illustrations decorate the pages, which are full to overflowing with hints and devices to every lady, how to ornament her home cheaply, tastefully and delightfully, with fancy articles of her own construction. By far the most popular and elegant gift-book of the year. Price =$1.50= =Ladies' Fancy Work.=--A companion volume to "Household Elegancies." It contains 300 pages, and is illustrated with over 350 fine engravings. It gives full instructions for making feather work, paper flowers, fire screens, shrines, rustic pictures, a charming series of designs for Easter crosses, straw ornaments, shell flowers and shell work, bead mosaic, designs in embroidery, and an immense number of designs of other fancy work to delight all lovers of household art and recreation. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Silhouette] =Long Look House.=--With six full-page Silhouettes, by Miss HINDS, and several Outline Sketches by the author, 1 vol. 16mo. tinted paper =1.25= =Out Doors at Long Look.=--The second volume of the series contains four full page Silhouettes, designed by Miss HINDS, and three full-page wood cuts. Also eighteen emblematic Silhouettes at the head of the chapters. This volume introduces many new and exciting scenes, and is intensely interesting. 1 vol. 16mo. =1.25= =Autograph Albums.=--Beautiful Bindings =1.50= =Minnie and her Pets.=--Any _two_ of the following; viz.:-- Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Pony. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. Price per volume =.75= =Little Prudy Stories.=--By Sophie May. Any _two_ of the following; viz.: Little Prudy. Little Prudy's Sister Susy. Little Prudy's Captain Horace. Little Prudy's Cousin Grace. Little Prudy's Story Book. Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple. Price per volume =.75= =Little Prudy's Flyaway Series.=--Any _two_ of the following; viz.:-- Little Folks Astray. Prudy Keeping House. Aunt Madge's Story. Little Grandmother. Little Grandfather. Miss Thistledown. Price per volume =.75= =Dickens's Works.=--Any volume of Harper's Household Edition. Illustrated. Cloth. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Right index] =We will give as a Premium for Three Subscriptions at $1.60 each, any book the price of which does not exceed One Dollar and Fifty Cents. It may be selected from any publisher's catalogue.= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. [Illustration: Toys] =Kindergarten Alphabet and Building Blocks.=--Containing alphabets, numerals, animals, &c. Price =$1.50= =The Little Object Teacher.=--Colored Illustrations. Price =1.50= =Crandall's Building-Blocks.=--Can be made into forms of almost endless variety. The blocks are put up in neat, strong boxes, and a large sheet giving various designs of buildings, etc., accompanies each box. Price, =1.25= [Illustration: Acrobats] =Crandall's Acrobats.=--Full of fun and frolic, and most brilliant in costume. These are among the most fascinating and ingenious toys ever invented. The number of figures which can be made with the pieces in a single box, is limited only by the ingenuity of the operator. Price =1.25= =Parlor Table Croquet.=--Eight mallets, two stakes, ten weighted wickets, belt and balls. Price =1.50= =A Heavily Plated Gold Pencil.=--Price =1.50= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. [Illustration: John Gilpin and his horse] =Crandall's John Gilpin.=--This beautiful and interesting toy is regarded by Mr. Crandall as the masterpiece of his inventions thus far for the little folks. It is made up of two figures, John Gilpin--whose highly colored dress is specially attractive to boys and girls--and his horse, which intelligent animal performs a very important part in the illustration of John Gilpin's famous ride. Price =$1.50= =A Beautiful Rubber Pencil=, with gold-plated tips. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Fruit knife] =A Silver Fruit Knife and Nut-Pick.=--Price =1.50= =A New Terrestrial Globe.=--Beautifully printed in colors. Price. =1.50= =Fret or Jig Saw=, for fancy wood-carving. With 50 designs, and saw-blades, impression-paper, &c. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Flower-vase] =Silver-Plated Flower-Vase.=--New pattern. Elegant design. Price =1.50= =A Set of Drawing Instruments.=--Price =1.50= =A Set of Gold Bosom Studs.= Price =1.50= =A Neat Photograph Album.=--Leather covers, clasp, gilt edges and ornamented (No. 1). Price =1.50= =Fuller's Jig-Saw Attachment=, by the aid of which the use of the saw is greatly facilitated. (See cut on another page.) Price =1.50= [Illustration: Squails] =American Squails.=--Ebonite enameled. This is the jolliest game ever invented. Played on a common dining table by any convenient number of persons. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Writing desk] =A Beautiful Writing Desk=, with paper, envelopes, holder, pencil, &c. Price =1.50= =A Box of Stationery=--=Initial or Plain.=--Variety of tints. Paper and envelopes to match. Price, =1.50= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. [Illustration: Pocket stove] =The American Patent Pocket Stove.=--Invaluable in every nursery, sick room, and camp. This stove makes no smoke, no dirt, and causes no trouble. The fuel (alcohol) when poured into the stove, being held in absorption by the packing (asbestos), is perfectly harmless. It is lighted and extinguished instantly. The stove can be got ready for use in one minute. Among its uses are boiling eggs, coffee, milk, tea, water; heating medicine, children's and invalid's food; broiling meat, fish, and fowl. Saving coal, wood, gas, and thousands of steps. Price =$1.50= [Illustration: Shawl pin] =Gold-Plated Shawl Pin.=--Very beautiful. Best Gold Plate. New Pattern. This size. Price =1.50= =A Telescope or Spy Glass= =1.50= =A Gold-Plated Bracelet.=--Very pretty =1.50= =A Travelling Hand-Bag.=--Ornaments, Lock and Key =1.50= =A Stereoscope.=--Black walnut. Price =1.50= =A Beautiful Morocco Wallet or Portmonnaie=, of the best manufacture. Price =1.50= =A Magnifying Glass.=--Frame of German silver, handle of black ebony, glass of the best quality. Price =1.50= [Illustration: Magnifying glass] * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. SECTION III. FOR FOUR SUBSCRIBERS. =Four subscriptions, with six dollars and forty cents in payment therefor, will entitle the sender to any book or other article described in this section. All Premiums will be sent postpaid.= BOOKS. =Longfellow's Poems.= 1 vol. Price =$2.00= =Owen Meredith's Poems.= 1 vol. Price =2.00= =Tennyson's Poems.= 1 vol. Price =2.00= =Whittier's Poems.= 1 vol. Price =2.00= =The Vest-Pocket Series.=--Any _four_ of the following volumes; viz.:-- Vol. 1. Snow-Bound. By Whittier. 2. Evangeline. By Longfellow. 3. Power, Wealth, Illusions. By Emerson. 4. Culture, Behavior, Beauty. By Emerson. 5. The Courtship of Miles Standish. By Longfellow. 6. Enoch Arden. By Tennyson. 7. Nathaniel Hawthorne. By J. T. Fields. 8. A Day's Pleasure. By W. D. Howells. 9. The Vision of Sir Launfal. By Lowell. 10. A Christmas Carol. By Dickens. 11. Lady Geraldine's Courtship. By Mrs. Browning. 12. The Deserted Village and The Traveller. By Goldsmith. 13. Rab and his Friends and Marjorie Fleming. By Dr. John Brown. 14. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. By Coleridge. 15. Barry Cornwall and his Friends. By J. T. Fields. 16. The Eve of St. Agnes. By Keats. Price per volume =.50= These miniature volumes are of the same general order with "Little Classics," which have proved so universally popular, but smaller every way, except in type. Their typographical beauty, fine paper, tasteful binding, dainty size, and, yet more, the sterling and popular character of their contents, have gained for them a general welcome. * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale postpaid, at the prices named. =A Superb Pocket-Bible.=--With gilt rims, corners, and clasps. Price =$2.00= =Whittier's Songs of Three Centuries.= 1 vol. Price =2.00= =Among My Books.=--Second Series. By James Russell Lowell. DANTE, SPENSER, WORDSWORTH, MILTON, KEATS. Price =2.00= =Will Carleton's Farm Legends.=--With illustrations. Price =2.00= =Will Carleton's Farm Ballads.=--With illustrations. Price =2.00= =Little People of the Poets.=--A volume of favorite Child Poems. Price =2.00= =�sop's Fables.=--With 114 Illustrations. 12mo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Popular Nursery Tales and Rhymes.=--With 180 Illustrations. Square 8vo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Robinson Crusoe.=--With 300 beautiful Illustrations by Granville. 12mo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Dictionary of Quotations= from the Greek, Latin, and Modern Languages, translated into English. Price =2.00= =Wood's Natural History Picture Books.=--As follows:-- MAMMALIA. With 180 illustrations. Fcap., 4to., cloth. Price =2.00= BIRDS. With 240 illustrations. Fcap. 4to., cloth. Price =2.00= REPTILES, FISHES, AND INSECTS. 240 illustrations. Fcap, 4to., cloth. Price =2.00= =Boys' and Girls' Illustrated Gift-Book.=--With 200 fine Illustrations. Square 8vo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Boys' Book of Trades.=--With 200 Illustrations. Square 8vo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Boys' Treasury of Sports and Pastimes.=--Profusely Illustrated. 12mo. cloth. Price =2.00= =Child's Picture Story-Book.=--With 400 Illustrations. Square 8vo. cloth. Price =2.00= =The Student's History of Greece.=--A history of Greece, from the earliest times to the Roman Conquest. With supplementary chapters on the history of literature and art. By Wm. Smith, LL.D. Illustrations. 12mo, cloth. Price =2.00= =The Student's History of Rome.=--A history of Rome, from the earliest times to the establishment of the empire, With chapters on the history of literature and art. By H. G. Liddell, D.D., Dean of Christ Church, Oxford. Illustrations, 12mo, cloth. Price =2.00= =The Student's Gibbon.=--A history of the decline and fall of the Roman empire. By Edward Gibbon. Abridged. Incorporating the researches of recent commentators. By Wm. Smith, LL.D. Illustrations. 12mo, cloth. Price =2.00= * * * * * [Illustration: Right index] Besides giving the above as premiums, we offer them for sale, postpaid, at the prices named. =The Student's Hume.=--A history of England, from the earliest times to the Revolution in 1688. By David Hume. Abridged. Incorporating the corrections and researches of recent historians, and continuing down to the year 1858. Illustrations. 12mo, cloth. 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Page 15, "animals" changed to "animal" (which intelligent animal) 
28133	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 5. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents] IN PROSE. The Young Lamplighter 129 Fourth Lesson in Astronomy 131 The Poor Blind Woman 133 "Good-morning, Sir!" 136 Playing April-Fool 138 The Eider-Duck 139 The Trial-Trip 141 Swaddling-Clothes 142 Drawing-Lesson 145 Fanny and Louise 146 True Story of a Bird 149 A Rough Sketch 151 Peter's Pets 153 The Strolling Bear 154 The Parrot and the Sparrow 156 IN VERSE. "Popping Corn" 132 The Cooper's Song 135 Polliwogs 143 The Toad 148 That Fox 158 Grasshopper Green (_with music_) 160 [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: THE YOUNG LAMPLIGHTER.] THE YOUNG LAMPLIGHTER. [Illustration: W]ALLACE is a boy about ten years old, who lives in a town near Boston. He has a brother Charles, eighteen years of age. These two brothers are the town lamplighters. There are at least fifty lamps to be lighted every night; and some of them are a good deal farther apart than the street-lamps in large cities. Charles takes the more distant ones for his part of the work, and drives from post to post in a gig. Wallace, being a small boy, calls to his aid his father's saddle-horse. This horse is a kind, gentle creature, and as wise as he is kind. He and Wallace are about the same age, and have always been good friends. So when Wallace puts the saddle on him every evening, just before dark, the horse knows just what is going to be done. He looks at the boy with his great bright eyes, as much as to say, "We have our evening work to do, haven't we, Wallace? Well, I'm ready: jump on." Wallace mounts the horse; and they go straight to the nearest lamp-post. Here the horse stops close by the post, and stands as still and steady as the post itself. Then Wallace stands upright on the saddle, takes a match from his pocket, lights the lamp, drops quickly into his seat again, takes up the bridle, gives the word to the horse, and on they go to the next lamp-post. So they go on, till all the lamps allotted to Wallace are lighted. Then they trot home merrily, and, before Wallace goes to bed himself, I am sure he does not forget to see that his good horse is well fed and cared for. This is a true story. UNCLE SAM. [Illustration] FOURTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. BECAUSE our earth has one sun and one moon, you may think all earths have only one; but wise men have looked through their telescopes, and have discovered that some of the stars which look to us like single stars are really double; and many of them are clusters of three or four, all lighting up the same planets. Those earths, then, have more than one sun: they have two, three, or four, as the case may be. Think of two suns. How bright it must be! And imagine one of them red, and the other blue, as some of them are. Wouldn't you feel as if you were living in a rainbow? And how would you like to look out of the window in the evening and see four moons? The wise men can see through their telescopes that Jupiter has four and Saturn eight. (You remember I told you Jupiter and Saturn are two of the earths lighted up by our sun.) Shouldn't you think so many moons would make the nights so bright that one could hardly go to sleep? On the whole, I think we get along very well as we are; and I hope the people who live in the brightness of two suns have strong eyes given them. It must be very beautiful, though. Perhaps you can get an idea how it seems to have a red sun, if you look through a piece of red glass; but I do not believe we can any of us imagine what it would be like to have two suns of different colors. Do you think a red sun shining on a moon makes a red moon? A colored sun or a colored moon seems very strange to us; but I suppose the people that are used to them would think our white light strange. I wonder whether the two suns rise and set at the same time. But we may all wonder and wonder. Nobody knows much about it. I hope you will all look at a double star through a telescope, if you ever have an opportunity. M. E. R. [Illustration] "POPPING CORN." BRING a yellow ear of corn, and then rub, rub, rub, Till the kernels rattle off from the nub, nub, nub! Then put them in a hopper made of wire, wire, wire, And set the little hopper on the fire, fire, fire! If you find them getting lively, give a shake, shake, shake; And a very pretty clatter they will make, make, make: You will hear the heated grains going pop, pop, pop; All about the little hopper, going hop, hop, hop! When you see the yellow corn turning white, white, white, You may know that the popping is done right, right, right: When the hopper gets too full, you may know, know, know, That the fire has changed your corn into snow, snow, snow: Turn the snow into a dish, for it is done, done, done; Then pass it round and eat--for that's the fun, fun, fun! FLETA F. [Illustration] THE POOR BLIND WOMAN. I HAVE a true story to tell about a colored woman who lives in the city of Salem, not far from Boston. She is old and poor and blind. She has had a husband and six children; but they are all dead; her last remaining son was killed in the war, and she is now quite alone in the world. But she is a cheerful old body. She does not whine, nor complain, nor beg; though she needs help much, and is very thankful for any help that is given her. When she goes out to walk, she finds her way as well as she can by groping about with her big umbrella. Very often she loses her way, and goes in the wrong direction; and sometimes she gets bewildered: but I have never known her to be really lost or hurt. There is always somebody to set her right; and it is pleasant to see how kind every one is to her. Many a time I have seen some gentleman, while hurrying to catch his train, stop to help her over the crossing; or some handsomely-dressed lady take her by the arm, and set her right, when she has gone astray. Best of all it is, though, to see the children so kind to her. She comes to our square every Saturday; and, as she is very apt to go to the wrong gate, the little girls--bless their dear hearts!--seem to consider it their duty to guide her, and to help her over the slippery places. In the picture, you may see Lily helping the poor old woman along, as I often see her from my window. Another day it may be Lina, and the next time Mamie; for they are all good to her. Even baby Robin runs to meet her, and is not afraid of her black face. Last week, these small folks had a fair for her in Lily's house. Nobody thought they would get so much money; but they made fifty dollars out of it. This will make the old woman comfortable for a long time. The good woman said, when she was told what they had done, that she hoped the Lord would reward them, for she could not. I think he has rewarded them already by making them very happy while they were doing this kind deed. P. [Illustration] THE COOPER'S SONG. I AM the cooper: I bind the cask: The sweat flows down as I drive my task; Yet on with the hoop! And merry's the sound As I featly pound, And with block and hammer go travelling round, And round and round. I am the cooper: I bind the cask; And gay as play is my nimble task; And though I grow crooked with stooping to pound, Yet merry's the sound As with block and with hammer I journey round And round and round. I am the cooper: I bind the cask: Am healthy and happy--what more shall I ask? Not in king's palaces, I'll be bound, Such joy is found, Where men do nothing, and still go round, And round and round. So I'll still be a cooper, and bind the cask: Bread for children and wife is all I ask; And glad will they be at night, I'll be bound, That, with cheerful sound, Father all day went a-hammering round, And round and round. FROM THE GERMAN. "GOOD-MORNING, SIR!" THERE was once a little robin that grew to be so tame, that it would come to my sister Helen's door every morning for a few crumbs. Sometimes it would perch on the table. What a power there is in kindness! It is very pleasant to form these friendships with birds; so that they learn to trust you and to love you. The sound of the human voice often seems to have a strange effect on animals, as if they almost understood your words. My sister would say, "Good-morning, sir! Come in! Don't make yourself a stranger. Hard times these; but you will find plenty of crumbs on the table. Don't be bashful. You don't rob us. Try as you may, you can't eat us out of house and home. You have a great appetite, have you? Oh, well, eat away! No cat is prowling round." [Illustration] The little bird, as if he knew that my sister was talking to him, would chirp away, and seem quite happy. As soon as the warm weather came, his visits were not so frequent; but, every now and then, he would make his appearance, as if to say, "Don't forget me, Helen. I may want some more crumbs when the cold weather comes." IDA FAY. PLAYING APRIL-FOOL. IT was the last evening in March, and raining drearily out of doors; but in mamma's sitting-room all was bright, warm, and cosey. Jim and his big brother Rob were stretched out on the rug, feet in the air, watching the blazing fire, and talking of the tricks they meant to play next day. "No, sir," said Rob, "you can't fool me! I know about every way there is of fooling; and I'd just like to see anybody try it on me!" And Rob rolled over on his back, and studied the ceiling with a very defiant air. Poor little Jim looked very much troubled; for, if Rob said he could not be fooled, of course he couldn't be; and he did want to play a trick on Rob so badly! At last he sprang up, saying, "I'm going to ask mamma;" and ran out of the room. Rob waited a while; but Jim did not come back: so he yawned, stretched, and went to bed. Next morning, bright and early, up jumped Jim, pulled on his clothes; wrong-side out and upside down (for he was not used to dressing himself), and crept softly downstairs. An hour or two later, Rob went slowly down, rubbing his eyes. He put on his cap, and took up the pail to go for the milk; but it was very heavy. What could be the matter with it? Why, somebody had got the milk already. Just then, Jim appeared from behind the door, crying, "April Fool! April Fool! You thought I couldn't fool you; but I did." Rob looked a little foolish, but said nothing, and went out to feed his hens. To his great surprise, the biddies were already enjoying breakfast; and again he heard little Jim behind him, shouting, "April Fool! April Fool!" Poor Rob! He started to fill the kitchen wood-box; but Jim had filled it. Jim had filled the water-pails: in fact, he had done all of Rob's work; and at last, when he trudged in at breakfast-time, with the sugar that Rob had been told to bring from the store the first thing after breakfast, Rob said, "I give up, Jim. You have fooled me well. But such tricks as yours are first-rate, and I don't care how many of them you play." AUNT SALLIE. THE EIDER-DUCK. DID you ever sleep under an eider-down quilt? If you have, you must have noticed how light and soft it was. Would you like to hear where the eider-down comes from? I will tell you. [Illustration] A long, long way from here, there is a country called Norway. It is a very cold country, and very rocky; and there are a great many small islands all around it. It is on these islands that the dear little eider-ducks build their nests. They take a great deal of time and trouble to make them, and they use fine seaweed, mosses, and dry sticks, so as to make them as strong as they can. When the mother-duck has laid four or five eggs, which are of a pretty, green color, she plucks out some of the soft gray down that grows on her breast, to cover them up, and keep them warm, while she goes off to find some food. And now what do you think happens? Why, when she comes back to sit on her eggs, she finds that all her eggs and beautiful down have been taken away! Oh! how she cries, and flaps her wings, to find her darling eggs gone! But, after a while, she lays five more, and again pulls the down out of her dear little breast to cover them. She goes away again; and again the people take the down away. When she returns the second time, her cries are very sad to hear; but, as she is a very brave little duck, she thinks she will try once more; and this time she is left in peace, and when she has her dear little children-ducks around her, you may be sure she is a joyful mamma. So this is where the eider-down comes from; and, as there are a great many ducks, the people get a great deal of down; and with this down are made the quilts which keep us so warm in cold winter-nights. The eider-down quilts are very light and warm; but I always feel sorry for the poor mamma-duck. SISTER PEPILLA. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TRIAL-TRIP DAVIE and Harold are two little Boston boys. They are brothers. Last summer, they had two pretty little yachts given them by a friend. Then they had a launch in the bath-tub; and their mamma named the yachts, breaking a bottle of water (a small medicine-bottle) over the bows. Davie's yacht was named the "West Wind;" and Harold's, the "Flyaway." One afternoon, the boys went to City Point, hired a row-boat, and rowed out about halfway to Fort Independence, where they put the little vessels into the water for a trial-trip. It was a pretty sight to see the sails fill with the wind, and the tiny yachts ride the waves as if they meant to go to China before they stopped. The "West Wind" beat the "Flyaway," and I regret to say that Davie taunted his brother with the fact, and made him cry; for Harold is a boy that takes every thing to heart. MAMMA. SWADDLING-CLOTHES DID the little readers of "The Nursery" ever think how thankful they should be for the free use of their arms and legs? I do not believe it ever came into their thoughts that there could be any other way than to use them freely. But in Syria, a country many miles from here, the mothers do not let their babies kick their feet, and hold out their dear little hands. They are bound very closely in what are called "swaddling-clothes." They are seldom undressed, and are kept in a rough cradle, and rocked to sleep as much as possible. When the mother carries them out, she straps them to her back; and often, on the mountains there, one may see a woman with a baby on her back, and a great bundle of sticks in her arms. With the sticks she makes her fire, in a room where there is no chimney, and where the smoke often makes poor baby's eyes smart; but all he can do, poor swaddled child, is to open his mouth, and cry. This custom of binding the baby up so straight and tight is a very old one. The Bible tells us, you know, that the mother of Jesus "wrapped him in swaddling-clothes, and laid him in a manger." So the people of Syria keep on using swaddling-clothes, thinking, that, if they do not, the baby will grow crooked. [Illustration] They are used in Russia also, and in other countries of northern Europe. Poor babies! We pity them. EM. JUNIUS. POLLIWOGS. THE cat-tails all along the brook Are growing tall and green; And in the meadow-pool, once more, The polliwogs are seen; Among the duck-weed, in and out, As quick as thought they dart about; Their constant hurry, to and fro, It tires me to see: I wish they knew it did no good To so uneasy be! I mean to ask them if they will Be, just for one half-minute, still! "Be patient, little polliwogs, And by and by you'll turn to frogs." But what's the use to counsel them? My words are thrown away; And not a second in one place A polliwog will stay. They still keep darting all about The floating duck-weed, in and out. Well, if they will so restless be, I will not let it trouble me, But leave these little polliwogs To wriggle till they turn to frogs! MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXI.--NO. 5.] FANNY AND LOUISE. FANNY was a little pony, and Louise was a little girl. Fanny had a long black mane and tail, and Louise had long brown curls. Louise wore a gypsy-hat with blue ribbons, and Fanny wore a saddle and bridle with blue girths and reins. Louise was a gentle little girl, and Fanny was a very headstrong pony; consequently Fanny had it all her own way. When she was trotting along the road, with Louise on her back, if she chanced to spy a nice prickly thistle away up on a bank, up she would scramble, as fast as she could go, the sand and gravel rolling down under her hoofs; and, no matter how hard Louise pulled on the reins, there she would stay until she had eaten the thistle down to the very roots. Then she would back down the bank, and trot on. Fanny was fond of other good things besides thistles. She would spy an apple on a tree, no matter how thick the leaves were; and, without waiting to ask Louise's permission, she would run under the tree, stretch her head up among the branches, and even raise herself up on her hind-legs, like a dog, to reach the apple. Louise would clasp Fanny around the neck, and bury her face in her mane: but she often got scratched by the little twigs; and many a long hair has she left waving from the apple-boughs after such an adventure. Whenever Fanny smelled any very savory odor issuing from the kitchen, she would trot up, and put her head in at the window, waiting for Biddy to give her a doughnut or cooky. One day a boy named Frank borrowed Fanny, as he wished to ride out with a little girl from the city. As they were passing a farm-house, Fanny perceived by the smell that some one was frying crullers there. [Illustration] She immediately ran down the lane to the house, and stuck her head in at the open window, and would not stir from the spot until the farmer's wife gave her a cruller. Then she went quickly back to the road, and behaved very properly all the rest of the way. Fanny was such a good pony, with all her tricks, that the neighbors often used to borrow her. This Fanny did not think at all fair; and she soon found a way to put a stop to it. One warm summer day, the minister borrowed her in order to visit a sick man about two miles away. After several hours he returned, very warm and tired, walking through the dust, and leading Fanny, who came limping along, holding down her head, and appearing to be very lame. She had fallen lame when only half-way to the sick man's house; and the good old minister had led her all the way, rather than ride her when she was lame. All the family gathered around Fanny to see where she was hurt, when Fanny tossed her head, kicked up her heels, and pranced off to the stable, no more lame than a young kitten. It had been all a trick to punish the minister for borrowing her. And it succeeded; for he never asked for Fanny again. L. S. H. [Illustration] THE TOAD. WHAT a curious thing is the little brown toad; Do come and look at it, pray! It sits in the grass, and, when we come near, Just hops along out of our way. It does not know how to sing like a bird, Nor honey to make like a bee; 'Tis not joyous and bright like a butterfly; Oh, say, of what use can it be? But, since God made it, and placed it here, He must have meant it to stay: So we will be kind to you, little brown toad, And you need not hop out of our way. E. A. B. [Illustration] TRUE STORY OF A BIRD. ONE day last spring, in looking over the contents of some boxes which had long been stowed away in the attic, I found some pieces of lace, which, though old-fashioned, seemed to me very pretty. But they were yellow with age,--quite too yellow for use. I took them to the kitchen, and, after a nice washing, spread them on the grass to bleach. I knew that the bright sun would soon take away their yellow hue. A day or two after, Johnnie came running in, and said, "Auntie, the birds are carrying off all your old rags out there," pointing to the place where the laces were spread. Out I went to see about my "old rags," as he called them; and I found that several pieces were missing. We knew that the birds must have taken them; but, where to look for them, we could not tell. That afternoon, Johnny invited me and his cousins to take a row with him in his boat to Rocky Island, of which the readers of "The Nursery" have heard before. We were all glad to go. As we were passing some bushes on the bank of the river, one of us spied something white among them. We wondered what it could be. Johnny rowed nearer; and we could see that it was a piece of lace. Rowing nearer still, we saw another piece, and another, and at the same time heard the flutter of wings. We then asked to be landed, and our boatman soon brought us to shore in fine style. On parting the bushes, we saw a nest just begun, and a piece of lace near it, but not woven in. Close by were four other pieces; but they were all caught by the little twigs, so that the bird could not get them to the nest. We took the lace off carefully, leaving the nest as it was, and brought it away with us. On returning to the house, the children measured the lace, and found nearly six yards, the largest piece being about two yards. It seemed quite a lift for the little birds; and it was too bad that after all they did not get the use of it. But do you think they were discouraged? Oh, no! for they soon had a nice nest built; and one day Johnny found an egg in the nest, which, from its bright hue, he knew to be a robin's egg. This was followed by other eggs, and, in due time, by a whole brood of young birds. AUNT ABBIE. [Illustration] A ROUGH SKETCH. HERE is a boy drawing on a wall. He is a shoemaker's boy. His name is Bob. Tom, the baker's boy, and a little girl named Ann are looking on. "What is it?" asks Ann at sight of the picture. "It's a fine lady, of course," says Tom. "Don't you see her head-dress and her sun-shade?" Bob is so busy that he cannot stop to talk. He is well pleased with his work. But the man who is looking around the corner of the wall does not look pleased in the least. It is plain that he has no love for the fine arts. Or it may be that he does not like to see such a rough sketch on his wall. Perhaps he thinks that when boys are sent on an errand, they ought not to loiter by the way. A. B. C. [Illustration] PETER'S PETS. "HOW old are they, Peter?" asked Ralph Lamson, pointing to two little guinea-pigs on a rude cage which Peter had himself made. "I've had them about six weeks," said Peter. "I don't know how old they were then; but they were only little things: they've grown twice as big since I've had them." "What do you give them to eat?" asked Edwin Moore. "Oh! all sorts of things," replied Peter. "They're fond of carrots, apples, and all sorts of green leaves, and, what is queer, they are fond of tea-leaves." "Fond of tea-leaves!" cried Ralph and Edwin. "Yes," said Peter, "they like tea-leaves very much. I give them oats too, and bits of bread." "And what do they drink?" asked Edwin. "They don't want much to drink, if they get plenty of green stuff and tea-leaves," said Peter; "but they like a drop of milk now and then, if they can get it." "Where do these animals come from?" asked Ralph. "From Brazil and Paraguay in South America. It is thought that their odor drives away rats; and that is one reason why we keep them." "What will you sell them for?" asked Ralph. "Oh, I can't sell them!" said Peter. "They are my pets. Funny little fellows they are, and not so stupid as they seem. This white one I call Daisy; and the other I call Dozy, because he sleeps a good deal." UNCLE CHARLES. THE STROLLING BEAR. IN St. Paul, one day last winter, a big black bear was seen strolling along on the sidewalk on Third Street. He seemed to be quite at his ease, and would stop now and then, and look in at the shop-windows. Half a dozen men and boys soon gathered behind him, following him at a safe distance. Others, going up and down the street, would stop to learn the cause of the crowd, and perhaps join it, so that they might see the end of the fun. [Illustration] For a while, Bruin did not seem to care much for the crowd. But they grew to be pretty free in their speech, calling out to him, "Does your mother know you're out?" "Will you take a glass of whiskey?" and making other rude remarks. Bruin stood it for a while, then turned fiercely upon the crowd, who scattered at once, some running into shops, and others down the side-streets. This free-and-easy bear then continued his stroll. But the crowd behind him grew larger and larger, and he again turned upon them, and made them run, all laughing and shouting, in various directions. At last, as if he had had enough of this kind of fun, he quickened his pace, driving five or six fellows into a saloon, while he followed close at their heels. The boys on the other side of the street laughed at this: so he crossed the street quickly, and put them to flight; and the way they all ran was fun for those near the saloon, who were now the laughers, in their turn. At last, a man with whom Bruin was well acquainted, and on good terms, came up, with a chain in his hand, and threw it about the bear's neck; and then, as if he had had quite enough of a stroll, Bruin quietly followed his guide, and was led back to his owner. ALFRED SELWYN. THE PARROT AND THE SPARROW. AT the "Jardin des Plantes," a famous garden and museum in Paris, there was once a parrot that took a great fancy to a little wild sparrow. Every morning, the little bird would fly to the parrot's perch; and there it would sit almost all day by the side of its great friend. Sometimes the parrot would raise his unchained claw, and the sparrow would perch upon it. Jacquot,--that was the parrot's name,--holding the sparrow at the end of his claw, would turn his head on one side, and gaze fondly on the little bird, which would flap its wings in answer to this sign of friendship. Then Jacquot would slide down to his food-tin, as if to invite the sparrow to share his breakfast. Once the parrot was ill for some days. He did not eat: he trembled with fever, and looked very sad. The sparrow tried in vain to cheer him up. Then the little bird flew out into the garden, and soon returned, holding in his beak some blades of grass. The parrot with great effort managed to eat them. The sparrow kept him supplied with grass; and in a few days he was cured. Once, when the sparrow was hopping about on the grassplot near the parrot's perch, a cat sprang out from some bushes. At this sight, Jacquot raised a loud cry, and broke his chain to fly to the aid of his friend. The cat ran away in terror; and the little bird was saved. [Illustration] UNCLE CHARLES. THAT FOX! A LITTLE gray fox Had a home in the rocks, And most of his naps and his leisure took there; But, one frosty eve, He decided to leave, And for a short absence began to prepare. A letter he wrote; And he brushed up his coat; And he shook out his tail, which was plumy and fine: At first break of day He galloped away, At some distant farm-house intending to dine. How gay he did look, As he frisked to the brook, And gazed at himself in the water so clear! He looked with delight At the beautiful sight; For all was so perfect, from tail-tip to ear! That noon, our gray fox Called on good Farmer Knox, Where some of the fattest of poultry was kept, And, sly as a mouse, Lay in wait by the house; Or, peeping and watching, he stealthily crept. He felt very sure He should shortly secure A fat little chicken, or turkey, or goose; And his eyes were as bright As the stars are at night, As he tried to decide which his foxship should choose. [Illustration] From his sharp-pointed nose To the tip of his toes, He was all expectation!--when, suddenly "_Snap!_" With a "_click_" and a "_clack_;" And, before he could wink, This smart little fox was caught fast in a trap. And now that gray fox Does not live in the rocks; And just what his fate was I never have learned: This only I know, That, a long time ago, He left there one morning--and never returned. FLETA F. [Illustration: GRASSHOPPER GREEN.] GRASSHOPPER GREEN. T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: music] 1. Grasshopper Green is a comical chap; He lives on the best of fare; Bright little jacket and breeches and cap, These are his summer wear. Out in the meadows he loves to go, Playing away in the sun; It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low, Summer's the time for fun. 2. Grasshopper Green has a dozen wee boys, And soon as their legs grow strong, All of them join in his frolicsome joys, Humming his merry song. Under the leaves in a happy row, Soon as the day has begun; It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low, Summer's the time for fun. 3. Grasshopper Green has a quaint little house, It's under a hedge so gay, Grandmother spider as still as a mouse, Envies him o'er the way. Little folks always he calls I know, Out in the beautiful sun: It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low, Summer's the time for fun. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number. 
28134	----	THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXI.--No. 6. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents] IN PROSE. Arthur's New Sloop 161 A True Story 164 Playing Soldier 167 Madie's Visit at Grandma's 168 What I overheard 170 The Encounter 173 Jamie's Letter to a Little Uncle 174 The Disappointed Kitty 175 The Mare and her Colt 177 The Fisherman's Return 180 More about Crickets 183 Fifth Lesson in Astronomy 185 IN VERSE. Tot's Turnover 163 The Kingfisher 166 Bye-Lo-Land 171 Kissing a Sunbeam 179 The Puppy and the Wasp 182 June 187 [Illustration: Birds] [Illustration: ARTHUR'S NEW SLOOP.] ARTHUR'S NEW SLOOP. "[Illustration: N]OW, boys," said Uncle Martin, "if you were at sea in a vessel like this, what should you do when you saw a squall coming up?" "I should take in all sail, and scud under bare poles," said Arthur. "But what if you did not want to be blown ashore?" "Then I should leave out the first reef, so as to catch as much wind as I could risk, and steer for the sea, the sea, the open sea." "Well, that's pretty well said, though not just as a sailor would say it. Look here, Henry, where is the stern?" "You have your left hand on it, sir." "That's true. And where's the rudder?" "Your little finger is resting on it." "What sort of a craft do you call this?" "I call it a sloop; for it has but one mast." "If you were holding the tiller, and I were to say, 'Larboard' or 'port,' what should you do?" "If I stood looking forward, I should move the tiller to the left side of the vessel." "That's right; and, if I said 'Starboard,' you would move the tiller to the right side.--Now, boys, which of you can tell me the difference between a tiller and a helm?" "I always thought," said Arthur, "that they meant pretty much the same thing." "No: the difference is this," said Uncle Martin: "A tiller is this little bar or handle by which I move the rudder. The helm is the whole of the things for steering, consisting of a rudder, a tiller, and, in large vessels, a wheel by which the tiller is moved. So a tiller is only a part of the helm." "Yes, now I understand," said Arthur. "How jolly it is to have an Uncle Martin to explain things!" "You rogue, you expect me to be at the launch, eh?" "Yes, uncle: I've got a bottle of hard cider to smash, on the occasion. It ought to be rum, by the old rule." "The best thing to do with rum is to pour it into the sea," said Uncle Martin. "But what's the name of the new sloop?" "Ah! that you will hear at the launch," said Arthur. "It's the 'Artful Dodger,'" whispered brother Henry. ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] TOT'S TURNOVER. SUGARED and scalloped and cut as you see, With juicy red wreath and name, T-O-T, This is the turnover dear little Tot Set in the window there all piping hot: Proud of her work, she has left it to cool: Benny must share it when he's out of school. Scenting its flavor, Prince happens that way, Wonders if Tot will give him some to-day. Benny is coming, he's now at the gate-- Prince for himself decides not to wait. Oh, pity! 'tis gone, and here you and I See the last that Tot saw of that pretty pie. M. A. C. A TRUE STORY. ONCE, when I lived in the country, some robins built a nest in a lilac-bush in the garden. One day I looked in the nest, and saw one little green egg. Two or three days after, I saw three more little green eggs, and pretty soon what did I see there but four little cunning baby-birdies? The old birds seemed so happy as they fed their little ones, who opened their mouths wide to take the food in, that I loved dearly to watch them. One night there came a terrible storm of wind and rain. When I awoke in the morning, and opened my window, there were the old robins flying about the garden in great distress, making such a dreadful cry, that I went out to see what was the matter. What do you think I saw? The pretty nest was on the ground, torn in pieces by the wind; and the little baby-birds lay in the cold wet grass, crying pitifully. The old birds were flying about, and beating the grass with their wings. I ran to the house, and found an old tin pail. I lined this with nice hay from Billy's stable, picked up the poor little robins, and put them in the warm dry hay. Then I hung the pail on a branch of the bush, tied it firmly with some twine, and went into the house to watch the old birds from my window. They looked first on one side, then on the other, to see that there was nobody near. At last they flew to the old pail, and stood on its edge. Pretty soon they began to sing as if they were just as happy as they could be. I think they liked the old pail just as well as their pretty nest; for they lived in it till the little baby-birdies were able to fly, and to feed themselves. One day I looked in the pail, and it was empty. The birdies had grown up, and had flown away. HANNAH PAULDING. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE KINGFISHER. WHERE the white lilies quiver By the sedge in the river, I fly in and out, I hunt all about; For I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher! Rod and line have not I, But, a fish when I spy, From the tree-top I start, And down, down, I dart; For I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher! My dinner I make, My pleasure I take, And the fish must be quick That would parry my trick; For I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher! Now summer is near, And the boys will be here; But I fly or I run, When I look on a gun, Tho' I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher! EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] PLAYING SOLDIER. LITTLE Mary lives in Boston. She has no brothers or sisters to play with her, and no mother. But her papa plays with her a great deal. There is one game she has with him that is very entertaining to others who are looking on. At least so her aunts and uncles thought on Thanksgiving evening, when it was played for their amusement. I have called the game "Playing soldier." Mary was the captain; and her papa was the soldier. This is the way it was done: Mary went to her papa, who was standing, and placed herself in front of him, with her back against him. "Shoulder arms!" shouted the little captain; and her tall soldier immediately put her on his left shoulder, in imitation of the real soldier, who holds his musket or gun against that place. "Forward march!" shouted our little captain again; and her soldier marched forward with a quick step. "Halt!" cried she after he had marched back; and he stopped at once. "Ground arms!" was the next command; and the soldier put his captain down on the floor in front of him just as she had stood before--and the play was over. M. MADIE'S VISIT AT GRANDMA'S. MADIE is a dear little girl who lives in a pretty village in the State of New York. Every summer she goes to visit her grandmother, whose home is at Bay View, near a beautiful body of water called Henderson Bay, a part of Lake Ontario. She is very happy at Bay View; for, besides grandma, there are an uncle and two aunts, who are never too busy to swing her in the hammock, out under the maples, or play croquet with her on the lawn. Sometimes she drives out with her uncle behind his black ponies; and, if the road is smooth and level, he lets Madie hold the reins. But she likes better to go with him on the water, in his fine sail-boat, "Ildrian," which is a Spanish name, and means "fleet as lightning." When the weather is fine, and the water is calm, her aunts take her out rowing in their pretty row-boat, "Echo." As they row along by the shore, stopping now and then to gather water-lilies, Madie looks at the pretty cottages and white tents nestled among the green trees, where the city people are spending their summer. They pass many boats on the way, filled with ladies and gentlemen, who give them a gay salute; and Madie waves her handkerchief in one hand, and her little flag in the other, as they go by. Sometimes they go ashore in a shady cove; and Aunt Clara fills her basket with ferns and moss, while Madie picks up shells and gay-colored stones on the beach. [Illustration] But these lovely summer-days go by quickly. October comes, and with it Madie's mamma, to claim her little girl, who is so tanned and rosy, that mamma calls her, "Gypsy," and thinks papa will hardly know his little "sunbeam" now. So Madie kisses everybody "good-by" a great many times,--even the bay-colt in the pasture, and the four smutty kittens at the barn,--and goes back to her own home. But, when the sweet June roses bloom again, she will go once more to Bay View, which she thinks is the nicest place in the world. MERLE ARMOUR. WHAT I OVERHEARD. ONE day last summer, at the great Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia, I overheard a conversation that interested me very much. The subject of it was a queer little animal called a "gopher," which sat stuck up in a case with its comical little head perched up in the air; for it wasn't even _alive_, but was a poor little stuffed gopher. In front of the case I noticed two farmers, who were talking about my little friend in a very earnest way: so I listened to their remarks. "Yes," said one, "I tell you he is a dreadful creature to dig. Why, he makes us a sight of trouble out our way! can't keep anything that he can dig for, away from him." "Is that so?" said the other man. "Yes. Why, I pay my boys five cents for every one of 'em they catch; and it's lively work getting 'em, I tell you! See his nose, now! doesn't that look sharp? I tell you, when that fellow gets hold of a job, he _keeps right at it_! There is no _giving up_ in him." "Dear me!" thought I, "how nice of little gopher! Ugly as he is, I quite fall in love with him." And I drew nearer, and showed, I suppose, my interest in my face; for the speaker turned around, and addressed me. "Yes, ma'am, he steals my potatoes, and does lots of mischief. Just look at those paws of his! Doesn't he keep them busy, though!" "Are gophers so very industrious, then?" I asked. "Industrious, ma'am! Well, yes: they've got the _work_ in them, that's true; and, if they begin any thing, they'll see it through. They don't sit down discouraged, and give up; but they keep right on, even when there's no hope. Oh, they're brave little fellows!" And the honest old farmer beamed in admiration upon the stiff, little unconscious specimen before us in the case. "It is very interesting," I said, "to know of such patience in a little animal like this." "Yes, ma'am," he responded: "you would think so if you could see one. Why, _working_ is their _life_. If they couldn't work, they'd die. I know, 'cause I've proved it. Once, we caught one, and I put him in a box, and my boys and I threw in some sand. The box was considerably big, and the little fellow went right to work. He dug, and threw it all back of him over to the other side; then back of him again, till he went through that sand I don't know how many times. Well, he was as lively as a cricket, and, to try what he would do, I took away the sand, and 'twas but a few hours before he was dead. Yes, dead, ma'am! just as dead as this one, here!" pointing with his finger to our friend in the case, who preserved a stolid indifference to the fate of his gopher-cousin. I stopped to take a further look at "little gopher," with whom I felt pretty well acquainted by this time. H. M. S. [Illustration] BYE-LO-LAND. BABY is going to Bye-lo-land, Going to see the sights so grand: Out of the sky the wee stars peep, Watching to see her fast asleep. Swing so, Bye-lo! Over the hills to Bye-lo-land. Oh the bright dreams in Bye-lo-land, All by the loving angels planned! Soft little lashes downward close, Just like the petals of a rose. Swing so, Bye-lo! Prettiest eyes in Bye-lo-land! [Illustration] Sweet is the way to Bye-lo-land, Guided by mother's gentle hand. Little lambs now are in the fold, Little birds nestle from the cold. Swing so, Bye-lo! Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land! GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] THE ENCOUNTER. _Mr. Jones._--Good-morning, madam. It is a fine day. Are you going out for a walk? _Mrs. Smith._--I was just taking my little Aldabella out for an airing. Poor child! She has been kept in the house so long by the bad weather, that she has lost all her color. _Mr. Jones._--Be careful, and don't let her catch the whooping-cough. _Mrs. Smith._--O sir! you alarm me. Is it much about? _Mr. Jones._--Yes, ma'am: so is the measles. I know two gentlemen who were kept away from their base-ball last Saturday afternoon by the measles. _Mrs. Smith._--What an affliction! Is that horse of yours safe? Does he ever kick? _Mr. Jones._--I never knew him to kick in my life; but, as you see, he is a little restive: he may step on your toes. _Mrs. Smith._--Oh, pray hold him in, Mr. Jones! Don't let him be so gay. _Mr. Jones._--Madam, my horse seems to be of the opinion that we have talked long enough: so I will wish you a very good-morning. _Mrs. Smith._--Good-morning, Mr. Jones. Pray don't run over any little boys in the street. _Mr. Jones._--Little boys must not come in my way. Good-by, Mrs. Smith! Good-by, Miss Aldabella! JAMIE'S LETTER TO A LITTLE UNCLE. _My dear little Uncle_,--You see I have not forgotten that long ago you wrote me a letter. My mamma told me to-night that she would answer it for me, because something happened yesterday that I want you to know. You remember it was May-day. Mamma said, "Jamie, you are too little a boy to go out in the fields and woods Maying." That made me feel badly, because the sun was shining so brightly, and the grass looked so green, that I was sure there were plenty of flowers hidden away in the fields. So I thought, "What can a little boy do? I am so little, I can't walk. I am so little, I can't talk much. I can creep, but when I get to a nice bit on the floor and put it into my mouth, mamma jumps, and takes it away, and says, 'No, no, baby!' What can I do? what can I do to please everybody?" At last I thought of something. I was sitting in mamma's lap, when, all at once, she called out, "Aunt Fanny, come here and put your thimble in the baby's mouth. I'm sure that's a tooth." And, sure enough, one little tooth had just peeped out. Then everybody said, "Baby has a tooth!" I didn't tell them that I went Maying all by myself, and found that little tooth; but I tell you as a secret, little uncle. Dear little uncle, I am growing very big. Next summer I can run on the beach with you, and dig in the sand. Now you must kiss my grandmamma for me; give her a kiss on her right eye, her left cheek, her nose, and her lips, and whisper in her ear that I love her very much; then pull my grandpapa's whiskers, and give him two kisses; then give a kiss to all my uncles and aunts, and take one for yourself from your little nephew, JAMIE. THE DISAPPOINTED KITTY. [Illustration] THE name of my kitten is Breezy. I gave her that name because she is never quiet. When she cannot frolic, she mews; but, as she is frolicking all the time when she is not asleep, she does not make much of an outcry, after all. It has been the height of Breezy's ambition to catch a mouse. The other day, I was sitting in my little arm-chair, studying my spelling-lesson, when what should come forth from under the cupboard but a wee mouse not much bigger than the bowl of a teaspoon. Breezy, for a wonder, was asleep on the rug. Mousie looked around, as if in search of some crumbs. I put down my book, and kept very still. Which did I favor in my heart,--Mousie, or Breezy? To tell the truth, my sympathies were divided. The little bright-eyed mouse was so cunning and swift, that I thought to myself, "What a pity to kill such a bright little fellow!" But then I knew how disappointed poor Breezy would be, if she should wake, and learn somehow that a mouse had run over the floor while she was indulging in inglorious slumber. Out came mousie quite boldly, and, finding some crumbs under the table, nibbled at them in great haste. Poor little fellow, if I had had a bit of cheese, I should have been tempted to give it to him, there and then. But, all at once, Breezy woke, and saw what was going on. Mousie, however, had not been so stupid, while making his meal, as not to keep one eye open on his enemy. Quick as a flash he ran for the little crack that led under the cupboard, and thus made his escape. Poor Breezy! She seemed really ashamed of herself. She had her nose at that crack a full hour after mousie had escaped. It seemed as if she could not get over her disappointment. Every day since then she has patiently watched the cupboard. Will mousie give her another chance? That remains to be seen. FANNY EVERTON. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE MARE AND HER COLT. V. XXI.--NO. 6.] THE MARE AND HER COLT. HERE is a picture of the mare and her colt. The old mare is almost white; but the colt is jet black. He is a bright little fellow, and I am sure that his mother is proud of him. Our Willie likes to stand at the bars of the pasture and look at the colt. He often comes so near that the little boy pats him on the head. Willie has named the colt "Frisky," because he is so very lively. He is so nimble with his heels, that it is not safe for a small boy to go very near him now; but Willie expects to ride him by and by. A. B. C. [Illustration] KISSING A SUNBEAM. LITTLE Baby Brown-Eyes Sitting on the floor, Every thing around him Ready to explore, Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes Sitting on the floor! Flutters in a sunbeam Through the open door, Like a golden butterfly Silently before Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes Sitting on the floor. See his little fingers Eager for a prize, And the hungry gladness Laughing in his eyes! Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes Capturing a prize! Plucking at the sunbeam With his finger-tips, Tenderly he lifts them To his rosy lips; Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes Kissing the pink tips! Brother of the sunbeam, With your browny eyes, Greet your silent sister, Stealing from the skies; Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes Kiss her as she flies! Mamma catches sunbeams In your laughing eye, Hiding in your dimples, Peeping very sly: Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly, Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes, She'll kiss them on the fly! GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN HOME. "FATHER is coming! Father is coming!" was little Tim's cry, as he sat at the window of the little house by the seashore. "How do you know he is coming?" said mother, who was tending the baby, and at the same time trying to sew up the seams of a dress for Miss Bella, the second child. "I know he is coming, because I can see him in his boat," cried Tim. "Hurrah, hurrah! I'll be the first one at the landing." Mamma was by this time satisfied that her husband, Mr. Payson, was indeed in sight. He was a fisherman, and had been absent, on a trip to the Banks of Newfoundland, more than six weeks. There had been many storms during that time, and she had passed some anxious moments. But now there he was before her eyes, safe and sound. "Come, Bella," she said, "let us see if we can't get the first kiss." "No, no, I'll get it!" cried Tim, starting on the run for the landing-place. Sure enough, Tim got the first kiss; but mother's and baby's and Bella's soon followed; and so there was no complaint. [Illustration] Mr. Payson had made a prosperous trip. His schooner lay off the point, and he had sold his fish at a good profit. How glad he was to get home, and find his family well! Tim brought him his primer, and proudly pointed to the pages he could read. Bella showed her first attempts at sewing; and, as for baby, she showed how well she could crow and frolic. "I've found the first violet, papa," cried Bella. "But I saw it first," said Tim. "And I smelt of it first," said mother. "And baby pulled it to pieces first," added Bella. It was a happy meeting; and father and mother agreed that to come home and find all the little ones well and happy was better even than to sell his fish at a good price. UNCLE CHARLES. THE PUPPY AND THE WASP. [Illustration] AS asleep I was lying, My ear on the ground, A queer thing came flying And humming around. Humming and coming Close to my ear: Shall I never be quiet? O dear, and O dear! [Illustration] You bold little teaser, Now take yourself off; Of your buzzing and fussing I've had quite enough. You will not? Tormentor, I mean to rest here, So mind how you vex me, And come not too near. [Illustration] You dare to defy me? You come all the bolder? I'll punish you, rash one, Ere I'm a breath older. With my big paw uplifted I'll crush you to dust: Shoo! What a dodger! Leave me--you must! [Illustration] I'll bite you, I'll kill you, I snap and I spring: If I only could catch you, You rude saucy thing! If you were not so little, So cunning and spry, I'd punish you quickly, Pert wretch! you should die. [Illustration] It darts quick as lightning,-- O woe, and O woe! On the nose it has stung me: O, it burns and smarts so! It pains like a needle, It gives me no rest; Oh, the wasp is a creature I hate and detest. [Illustration] He knows he has hurt me, Away now he darts; Oh, poor little puppy! It smarts and it smarts! To think such an insect Should worry a dog! He could not have hurt me, If I'd been a log! MORE ABOUT CRICKETS. WE keep crickets in a box, and find them very interesting. They are very active, and occupy themselves in laying eggs, digging holes, eating, singing, and running. Only the males sing, and their wings are very rough, and curiously marked. Crickets have four different kinds of wings,--yellow, brown, black, and brownish-red. Those that have yellow wings seem to be less hardy than the others. They do not sing so well, but lay and eat more. The brown-winged crickets are quite common, but not so common as the black-winged, which are the most common of all kinds. Brownish-red crickets are very rare. Those that are black with yellow spots where the wings come out, sing the best. The eggs are yellow, about an eighth of an inch long, and of an oval shape. When we were in Lynn, a very handsome yellow-winged singer came into the box, and ate three crickets. We put him in another box with his mate, which he brought with him. In the same box were a large female, and a common sized white-winged cricket, both of which he ate. [Illustration] Afterwards we found in his place a black-winged singer, somewhat smaller than the yellow-winged one was; but his mate remained the same as before. Some spiders make holes in the ground, and, when the crickets go into them, the spiders eat them. The male crickets fight with each other, singing all the while; and the one that beats sings on, all the louder. There is another kind of cricket that is a great deal smaller, and sings much longer, in an undertone. Its wings are always yellow or brown; but we do not know much about crickets of this kind, except that their habits are similar to those of the large ones, and that they are very numerous. HERBERT AND ELLA LYMAN. [Illustration] FIFTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. "A little boy was dreaming, Upon his nurse's lap, That the pins fell out of all the stars, And the stars fell into his cap. So, when his dream was over, What should that little boy do? Why, he went and looked inside his cap-- And found it wasn't true." IF that little boy had been wide awake, and out of doors, with his cap on his head, instead of dreaming in his nurse's lap, don't you think he might really have seen a star fall out of the sky? Haven't you all seen one many a time? But you would never dream that those blazing suns, the stars, are pinned into the sky, and that they might tumble into your cap if the pins fell out. You know better than that; but do you know what does happen when a star falls? We say, "A star falls," because what we see falling looks to us like a star; but it really is no more like a star than a lump of coal. If we should see a piece of blazing coal falling through the air, we might be foolish enough to think that, too, was a star. And what we call a shooting star is, perhaps, more like a lump of coal on fire than like any thing else you know of. Sometimes these shooting stars fall to the ground, and are picked up and found to be rocks. How do you suppose they take fire? It is by striking against the air which is around our earth. They come from nobody knows where, and are no more on fire than any rock is, until they fall into our air; and that sets them blazing, just as a match lights when you rub it against something. These meteors, as they are called, do not often fall to the ground; only the very large ones last until they reach the earth; most of them burn up on their way down. I think that is lucky, because they might at any time fall into some little boy's cap and spoil it, and might even fall on his head, if they were in the habit of falling anywhere. That little boy who thought the stars were only pinned in their places must have felt very uneasy. I don't wonder that he dreamed about them. Once in a great while, a shower of meteors rains down upon the earth; and sometimes many of them can be seen falling from the sky, and burning up in the air. The fall of the year is the best time for meteors; but you will be pretty sure to see one any evening you choose to look for it, and, perhaps, on the Fourth of July one of them will celebrate the day by bursting like a rocket, as they sometimes do. M. E. R. [Illustration] JUNE. THE pretty flowers have come again, The roses and the daisies; And from the trees, oh, hear how plain The birds are singing praises! The grass is fresh and green once more; The sky is clear and sunny; And bees are laying in a store Of pure and golden honey. The little modest buttercup, The dandelion splendid, Their heads are bravely holding up, Now winter's reign is ended. How charming now our walks will be By meadows full of clover, Through shady lanes, where we can see The branches bending over! The flowers are blooming fresh and bright In just the same old places, And oh, it fills me with delight To see their charming faces. The air is sweet, the sky is blue, The woods with songs are ringing; And I'm so happy, that I, too, Can hardly keep from singing. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number. 
28135	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 1. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Percy and the Oxen 3 Pet Rabbits 5 Fourth of July Morning 7 A Fish Story 11 Buttercup's Circus 13 At Sea 14 Drawing-Lesson 17 Solomon and the tame Bear 18 Sixth Lesson in Astronomy 21 Pictures for Mary 25 The Chamois 28 IN VERSE. PAGE The Wild Bees' Home 1 Chipping-Birds' Song 6 The little Deserter 9 At Dinner 20 Teddy's Kitten 23 The Garden Tools 30 What does little Birdie say? (_with music_) 32 [Illustration: A Merry Christmas to You] [Illustration: WILD BEES OF THE WOOD ARE WE; BUT OUR HIVE YOU MUST NOT SEE. VOL. XXII.--NO. 1.] THE WILD BEES' HOME. WILD bees of the wood are we; But our hive you must not see: Here behold our happy home, Where we labor, where we roam. Brooks that on their shining bosoms Catch the overhanging blossoms; Banks all bright with clustering flowers,-- Here is where we pass our hours. Seldom on this solitude Does a girl or boy intrude; Few among you are aware What a home is ours, so fair! In the brook are little fish; You would like them on a dish: Keep away, and bring no hooks To these happy, murmuring brooks. You would like to find our hoard Of honey-comb and honey stored; You would track us, if you could, Through the field, and through the wood, Till, within some hollow tree, You our waxen cells could see. But beware now what you do; Treat us well, and we'll treat you. DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] PERCY AND THE OXEN. SUMMER came, and the city streets were dry, dusty, and noisy, and the bricks made everybody's eyes ache. So mamma took little Percy, who was only three years old, and the rosy, fat one-year-old baby, and went away in the steam cars to the green, fresh, cool, sunny country. Grandpa was left all alone in the still city home, with good old 'Titia to keep house for him until the family should come back in the fall. Well, those who could go to the country had just as much fun as they could wish for,--sitting out under the trees all the sunny days, and in the barn, when the sun was too hot for them to want him to shine on them. One day, great-aunt Hannah was giving her nephews and nieces a dinner of corn and beans, and apples and cream, and nice bread and butter, and they all sat at the table a long time, talking and laughing, and enjoying themselves. All at once little mamma said, "Why, where's Percy?" and sprang up, and ran to the side-door, which opened on to the green. No Percy was to be seen there: so all began to hunt through the sitting-room, even through the parlor (where he never played), out in the kitchen, farther out through the long wood-shed, still farther out in the carriage-house; but he was in none of these places. Then great-aunt Hannah opened the cupboards, and pulled out the drawers, as though she expected to find the "grand-boy" rolled up in a napkin, and tucked away in a corner. There was a high state of flutter when mamma peeped round the edge of the open dining-room door, and said, "Come with me." She was so smiling, that every one knew the search was up; and a row of tall people and short people, headed by little mamma, and ended by tall aunt Hannah, streamed out and over the green, across the road. There they were stopped, and told by mamma to go softly and look in one of the barn-windows. What did they see? A good load of sweet-scented hay piled on a wide hay-cart, two big oxen yoked to that, standing in the middle of the barn-floor, with their two great heads held down very low. In front of them was little chubby Percy, in his clean white frock, swinging a tiny pail, that would hold a teaspoonful of berries, in one hand, and with the other holding out a berry to the oxen, as they put their great mouths down to be fed. AUNT EMMIE. [Illustration] PET RABBITS. MANY of my little readers have owned tame rabbits; but I doubt if they ever had for a pet the little wild rabbit who lives in the woods, and, at the South, builds his nest above ground. On a warm, sunny afternoon in May, two little rabbits, whose mother had been killed by a dog, were brought home in a gentleman's pocket, and given to my little boys. They were not old enough to feed themselves: so we put some milk in a small bottle, and tied a piece of sponge to the neck of it, and in that way the little things sucked up the milk. The children had a large, old-fashioned fireplace in their room, and, after taking out the andirons, they covered the bricks with fresh clover and grass, making a safe and snug home for the rabbits at night. Several times a day they were allowed to run about the lawn, and crop the sweet white clover; and often at night, they would jump out from their home in the fireplace, and run about the room. They were named George and Mary Rabbit, and always used to sleep side by side. But after a few weeks they must have felt tired of their humdrum life; for one bright morning they ran away. I hope they are living happily together in the fragrant woods from which they were brought. CHARLIE'S MAMMA. KITTRELLS, N. C. CHIPPING-BIRDS' SONG. "CHIPPER, chipper, clear the way; We must be at work to-day. See us swiftly fly along, Hear our bursts of merry song. Watch me in my busy flight, Glancing in your window bright; Save your bits of yarn for me, Just think what a help 'twould be!" [Illustration] "Chip, chip, chipper!" How he sings, As he comes for shreds and strings, Which he is not slow to see, From the budding lilac-tree! Now with cunning, saucy pranks, See him nod his hearty thanks: "These are just the thing," sings he; "Truly you are helping me!" "Chipper, chipper!" See him go; Now 'tis fast, and now 'tis slow; Working ever at the nest, Never stopping once to rest; Getting little straws and strings For his good wife, while he sings, "Chip, chip, chipper, gay are we; See us in the lilac-tree!" "Chipper, chipper," all day long; Thus I hear his tuneful song, Meaning, as he flutters past, Gayly warbling, working fast, "I can't stop to talk to you; I have got my work to do: Chip, chip, chipper, clear the way; We shall finish up to-day." ANNIE A. PRESTON. [Illustration] FOURTH OF JULY MORNING. MAT, Let, and Win are the names by which three little sisters of my acquaintance are usually called. These are nicknames, of course. Can you guess what their real names are? Lest you should be too long about it, I will tell you: they are Matilda, Letitia, and Winifred. Mat is the one standing on the chair in the picture; Let is the one sitting on the bed, with her left foot hanging down; and Win, the youngest, is the one sitting up in bed. What is the cause of all this commotion? It is only four o'clock in the morning; but Mat and Let have rushed into Win's room to get a good view, out of her window, of the men firing guns out on the green. It is the Fourth of July. "Why do they wake us up so early with their bell-ringing, their crackers, and guns?" said Let. "I hate the Fourth of July!" "She talks like a rebel," said Win. "She must be put in prison." "That is not a bad idea, Win," said Mat. "She hates the Fourth of July, does she?--the birthday of the great republic! She hates it!--the day that made us a nation." "Yes; and I hate the stars and stripes, and all this fuss and noise, this smell of smoke, and firing of crackers," said Let, showing a fist. "Jump up, Win, and help me arrest this rebel," said Mat. "The country is lost if we allow such talk." The next minute, the three sisters were running about the room,--Mat and Win trying to catch poor Let, and thrust her into the closet, which was to be her prison. Such a stamping, such an outcry, as there was! "What's all that racket there?" cried papa, at last, from the foot of the stairs that led into his room underneath. "Isn't there noise enough out of doors, without your shaking the house over our heads?" "Let says she hates the Fourth of July, and the old flag," cried Mat; "and we think she ought to be put in prison as a rebel. We are trying to arrest her." "Go to bed, every one of you, you rogues!" said papa, "or I will put you all in prison for breaking the peace,--Where's my big whip, mother?" "I'll tell you where it is, papa," cried little Win. "Where, then, is it, you little darl--I mean you little rogue?" said papa. "It is where Cinderella's glass slippers are," screamed Win. "Ask the fairies where that is." What a scampering and laughing there was then! Papa made a pounding with his feet on the stairs, as if he were coming up in a great rage; but he and mamma were laughing all the time, and so were Mat and Let,--all but Win, and she kept a grave face. It was now almost five o'clock, and the three sisters made up their minds that they would dress themselves, and go out on the green to see the fun. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] THE LITTLE DESERTER. FREDERICK. SEE him on the apple-tree, Looking down so bold and free! Now that he his wings can show us, He pretends he does not know us. Ah, you rogue! are you aware How deserters often fare? Come, be good, and I'll not chide: See, the door is open wide. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! CLARA. Were you not well treated by us? Why, then, do you thus defy us? Salad every morning early, Crumbs of bread, and grains of barley, Sugar, now and then a berry, And in June a nice ripe cherry,-- These were yours; don't be ungrateful; To desert us is too hateful. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! FREDERICK. Now 'tis pleasant all, and sunny, Bees are busy making honey, You can flit from bough to bough, You can sing and twitter now: Wait till winter comes, you rover, Then your frolic will be over. Cats are on the roof already: Birdie, dear, come back to Freddy. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! CLARA. Peep and peep! What then, deserter? Was there creature ever perter? Mine you are; to me belong; Me you owe each day a song. Darling, here's your cage all clean; Come, I say, and don't be mean; Come, and be once more our pet, And your fault we will forget. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! T'wee, t'wee, t'wee! PAPA. Ha! he takes his merry flight, And the little bird is right. No deserter, child, is he, Who escapes to liberty. Air and sun and open sky Birdie likes, as you and I. Paid to him is now your debt, And I'm glad: so do not fret. IDA FAY. A FISH STORY. COUSIN WILLIE lives on a pleasant island in Chesapeake Bay. He has a boat called the "Nautilus." One morning he was taking a sail in his boat, when he saw a large fish-hawk soaring and wheeling through the air, as though in search of a breakfast for its young nestlings. At length it made a dive down to the water, and brought up a large fish. Just then an eagle that had been watching the fish-hawk from the top of a tree, came swooping down toward the hawk, as if determined to have the fish for his own breakfast. The eagle attacked the hawk; and the two birds fought for the fish until the hawk was forced to let it drop, when the eagle made a rapid swoop, and caught the fish in his talons. Cousin Willie, from his boat, watched the fight of the birds, and thought he would like to make the bold robber give up his prey. So he shot at him with a pistol, and gave him such a fright that he dropped the fish in his turn. Willie picked up the fish, took it home, and laid it upon a table in the kitchen to be cooked for dinner. But a sly old cat saw it on the table, and, as no one was near to prevent, she grabbed it quickly, and stole away with it to give herself and her kittens a breakfast. Thus the cunning puss and her kitties, you see, Got the better of those brave fishers three. COUSIN LUCY. [Illustration] [Illustration] BUTTERCUP'S CIRCUS. FRED and Bertie, two little black-eyed boys, were visiting their Aunt Susan in a beautiful country village. The large, old-fashioned house, under a giant elm-tree, was full of wonders to them; but their greatest delights were in driving the old gray horse, or feeding and petting an Alderney calf which their Uncle Harry was raising. This "baby-cow," as little Bertie called her, was kept away from its mother, old Clover, most of the day, and tied to a cherry-tree in the side yard. The boys named her Buttercup. They were allowed to feed her with meal and water; and she soon grew so tame, that they could pat and caress her as much as they pleased. One day Fred found an old saddle in the stable; and he proposed to Bertie to help him put it on the calf, and have a ride the length of her rope. They succeeded in fastening it upon Buttercup's smooth back; and Freddie exclaimed with delight, "Now we will have a first-class circus!" They brought a chair from the house, and placed it by the side of Miss Cow, she looking wonderingly at them with great round eyes. The boys both stood together in the chair, and Fred said, "Now I will count, and, when I say _four_, we must spring upon the saddle. One--two--three--four;" and on they went. But, before they could have said "_five_" Miss Buttercup's heels were in the air, and her head went down so quickly, that Master Fred felt a sudden chill, and found himself in a tub of rain-water that stood under the eaves of the wood-shed; while Bertie went head-foremost into a pan of meal and water. A slight noise followed their fall. Their uncle and aunt appeared. The saddle was sent back to the stable, and the boys did not engage Buttercup for any more circus performances that summer. MAMMA MAGGIE. AT SEA. BARK "MURRAY," PACIFIC OCEAN, December, 1876. _Dear Nursery_,--I am making a voyage, on a sailing vessel from San Francisco to the Sandwich Islands. We have been on the water for three weeks. Every day at noon, if the sun shines, the captain comes up on deck with a queer thing in his hand, which he calls a sextant. With this he looks at the sun, and finds out just where on this great ocean we are, and just how far we have gone in the last twenty-four hours. To-day he says we are three hundred miles from Honolulu. [Illustration] There are twenty sails on this ship. I love to lie down on deck, and look at them; and I think it is a beautiful sight to see them all spread and filled with wind. It almost seems as if their tops touched the sky. All the masts and sails and ropes have names. I am sure it would take me a good while to learn them; but all the sailors know them. When the captain wants a sail changed, he gives the order in a very loud tone; then the first mate, who is never very far from the captain, repeats the order; and then the sailors run quickly to the ropes and pull away, and sing while they pull; and the sail goes up or down, just as the captain wants it. Every hour a sailor takes his turn at steering the ship: so there is always one man at the wheel. There is a large bell swung just in front of him, which he strikes every half-hour to mark the time. When it is twelve o'clock, he strikes the bell eight times; and it is eight bells again at four o'clock and at eight o'clock. The first hour after eight bells is two bells; the second, four bells; the third, six bells; and the half-hours strike the odd numbers,--three, five, and seven bells. It is a very funny way to tell time, I think. One day the captain slung a hammock on deck, and we had a nice time swinging in it. Another day, when the sea was very calm, he hung a rope from the rigging, and made a real swing for us. We have long fish-lines which we throw over the ship's side. Once a gentleman on board caught a beautiful dolphin, all green and blue and gold. The steward made a nice chowder out of the dolphin for our lunch, and we had baked dolphin for dinner that day. Thanksgiving Eve a little lamb was born on board. The sailors named it "Thanksgiving," for the day. It is a dear little lamb now,--so white and gentle! We have tied a blue ribbon around its neck, and it will run all over the deck after us, and go to sleep in our laps. There is a cunning little pig, too, which I call "Dennis," after the pig that I read about in "The Nursery." I wish it were really the same wonderful little pig; but mamma says she does not think it can be. I must tell you about the beautiful bouquet the steward made for our Thanksgiving dinner. It was made out of vegetables with a knife--yellow roses from carrots, and white roses, japonicas, and tuberoses from turnips and potatoes. Some of the petals he dipped into beet-water, and so made blush roses of them. Then he made two canary-birds of carrots, and perched them among the flowers. Mamma said that she had seen many a cluster of wax flowers that were not as beautiful. Perhaps I will write again when we arrive at Honolulu. ROSE. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. Vol. XXII.--No. 1.] SOLOMON AND THE TAME BEAR. UNCLE REUBEN was a farmer; and he had a great many cattle, sheep, horses, pigs, geese, and turkeys, all of which, you know, are usually found on a large farm; and, besides these, he had one animal not usually found on a farm, and that was a tame bear. He hired a large boy to do the "chores," as the easy part of farm-work is called; and this boy's name was Solomon Sturtevant. Now, although the bear was tame, he was kept chained; for there was no knowing what mischief even a tame bear might take it into his head to do. He might take a notion to find out how a nice tender pig would taste. Solomon thought it fine sport to tease the bear, and there was one way of doing it more amusing than any other, and that was to pelt him with green chestnut-burs. Chestnut-burs, you know, are covered with sharp thorns; and yet the bear, being very fond of chestnuts, would try to get at the nuts which he knew were in them,--snarling and whining, and making up very comical faces, because the burs pricked his mouth. Solomon would stand and watch him, and think it fine fun. But he came near doing it once too often; for one day, when he had carried the bear a capful of burs, intending to have a good laugh at him, the chain that held the bear was not fastened as firmly as usual. After trying two or three burs, the bear made a spring toward Solomon, got loose from his chain, and started after him in earnest. Solomon was not long in deciding that he had something to do _that_ time besides laughing, and started in a hurry to get out of the bear's way. Now there was a ladder leaning against the side of the barn close by, and Solomon thought that if he went up on the barn-roof he would be all right. [Illustration] No such thing. The bear went right up the ladder after him. Then Solomon ran up the roof to the ridge; but the bear followed. Solomon ran down the other side of the roof, and so did the bear. Solomon jumped down to the cow-house, and still the bear followed him. Then Solomon jumped on to a shed that was close by the cow-house, and the bear jumped too. Solomon now began to think that his time had come. He gave one more jump from the shed to the ground. This was too much of a jump for the bear to take, and so Solomon made good his escape. I do not remember how the bear got down; but I am sure, that, when he did, Solomon did not care to feed him any more with green chestnut-burs. I think Solomon was too glad to escape a hugging to try it very soon again. This is a true story. AUNT EM. [Illustration] AT DINNER. MY little kittens, here, you see, Are just as good as they can be; Not often do three children dine, Who are as well-behaved as mine. I've taught them how to be polite, To keep their bibs all clean and white, To say, "Mee-oo" for "If you please," And never to be cross, or tease. My darlings, Muff and Puff and Fluff, Stop always when they've had enough: They never come unwashed or late, They never crowd or push the plate. My care has not been vainly spent; That's why I purr with such content; For I'm the milk-white puss, you know, That sits close by--their mother--SNOW. [Illustration] SIXTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. DID you ever hear of a great bear and a little bear made of stars? And a big dog? And a lion? If you never did, I suppose you would like to be told where they are,--such astonishing things as animals made of stars. But, if you think a minute, you will see that every thing that has any thing to do with stars must be up in the sky. Now this very night, if the stars come out before you go to bed, I want you to look for the Great Bear. It is not a real bear, of course; but it is a kind of picture of a bear. I wish it could growl, to give you an idea where it is, because, it really looks so little like a bear, it is very hard to find. It is nearly overhead now; but you needn't be a bit frightened. The Great Bear has never been known to drop down on little girls and boys. There is a funny thing about this bear. Part of him is a big dipper, and I think you will find him out by that. If you can find the seven bright stars in the shape of a dipper, you have found the bear's tail and a part of his body. And now I want to tell you how it happens that these stars are called the Great Bear. If you look up in the sky some bright starlight night, you will see there a good many different figures, in stars; and a long time ago, people gave names to these figures. To one of them they gave the name of the Great Bear; to another, the Little Bear; to another, the Great Dog; and so on. These different star-figures are called constellations. They really look very little like the things they are named for: so I can't expect you to find them without help. Now, it is very convenient to have the stars divided up in this way. When I asked you to find the red star last winter, it would have been a great help to you if I had told you what constellation it was in; but you might not have known what I meant by a constellation. I had so many pleasant letters about that red star, I am going to ask you to write again when you find the Great Bear, although I suppose most of you are abed and asleep before he comes out for the night. He will appear earlier when the days are shorter, and I do not believe he can escape all your bright eyes. But I should advise you to ask some one who knows where he is to point him out to you. M. E. R. [Illustration] [Illustration] TEDDY'S KITTEN. TO let the kitten lie and sleep Is something Teddy cannot do; Like caterpillar in a heap, She'd like to curl the whole day through, If Teddy did but want her to. I wonder if she understands, How just the look of her soft fur So tempts his little roguish hands He cannot keep away from her: He says he wants "to hear her purr!" And, if he does, 'tis well enough; But then, why does he rub the way To make her silky coat look rough?-- That coat of shining silver-gray, So washed and polished every day? Why is it that he loves so much To tickle the unconscious paws With just a finger tip or touch, Or open them to find the claws? _His_ reason for it is, "Because!" When Teddy sometime wanted rest, What if a giant came and sat Beside him when he slept the best, And rolled him this way, rubbed him that, And teased him, as he does the cat? Do you believe he'd smile and blink, And bear the teasing patiently? I think he'd wink a sleepy wink, And say, not over pleasantly, "O giant, please to let me be!" MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. [Illustration] PICTURES FOR MARY. WHEN little Jack Horner was eating pie, he put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum. When Mary's mother reads to her out of a book, the little girl acts a good deal like Jack. She puts out her finger, and points to the pictures. She thinks them the best part of the book. They are her plums. [Illustration] If Mary calls out, "Moo-o-o," you may know that she sees a picture of cows. Here is the very one she found a day or two ago. In it you see two cows,--a big one and a little one. The big cow is standing up, and the little cow is lying beside her. The little cow has no horns. Mary calls it "a little cow," because it looks too old to be called a calf. Here is the very picture that Mary was looking at when she called out, "Ba-a-a!" How many sheep do you see in it? There are two lying down: there is one standing up: that makes three. Is that all? [Illustration] Look very sharp. See if you can't find more of them. Mary found some straying about on the hills. She thought she could see lambs too; but sheep, when a long way off, look very much like lambs. A. B. C. THE CHAMOIS. THE chamois is a sort of antelope. But first let us say something of the pronunciation of this word _chamois_. It is often pronounced as if it were spelled _sham´my_. This is, perhaps, the easiest mode. But it would be nearer to the French mode to pronounce it _sham-wah_, the last _a_ having the sound of _a_ in _wall_. The family of antelopes consists of nearly seventy species, upward of fifty being found nowhere but in Africa. The whole of America, North and South, contains but one species. All the antelopes have a most delicate sense of smell, and few quadrupeds can equal them in fleetness. They will outrun the swiftest greyhounds. The antelopes live in herds, and are very careful not to be surprised: so they place sentinels to watch, and give alarm. The eye, large and brilliant, is a marked feature of the tribe. The word "antelope" signifies "bright eyes." Our picture shows us several young chamois, standing amid the crags and chasms and precipices which they delight in. A chamois can descend in two or three leaps a rock of twenty or thirty feet, without the smallest projection on which to rest. The horns of the full-grown chamois are quite black and smooth, and formed like a perfect hook with very sharp points. These elegant creatures are the only animals of the antelope kind to be found in Western Europe. They choose for their home the loftiest mountains. They dislike heat, and in the summer time they frequent the cold upper regions of the everlasting hills,--either the lofty peaks, or those valleys where the snow never melts. In the winter time, however, the cold of those bleak solitudes seems too much for them, spite of their long, hair and thick coat of fine wool; and they descend to the lower regions. It is then, and only then, that the hunter has any chance of capturing them. [Illustration] It is said they can scent a man a mile and a half off; and their restlessness and suspicion are extreme. At the prospect of danger they are off and away, racing at an incredible speed, scaling crags with the most amazing agility, and leaving the pursuer far behind. They are usually taken by a party of hunters, who surround the glen where they are, and advance towards each other until the herd is hemmed in on all sides. The flesh of the antelope is like venison. No animal ought to yield sweeter meat than the chamois, when we think what he feeds upon. Mountain herbs and flowers, and tender shoots from tree and shrub--such is his food. He drinks very little, but that little is sparkling water; while the air which reddens his blood is the purest in the world. UNCLE CHARLES. THE GARDEN TOOLS. [Illustration] COME, hoe and shovel and rake, From your winter nap awake! The spring has come; There's work to be done: The birds are calling, And off I must run My little garden to make. You have lain in the attic so long, Perhaps you forget you belong In the sunshine and air full half of the year; And to leave you to mice and to cobwebs up here Any longer would surely be wrong. Come out of the darkness to light, Where the sunbeams are glittering bright, And the green grass is growing; For I must be hoeing, And digging the earth, and my seeds be a-sowing, And finish it all before night. Oh, how I hurried and dressed! For the robin was building his nest, And he cried, "Fie! For shame! What is the boy's name, Who sleeps in the morning? He's surely to blame For not working here with the rest." Come then, rake, shovel, and hoe, With a run and a jump, here we go! Soon so busy we'll be, That the robins shall see, For all their fine words, they're no smarter than we, As off to the garden we go! AUNTIE FRANK. [Illustration] [Illustration: WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?] Words by TENNYSON. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly says little birdie, Mother let me fly away. Birdie wait a little longer Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. 2. What does little baby say In her bed at peep of day? Baby says like little birdie. Let me rise and fly away. Baby sleep a little longer Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, She shall fly away. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. The issue number added after the Volume number on the title page. 
28136	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 2. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE A Day at the Beach 33 Buttercup and Daisy 37 Aunt Mary's Bullfinch 38 The poor Man's Well 43 Spitfire 45 Drawing-Lesson 49 "Great I and little you" 50 Our Dog Tasso 53 My Pets 56 Drilling the Troops 59 The Picture-Book 60 IN VERSE. PAGE Bumble-Bee 36 King Drake 40 The Cosset-Calf 48 Primer and Slate 48 Making Cheeses 54 A Blacksmith's Song 62 Madam Quack (_with music_) 64 [Illustration: Birds] [Illustration: VOL. XXII.--NO. 2.] A DAY AT THE BEACH. [Illustration: T]HERE are few of the little readers of "The Nursery" who could not tell of pleasant days spent among green fields and woods, or on the seashore. But in almost every large city, there are many children who have never been out of sight of brick walls. Their homes are in close rooms in narrow streets, and there they live from one year's end to the other. In winter they are often pinched with cold. In summer they suffer even more from the heat. You may see them at windows and doors, or on hot sidewalks, trying to get a breath of fresh air. It is not pure air, but the best they can get. What I am going to tell you is about two of those poor children. One is a little girl, nine years old, whom we will call Jane. The other, who is only eight years old, is her brother George. Both children go to a Sunday school, and have for their teacher a kind lady, who takes great interest in them. One warm summer day, to their great delight, this lady, whom we will name Miss White, called for them to go with her on a trip to the seashore. Dressed in the best clothes they could muster, they were soon on board the steamboat. Here every thing was new to them. As the boat steamed down the harbor, it would have been joy to anybody only to watch the happy expression on their faces. By and by the boat neared the land; and there the children saw a wonderful sight. What do you suppose it was? It was a cow quietly feeding on the shore. They had never seen a cow before. Then Jane got sight of an apple-tree, and George spied a man raking hay. Here was another new sensation. While they were feasting their eyes on green fields, and inhaling the sweet country air, the boat stopped at the wharf. A few steps brought them to the beach; and there, stretched before them, was the great wide ocean, with the surf rolling in, and a cool sea-breeze blowing. Then their joy knew no bounds. Miss White did not try to restrain them; for she meant to give them at least one day of perfect freedom. So they roamed at will. How they dug wells in the sand, how they flung stones into the water, how they picked up shells and sea-weed, how they scrambled over the rocks, it would take too much space to tell. When they were well tired out, and began to be hungry, Miss White opened a luncheon-box in a shady place among the rocks, and gave them such a dinner as they had never had before. Then their bliss was complete. The day passed away almost too quickly, and the time came to go back to the city. That seemed rather hard to Jane and George. But they have the promise of another excursion before the summer is over. JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] [Illustration] BUMBLE-BEE. THE smartest of dandies is young Mr. Bee, Who is known by the name of Bumble; His life is a short one, but merry and free: They're mistaken who call him "Humble." Clad in black velvet, with trimmings of yellow, He knows well enough he's a fine-looking fellow; And, hiding away a sharp little dagger, He dashes about with a confident swagger, While to show he's at ease, and to tell of his coming, A tune he is always carelessly humming. Eating or drinking, or looking for pleasure Fit for the tastes of a person of leisure, Down where the meadow is sunny and breezy, In the red clover, he takes the world easy; Or, feeling the need of a little diversion, He makes to the garden a pleasant excursion, And into a lily or hollyhock dodging With quiet assurance he takes up his lodging. With a snug little fortune invested in honey, Young Bumble Bee lives like a prince, on his money, And, scorning some plodding relations of his, he Leaves hard labor to them,--his cousins named "Busy." D. B. BARNARD. [Illustration] BUTTERCUP AND DAISY. _Dear little Readers of "The Nursery:"_--I would like to tell you a story about my little brother Clinton and myself. We each have a nice little calf down at our grandpa's farm in the country. One is a pure Alderney, grandpa says, and is of a beautiful fawn color: the other is red and white. Grandpa let us name them: so we called them Buttercup and Daisy. Clinton's is Buttercup, and mine is Daisy. They are both very kind and gentle. Both have cunning little horns, just coming out of their heads; but they do not hook little brother or me. In the picture you will see them eating corn out of our hands. At first we were afraid of their damp noses and rough tongues; but we soon got over that, and now feed them every time we go to the farm. Papa tried to have the little Alderney give us a ride on its back; but, as soon as we were well on, the calf kicked up its heels and ran away, saying, "Bah!" and leaving brother and me on our backs on the soft turf. We were not hurt at all, but had a good laugh. Buttercup soon came back for more corn; and uncle said, "Give it to her in the ear;" but I said I thought her mouth was the best place to put it in. Then uncle laughed, and said that was a joke. Do you know what he meant? HARRY C. MATHER. AUNT MARY'S BULLFINCH. "NOW be sure and not frighten it, children," said Aunt Mary as she left the room. John and Lucy lifted the handkerchief from the cage, while Paul and Richard, with anxious eyes, stood by to get a sight of the piping bullfinch, of which they had heard so much. This little bird had been presented to Aunt Mary by a German lady to whom she had been kind. It could whistle two or three tunes in a way to surprise all hearers. While the children were looking at it, it began to pipe. "I know that tune," cried Richard. "It is 'Coming through the rye!'" "And now the tune changes to 'Merrily every bosom boundeth,'" said Lucy. "What a wonderful little bird!" "But how did it learn to whistle these tunes?" asked Paul. Aunt Mary, coming in at that moment, explained to the children that in some of the small towns of Germany are persons who teach these little birds. It takes about a year for a bullfinch to learn a tune. But some of them learn more quickly than others: so it is with some children. [Illustration] The birds are at first kept in a dark room; and when they are fed, a tune is played or whistled. They associate this tune with the act of feeding; and gradually seem to find out what is wanted of them. The price of a bird that can pipe a tune in good style is from fifty to one hundred dollars. A good deal of time and trouble has to be spent in teaching the birds. Sometimes a child is employed to play a tune on a little hand-organ; and this the little bird learns after hearing it many times. When the bullfinch learns well, he is praised and petted, and this he seems to enjoy very much. Even birds, you see, like to be praised and petted. DORA BURNSIDE. KING DRAKE. "I'M king of the rock," said a silly old drake; "And no one must dare my claim to partake. I shall punish severely whoever comes near Without my permission: let all the world hear!" [Illustration] But out of the water, on the rock as he stands, Comes up, as if praying, what seemed like two hands. "Ah! here is a subject already for me! Come, my son, and fear nothing, I'll spare you," said he. [Illustration] But his majesty starts as if from a shock, When he sees a big lobster make a bow on the rock. "That is well," said the king; "but consider, my son, This rock is my throne, and is only for one." [Illustration] The lobster, however, is slow to obey; He spreads himself out; he will not go away. "Are you deaf?" cries King Drake, "go, pigmy! Get down! How dare you thus brave a drake of renown?" [Illustration] But the lobster, at this, nips King Drake in the leg. "Oh, loosen your claw! Let go! Oh! I beg." Tighter pinches the claw: "Rebellion! help! hear! King Drake is in trouble: is nobody near?" [Illustration] In vain are his kicks; his cries are in vain: The lobster clings fast, in spite of the pain; Nor lets go his hold till they get to the bank: Then the king waddles home, giving up throne and rank. FROM THE GERMAN. [Illustration] THE POOR MAN'S WELL. AMONG the Azores, is situated the beautiful Island of Fayal, with its orange-groves and profusion of flowers. But, notwithstanding the fruit and flowers, there is one thing which Americans who live there miss sadly, and that is fresh, cool water. There are no lakes or ponds, such as we have here; and so the people have to use rain-water, which they save in large tanks or cisterns. There are a few wells on the island, which, as the water rises and falls in them twice in every twenty-four hours, are called "tide-wells." But there was a time, many years ago, when the people had neither cisterns nor wells, and were obliged to get water from hollows in the rocks. And this is the story of the first well. The year 1699 was a year when scarcely any rain fell. The grain did not grow, the cows and sheep died from thirst, and many of the poor people also. Now there was a very rich man on the island, who had come here to live many years before, from another part of the world. Though he was so rich, and might have done much good with his money, he was so stingy and so hard, that the people did not love him at all. But his bags of silver and gold did not buy him water; and at last the thought came to him, "Why! I will dig a well, as people used to do in my country. I will dig it on my own land, and no one shall have a drop of the water but myself." So he hired men to come and dig the well; but he paid them only a little money, and was very unkind to them. They dug and they dug; but no water came. At last they said they would work no longer unless their master would promise them some of the water, and he promised them the use of the well for half of every day. [Illustration] Now they dug with more patience; and one morning, as early as six o'clock, they suddenly found water. They claimed the privilege of using the well for the first six hours; and the master dared not refuse. As they were drawing the water, they noticed that it began to grow lower and lower in the well; and at twelve o'clock, the master's hour, none was left. He was very, very angry, and said he would never give the men any work again. However, at six o'clock that night, they again demanded the use of the well. He mockingly asked them if they expected the water would come for them, and not for him. Nevertheless they went to the well; and, to the master's awe and wonder, it was full of water. At midnight, the master again tried to get water from the well, and, as before, found it empty. He now felt afraid, believing that some divine power controlled the action of the water. He went to the church and vowed, before God, that if the water should come again next morning, he would dedicate it to the poor forever. In the morning, when the men visited the well, there was the fresh water awaiting them. The master kept his vow, and thus the well became "The Poor Man's Well." To this day the water rises and falls in it twice in every twenty-four hours. I give you here a picture of the well, and should you ever go to Fayal you may see the original. K. H. S. [Illustration] SPITFIRE. CAN you guess what she was? She was a little black kitten; and I must tell you all about her, and why we gave her such a funny name. Teddikins had a great mouse-colored cat called Maltie, and she had three little kitties,--Spitfire, Miss Tittens, and Cuddle. Spitfire was all black, just as black as a lump of coal, while Miss Tittens was gray, and Cuddle was gray and white. The first time Teddikins and I looked into the box where Maltie and her kitties were, they were very, very little, and their eyes were not open. The black kitty was lying on top of the others; and Teddikins put in his little fat hand and picked her up. What do you suppose she did? She said, "_Sptss!_" and she kept on saying, "_Sptss_" until Teddikins put her down again; and so we called her Spitfire. Just as soon as she could see out of her funny little gray eyes, she began to try to get out of the box. She wanted to see what there was outside, where Maltie went. She would climb up a little way, and then tumble back on Miss Tittens and Cuddle, which would make them say, "Mew," and make Teddikins laugh; but Spitfire always said, "_Sptss!_" and would try again. At last, one day we heard a thump; and we looked around, and there was Spitfire on the floor. She had climbed to the top of the box, and tumbled over the edge, and there she stood, with her tail straight in the air, and her legs wide apart, looking at us, and saying, "_Sptss!_" Maltie was very proud of her kitties, and used to take Cuddle and Miss Tittens in her mouth, and carry them into the dining-room when we were eating our breakfast, to show them to us. But Spitfire would not let her mamma carry her. She would walk in all alone, tumbling over on her little nose very often (for her legs were not yet strong), but carrying her little black tail just as straight as little boys carry sticks when they call them guns. One morning, Teddikins put a saucer of milk on the floor and what do you suppose that little Spitfire did? Why, she looked at it very hard, and then she said, "_Sptss_," and walked right into the milk, and out the other side of the saucer, with Tittens and Cuddle after her. The floor was covered with the funny white prints of their little paws. One day a mouse ran across the kitchen; and Cuddle and Tittens were very much frightened; but Spitfire humped up her back, and made her tail very big, and said "_Sptss!_" very hard, and then cantered off sideways staring at the mouse, and saying, "_Sptss!_" all the time. You know how kitties like to go to sleep, all cuddled up together. But Spitfire would not lie down with the others: she always tried to get on top of them. When the little kitties were quite strong, they used to play a funny sort of game. There was a round foot-stool, covered with carpet, and Spitfire used to sit up on it, and then Cuddle and Miss Tittens would try to climb up the sides. Then Spitfire would say, "_Sptss!_" and pat them on the heads with her little paws until they rolled down again. Sometimes, when she was busy driving one off, another would get up behind her, and drive her off too; but she always worked hard until she was up again. Do you not think she was a funny kitty? She always went first, and took the lead, and used to box the ears of Cuddle and Tittens when they did not mind her. Now she is a big black cat, with a red collar around her neck, and she catches rats and mice, and is very good and useful. She only says, "_Sptss!_" when strange cats come into her yard; but we still call her Spitfire. E. F. [Illustration] THE COSSET-CALF. WHEN I was quite a little girl I had a cosset-calf, And, when it ran about the fields, It always made me laugh. It seemed as gentle as a lamb, And from my hand was fed; And how I grieved when first I felt The horns upon its head! It always answered to my call, And thrust its wet nose through The bars, and tried its very best To say, "How do you do?" I left it in the early fall, And kissed my pet with tears; For to a little child the months Stretch out as long as years. And when the summer came again, I never shall forget With what dismay I gazed upon My former little pet. I was afraid of those great horns, So crooked on its brow, Nor would believe my little calf Was that enormous cow! But soon I learned to know its face And conquered my alarm, And thought there was no nicer cow On any other farm. And oh the rich sweet milk she gave! Why, just to make me laugh, My mother used to call me then Her little cosset-calf! JOSEPHINE POLLARD. PRIMER AND SLATE. PRIMER and slate, primer and slate! Hurry up, mother! I fear I am late. A, B, C, D, and 1, 2, 3, 4, Must be studied, so I can recite them once more. Primer and slate, primer and slate, Must be carefully conned if we hope to be great: A man cannot hope much of a man to be, Unless, when a boy, he has learned A, B, C. UNCLE THEO. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL XXII.--NO. 2.] "GREAT I AND LITTLE YOU." "HOW do you like that little new neighbor of yours?" asked Herbert Greene's big brother, who had seen the two little boys playing together in the yard. "Oh, you must mean Georgie Worthman," said Herbie. "Why, I don't know. I like him, and I don't like him." Wallace laughed. "Then you quarrel a little sometimes," said he. "Is that it?" "No, we don't quarrel," said Herbie. "I don't let him know when I'm mad with him." "What does he do to make you mad with him?" asked Wallace. "Oh, he says things," said Herbie. "Such as what?" "Well, he looks at my marbles, and says, 'Is that all you've got? I have five times as many as that,--splendid ones, too. They'd knock those all to smash.'" "Ah, I see!" said Wallace. "It is a clear case of '_great I and little you_.'" "What do you mean by that?" said Herbie. "Well, if you don't find out by Saturday night, I'll tell you," said Wallace. This was on Monday. On Wednesday afternoon Herbie was out at play, and presently Georgie Worthman came out. Wallace was in his room, reading, with the windows open, and could hear all that was said. Georgie brought his kite with him, and asked Herbie if he would go to the common with him to fly his kite. "Oh, yes! if mother is willing," said Herbie. "But where did you get that kite?--made it yourself, didn't you? I've got one ever so much bigger than that, with yards and yards of tail, and, when we let it out, it goes out of sight quick,--now, I tell you!" [Illustration] "This isn't the best I can make," said Georgie; "but if I had a bigger one I couldn't pitch it, or hold it after it was up." "Pooh! I could hold one that pulled like ten horses," said Herbie; and he ran in to ask his mother if he could go with Georgie to the common. His mother was willing if Wallace would go too; and so, after a little good-natured bothering, and pretending he did not want to go, Wallace took his hat, and Herbie got his kite and twine, and the three boys set off for the common. Georgie's kite was pitched first, and went up in fine style. Then Herbie's went off, and soon passed it, for it had a longer string; and both were far up in the dazzling blue of the sky. "There now!" said Herbie, "didn't I tell you my kite would beat yours all to nothing? I bet there isn't another kite in town that will begin to be a match for it!" "How is this? How is this?" said Wallace. "Seems to me 'great I and little you' are around here pretty thick." "What do you mean by that?" said both the little boys. "Why, when a fellow says that he has got the best marbles, and the best kite, and the swiftest sled, and the handsomest velocipede, and the most knowing dog, anywhere in town, we say his talk is all '_great I and little you_.' That is, we mean he is always bragging; and a braggart is a very disagreeable person," said Wallace. Herbie looked at Georgie, and both blushed a little. The boys had great fun with their kites; and when they got home, and Wallace and Herbie went up stairs to put away the kite, Herbie said, "Well, my kite did beat Georgie's, just as I told him it would." "That is true," said Wallace; "but you said the other day that you liked Georgie, and didn't like him, because he was always telling how much bigger and better his things were than yours; and now, to-day, you were making yourself disagreeable to him by bragging about your kite. Now, if you want the boys to like you, my lad, you must give up talking 'great I and little you,' for it is not sensible nor kind." So Herbie found out what Wallace meant, and he said to himself, "I don't mean to let the fellows hear me talking, 'great I and little you' any more." H. W. [Illustration] [Illustration] OUR DOG TASSO. TASSO is a big black dog. His back comes up almost to the top of a dining-table. He does not look as though he could ever have been carried about in a handkerchief; but, when he was a puppy, he was brought home in that way by a young lady as a present to her brothers. Tasso seems to take delight in making himself useful. When there is work to be done, he always wants to do his part. He brings in wood, stick by stick, and puts it in the wood-box, never stopping till the box is full. While he is carrying in the wood, the boys fill the chip-basket; and then Tasso takes that in his mouth, and puts it in its place beside the wood-box. If any of the family has a basket or a bag to take to the station, Tasso always insists on taking it. One rainy day, we sent him to the station with three umbrellas, and he delivered them all safely. One day his master went out to the barn without his hat. Tasso did not think this was proper: so he took the hat in his mouth and carried it out to him. I could tell you many other amusing things about Tasso. He is always attentive and obedient, and every one who knows him loves him and trusts him. F. A. S. MAKING CHEESES. "DOES the little fairy Work in a dairy? I hear her talk about making cheese,-- She with her locks the color of money, Hanging long and crinkled and sunny Down to her waist,--a golden fleece." Oh, such a laughter As rings out after My words, is the sweetest sound I know! Sparkle the eyes that had been dreaming:-- "Aunty dear, if you want to see me, I'll show you how to make one,--so!" [Illustration] Soon as she utters This, out she flutters, Her full fresh frock as white as the snows; Round she whirls, and then in a minute Sits down quick, and the air within it Puffs it out like a full-blown rose. That's what she pleases To call "making cheeses." I'm sure I could give it a better name. Call it playing at daffy-down-dilly, Call it playing at white day-lily: Either will suit me just the same. Lily for brightness She is, and for whiteness; A golden centre her long locks grow! And isn't that head, so shimmering, sunny, Daffy-down-dilly-like, yellow as money?-- Rogue she is anyway, _that_ I know. MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. MY PETS. I AM a little girl seven years old. I live way up in the woods of Maine, in the little town of Howland, forty miles from anywhere. Now you may wonder how I can amuse myself, so far away from the world: so I am going to tell you. I live on a great farm, with grandpapa, Aunt Peeps, and Nan, and Will. I have a pair of top-boots, so I can play out doors in wet weather. I was glad when grandpapa brought them home; and the first thing I did was to find a good large mud-puddle, and oh! didn't I have fun, splashing right through it! I drive old Frank whenever I please; and then, when we get home, I feed him on apples and bread. He is twenty years old, and has no teeth to eat hay with, and grandpapa says he would starve to death if it were not for me. We let him go wherever he likes, and in hot weather he stays on the barn-floor, out of the reach of the flies, most of the time. He lets me card him, and he never kicks me. One day last summer, Emma and I got old Frank upon a haymow, about four feet from the floor, and there he lay down on his side, and took a nap. Then I brought out a pan of meal and water, and fed it to him with an iron spoon. [Illustration] I have an old pet sheep too. It will run out from the flock any time when it sees me coming, and follow me to the house. One day I heard a noise against the kitchen-door, and, when I opened it, my sheep came in, and followed me right into the dining-room, and would not go out till I gave it some potatoes. Major and Velvet Paw are my pet cats, and Peep is my German canary-bird; and I had a pet chicken, but grandpapa stepped on it one day. He says he would rather have lost the best cow in the barn than have killed my chicken. William says he will give me four eggs in the spring, and then, perhaps, I can have four chickens instead of one. I have a bear,--a black, fierce-eyed bear, that gnashes his teeth, and growls, and stands up and shakes his paws at me; but he is not a _real live bear_. He has to be wound up with a key before he will growl. We have live bears here in the woods, though: they come right into our yard, and eat our sheep. We set a trap for one last fall, close to the house, and a bear was caught in it. I have a wax doll almost as large as a real baby. I have named it Gretchen. Cousin Mary brought it to me from Germany. It has flaxen curls, and six of the prettiest little pearl teeth, and it goes to sleep, and says papa and mamma, and whines, and cries. I wonder if any of you little girls have such a beautiful dolly. My doll, Rosie Deben, is six years old, and almost as large as I am. I wash her whenever I like, and about once a year Auntie Peeps paints her face over. I like Rosie for an every-day doll, because I can wash her hands and face, and undress her, and if she tumbles out of her wagon it only bumps her head, and bruises her nose. She has tumbled down stairs ever so many times. I have no little girls to play with; but there is a little boy who comes to see me sometimes: his name is Percy, and we go fishing down at the brook, and we catch little bits of fish with pin hooks. I went to school last summer, and read in my "Nursery," and Nan said I learned nicely. There were only four scholars,--one for each corner of the room; and we had a little rocking-chair to sit in. Nan thinks I have told you enough about my pets this time, and I will bid you good-by. MAMIE. [Illustration] [Illustration] DRILLING THE TROOPS. HERE is Corporal Hans drilling a squad under the eye of his superior officer, Captain Ernest. The corporal is a brave soldier. Anybody could tell that by his looks. But he does not give his orders quite sternly enough to suit the captain, who is teaching him how to do it. It makes a man of peace shudder to see the corporal stand so calmly right at the mouth of a cannon. What if the cannon should go off! But these military men get used to such things. I don't suppose now that one of that whole squad could be frightened into running away. They will not move till they hear the word of command. UNCLE SAM. THE PICTURE-BOOK. IN the book that Mary likes so much to look at, there is a nice picture of a horse. Here it is. [Illustration] The horse has a very long tail and also a long thick mane. He stands very quietly in his stall, turning his head around, as if he were in want of some more hay. If he should ask for it, what would he say? Little Mary says he would say, "Neigh!" The next picture shows us two donkeys,--an old one and a young one. They have very long ears, and look as if they might hear all that we say. [Illustration] The worst we can say of them or their race is that they are homely, and not so fleet as the horse. But they are very tough and strong and patient. If the donkey should hear this, perhaps he would open his mouth and say, "Bray!" A. B. C. [Illustration] A BLACKSMITH'S SONG. CLANG, cling, clang, cling! Bellows, you must roar, and anvil, you must ring; Hammer, you and I must work--for ding, dong, ding Must dress my Kate and baby, and bread for us must bring. So dong, ding, dong, ding! Anvil, to my hammer make music while I sing,-- Clang, cling, clang, cling! Clang, cling, clang, cling! Oh, well I love my smithy when the birds in spring-time sing, And the pleasant sun comes streaming in, the sun that loves to bring Its gladness to me, working, and to hear my anvil ring. Dong, ding, dong, ding! And to see my iron glowing, and the sparks in showers spring,-- Clang, cling, clang, cling! Blow, blow, blow, blow! Bellows, you must work till the furnace is aglow. Snug is my old smithy when, without, comes down the snow, When sooty wall and rafter in the blaze are all aglow. Blow, blow, blow, blow! What care I if the storm, then, without, be high or low? Blow, blow, blow, blow! Clang, cling, clang, cling! Merrily the hours fly that hear my anvil ring; And quick my evening chair and my evening meal they bring; Then, while Kate works beside me, I'm as happy as a king. Clang, cling, clang, cling! God give me always health and strength to make my anvil ring: Clang, cling, clang, cling! W. C. BENNETT. [Illustration] [Illustration: MADAM QUACK.] [Illustration: Music] MADAM QUACK. Words from "The Nursery." Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1. Good-Day! Madam Quack with your young in your track, Quite early they're out, What are they about-- Those bright little things With their short downy wings? I'm glad of your luck, you're a good mother duck! And if young folks did know half the joy they bestow When attentive and good--they would try all they could. 2. You know sir, I see what young ducklings should be; Your taste I commend, My civil young friend; They're beauties you see and obedient to me. In ponds they can paddle, On land they can waddle, They dive and they flutter, Quack, quack, they can utter: I'm glad they can learn, and great fame they will earn. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number. Page 38, closing single quotation mark added to text. (through the rye!'") 
28137	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 3. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Introduced to the Atlantic Ocean 65 Roses and Insects 68 Garry and the Rake 71 A true Story of a Partridge 74 A Letter from Minnesota 76 The lazy Shepherd 77 Seventh Lesson in Astronomy 79 A Sight of the Ocean 81 Philip's new Whip 85 Grandma's Story 88 Aunt Matilda 91 Anna's Bird 92 The Story of the Squashes 94 Charlie's Composition 95 IN VERSE. PAGE Top-Knot 70 Crossing the Brook with Harry 72 How to draw a Pig 80 Ruth's Wishes 83 The three little Ladies 87 The Pedlar (_with music_) 96 [Illustration: VOL. XXII.--NO. 3.] INTRODUCED TO THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. "[Illustration: N]OW for it, girls! Let me introduce you to the Atlantic Ocean! Mr. Ocean, these are my three cousins from Kentucky: Miss Jenny, Miss Eva, and Miss Kate Logan. They never saw you till today. This lady on my left is my sister, Miss Dora Drake, the best swimmer at Brant Rock Beach; but her you know already, also my dog Andy." "Oh! I don't want to go any further. I'm afraid of the Atlantic Ocean," cried little Kate Logan. "Nonsense!" said Master Tom Drake. "Look at Andy with the stick in his mouth. Why, if the Atlantic Ocean were to try to drown us, Andy would save us every one. Shall I tell you what he did last summer?" "We can't stop for stories now, Tom," said sister Dora. "We must attend to our bathing. Here comes a wave that will give us a good ducking." "Oh! oh, dear! It has taken my breath all away!" cried little Kate, as the wave lifted her off her feet and curled and gurgled round her neck. "It is only the Atlantic Ocean making a bow to you, my dear; clasping you lovingly round the neck, and whispering soft nonsense," said Tom, dropping the hands of Eva and Kate, and swimming off into deep water with Andy. Jenny and Eva did not know how to swim: so they jumped up and down in the water, while Dora took Kate on her back, and swam out after Tom. She soon overtook him and pushed his head under water; but Tom came up light as a cork, and splashed the water all over Dora. "That will do, Tom," said she; "now, Andy, come here, and take this little girl on your back and carry her up on the dry sand." Then Dora placed Kate on the good dog's back, and the little girl threw her arms round his neck, and he swam with her through the deep water, and carried her up high on the dry, warm sand, where a lady and gentleman were seated, and another lady stood with a sun-shade over her head. But when Kate saw Tom and the girls all frolicking in the water, she cried out, "Oh, give me more of the Atlantic Ocean. I like him." She ran down to the water's edge, and into the water all alone; but Andy stood by to help her in case of need, and when she fell down flat, and the ocean covered her head, he took her up by her bathing-dress, and bore her once more up on the dry sand. All laughed, and little Kate laughed louder than any of them. "The Atlantic Ocean didn't get me that time," she said. I cannot tell you of all their frolics; but you may be sure that the little party from Kentucky grew quite familiar with the Atlantic Ocean after this introduction. Every day they would leave their little cottage on the height, and walk along the white sand in their bathing-dresses till they found a good place for bathing. Tom and Andy always went with them to protect them from harm. When Jenny, Eva, and Kate get back to Kentucky, next September, what stories they will have to tell of the pleasant times they had at Brant Rock Beach! It lies not far from the town of Marshfield in Massachusetts. Perhaps you can find the name on your map. IDA FAY. [Illustration] [Illustration] ROSES AND INSECTS. WHAT sort of insects are a-phi´des? In plain English they are plant-lice. When about to pluck a rose-bud, have you not started sometimes to find it covered with little green insects? These are aphides. They suck the sap from the bud on the leaf; and every person who raises a rose-bush seeks to get rid of them. The little insect called the lady-bird destroys them in great numbers: so you must encourage lady-birds, if you want your roses to flourish. Most of us have heard of honey-dew, and know, probably, that it is a sweet, clammy substance, found on the leaves of various trees and plants, especially on the oak, the vine, the hop, and the honeysuckle. This honey-dew is extracted with the sap, secreted, and then thrown out in a pure state by the aphides. Besides the sweets which they scatter around them like sugar-plums, they always keep a good supply within the green jars of their bodies. By this lavish use of confectionery, they gain a few interested friends and some enemies like the lady-birds, that eat them up. Wherever the aphides abound, whether in hop-ground, bean-field, or rose-garden, there are lady-birds gathered together, and they are welcomed by the cultivator, if not by the aphis. (_Aphis_ is the singular noun, and _aphides_ its plural form.) But enough of aphis enemies, and now for the friends, which, as well as foes, they owe to the sweet milk--the honey-dew--which they give out. So these friends, you see, are fair-weather friends, interested friends; and among them are several varieties of the ant tribe. The ants do not hurt the aphides, but follow them for what they can get out of them. They are continually seen in company; and the ants sometimes drive off the lady-birds and other foes. The aphis, when attacked by its mortal foe the lady-bird, submits with a good grace. Never did Turk bend his neck to the bow-string, or rush upon the cimeter with greater courage, than the aphis submits itself to the murderous jaws of its devouring foes. It seems quite at ease, and enjoys life to the last bite or sup, while its companions are being killed, and their carcasses heaped up around it. It evidently thinks it is right to die quietly, like a great-minded little insect. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] TOP-KNOT. PRETTY Biddy Top-knot has a hidden nest, Out among the willows stretching toward the west: Every day she runs there on her yellow legs, To count and add another to her store of eggs. Top-knot soon is missing from the garden walks: No more with the other hens struts about and stalks! No more is her cackle from the willows heard, Where, but late, she noisily all the barn-yard stirred. Down among the willows, stretching toward the west, Top-knot's snowy turban shows above her nest: Slanting ray of sunshine peeps in very bright; Come and peep in with it, you shall see a sight. Thirteen little chickens, downiest ever seen, And joyous little Top-knot proud as any queen! For that they are beauties all the hens agree: Can you wonder Top-knot should so happy be? Full of her importance, Top-knot doth appear,-- Thirteen little chickens she must feed and rear! Soon more hens are missing!--are they lost or hid? Think you they'll surprise us just as Top-knot did? FLETA F. [Illustration] GARRY AND THE RAKE. ONE summer afternoon, when the grassy slope before the house was untidy with fallen leaves, and sticks, and withered flowers, I asked Garry to go and bring the rake that we might clear away the rubbish. So off he ran, and soon came back with an _iron_ rake. Now, if you have ever tried one, you will know that an iron rake is not nearly as good for this purpose as a wooden rake, as it is heavy, and the teeth are so sharp that they tear the roots of the grass. I used it for a while; but, in spite of all I could do, the teeth would catch the roots. At last Garry exclaimed, "Grandma, let me take it. I can make it all right." I gave it to him, and the dear little boy took it behind a log, and was very busy and quiet for several minutes. Then I called, "Come, Garry, I don't believe you can help it." "Oh!" said he, "you just wait a little, and you will see." And, to be sure, in a very short time he brought me the rake, with a hard green apple on each outer tooth, pushed on just so far that the other teeth would catch the litter of leaves and sticks without disturbing the grass. Wasn't that a bright idea for a little boy five and a half years old? M. CROSSING THE BROOK WITH HARRY. NOW, Harry, don't fear, I will carry you, dear: So keep very quiet and steady: The brook is not wide, Nor swift is the tide: Now, for it, my pet--are you ready? So over the stones we will go, With step very careful and slow. I never have slipped As o'er them I tripped; But then I had nothing to carry: Now I must take heed, The more haste, the worse speed; For I bear in my arms little Harry: So over the stones we will go, With step very careful and slow. Almost every bird That ever I heard, On the bank there seems now to be singing; And I smell the sweet hay From the field by the way; The wind all its odor is bringing: So over the stones we will go, With step very careful and slow. [Illustration] EMILY CARTER. A TRUE STORY OF A PARTRIDGE. I WONDER if any of the children who read "The Nursery" have ever been in the woods of Maine. There grow the tall old pine-trees, with tops which seem to touch the sky, and thick interlacing branches, making a very dark shade overhead. [Illustration] There, too, grow the fragrant cedar-trees, with their bright green boughs, and trunks so hard and stout; and, loveliest of all, the graceful maple, whose green leaves turn crimson and gold when autumn comes. All these and many other trees grow in the great Maine forests; and birds build their nests and bring up their young among the branches; and under the trees, and all about, grow ferns, and mosses soft as velvet. Bright-eyed squirrels frisk about over the ground, and run nimbly up into the tree-tops; and pretty brown partridges walk daintily around, picking up seeds and berries to carry home to their baby-partridges, hidden away in soft nests on the ground. Through a forest like this, where it had always been so quiet and peaceful that the birds and squirrels did not know what it was to be afraid, a railroad-track was laid not long ago. Then the great engine went thundering on its way to a pleasant city by the sea, carrying with it a long train of cars, the smoke curling up brown and thick from the smoke-stack, and the shrill whistle waking the echoes among the distant hills. One day, when the train was going at full speed through the woods, a partridge, flying from one part of the forest to another, being frightened and bewildered by the noise, dashed against the smoke-stack, and fell at the engineer's feet. The engineer, whose name was Nathaniel Grant, took up the poor frightened bird, gently stroked its ruffled feathers, and carried it carefully to his home. There the partridge was treated with the greatest kindness, and soon got over its bruises. But it longed for the quiet woods, where its life had been spent. It could not eat, and seemed to be almost breaking its heart with home-sickness. So the next day, when Mr. Grant started off again on the engine, he took the bird with him. Watching very carefully for the place where the partridge had flown in, he found, at last, the exact spot. There he set the bird free, and away it flew, back to its peaceful home. DORA'S MAMMA. [Illustration] A LETTER FROM MINNESOTA. WHEN "The Nursery" came the other day to St. Paul, two little boys who live here, named Charley and John, found a story in it about a bear who used to walk in our streets. That story was true; and these little boys were so pleased with it, that they want me to write you about a new pet they have. [Illustration] It isn't a kitty with nice soft fur, nor a dog that will run and jump and play with them, nor a canary-bird to wake them up with his sweet songs; but it is a turtle, which the boys found trying to get across the street near their home. John, who is three years old, said, "I guess the poor little turtle is lost, and is trying to find his mamma again." So he picked him up, when away went his head, legs, and tail, all tucked under his shell. He looked like a box shut almost tight. When he was put in the water, out they came again. He spends the whole day trying to climb the sides of the smooth pan he is in, slipping back, and trying again. We put in a large shell to serve him for a house; and one day he climbed to the top of it, got out of his pan, and crawled over the carpet into the next room. So we had to take his house away. I think we shall have to name him Willie Winkie, because he opens and shuts his eyes so often and so quickly. Charley and John have the promise of a garden all to themselves when summer comes here. Perhaps by and by, we will tell the other children who read "The Nursery," how they get on with it, and what kinds of flowers they raise. C. R. S. ST. PAUL, MINN. [Illustration] THE LAZY SHEPHERD. SOME years ago in Scotland, two boys, whose names were Henry Bright and John Yorner, were left orphans by the death of parents. Mr. Donald, a good man, who had nine or ten thousand sheep, and employed many shepherds, took both these boys into his employ. "Now, boys," said he, "a shepherd's life may be barren or fruitful, lazy or active, just as you choose to make it. In pleasant weather, while you are tending the sheep, if you have good dogs to help you, you can, if you choose, find leisure for reading and for study, and at the same time not neglect your proper duties. "If you want books, come to my house, and I will lend them to you. You have eight years to serve before you are twenty-one; and in that time you can fit yourselves for employments that will yield you much more than the work of a shepherd." Henry Bright first suited himself to a good dog, and taught him so well, that Plato--such was the dog's name--soon took almost the whole care of a hundred sheep that Henry had to look after. The lad would take a seat under the shelter of some rock, and read and study, while Plato would lie at his feet, or run round to see that no sheep or lamb was straying too far from the pasture-ground. But John Yorner was lazy, and did not care for books. He would not take the trouble even to teach a dog his duties. He would lie on a bank in the sun, with his hands clasped above his head, and there sleep away the long hours before dinner. Often his sheep would stray away and get lost; so that Mr. Donald once said to him, "I fear you are not fit even for a shepherd, John." You may easily guess what the result was at the end of eight years. John Yorner was a shepherd still: he had not been promoted to any better employment. He loved idleness too well. One must be diligent if he would be faithful and succeed. As for Henry, he applied himself to the study of arithmetic, and became so skilled in that branch of study, that, before he was nineteen, his services were wanted by a large mercantile house in Glasgow. There he made himself so useful, that his success became no longer a matter of doubt. Oh the days of youth, how precious they are! Do not be like the lazy shepherd, my little friends! UNCLE CHARLES. SEVENTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. YOU all know that the sun comes to us in the morning, and goes away from us at night, and you say that it rises and sets. Does it rise and set in the same place? I know that is a foolish question to ask any child who lives with his eyes open. You all know, of course, that it rises opposite to where it went down the night before, and takes all day to cross the sky to its setting-place again. And you know it rises in the east, and sets in the west. But do you know that most of the stars, too, rise and set in this same way? Those of you who are old enough to be up when the stars are out can see for yourselves that this is so. You can see some stars rise, and some set, if there is nothing in your way, and you patiently watch; or you can pick out a particular star, and notice just where it is, and then, if you look for it later, you will see that it appears to have moved. All night long, and all day too, only we cannot see them in the sunlight, stars are rising, crossing the sky, and setting, the same stars coming up a little earlier each day. But there are some stars which neither rise nor set, and these I will tell you about some other time. Now, after all this that I have said about the rising and setting of the sun and stars, you will be surprised to learn that, so far as we can see, they never move at all. The planets--and our earth among them--move around the sun; but the sun stands still; and all the stars which are suns, shine always in the same place, and are hence called fixed stars. How, then, can they be said to rise and set? I will try to explain this in the next lesson. In the meantime you had better read again what I told you about the planets in the second lesson. M. E. R. HOW TO DRAW A PIG. [Illustration] The Body of Piggy is shaped like a bean. Except when he's poor and uncommonly lean. Then give him an ear and a long handsome snout For the last is so useful in rooting about. Then a bright little eye he must have without fail At the other end of him a small curly tail. Then give him four feet and you have a whole pig Who can run for his food be he little or big. [Illustration] A SIGHT OF THE OCEAN. "OH, what I would give for a sight of the ocean!" said Ruth Turner, as she sat one hot day in June in their little parlor, with her two sisters and their mother. "We must content ourselves in the city this summer," said Mrs. Turner. "What with the great fire, and the stagnation of trade, your father has lost so much money that we cannot afford to hire a cottage by the sea-side this year." "Well, we must try to make home pleasant," said little Anna, whose pale, pinched face showed that the pent air of the city had already begun to affect her health. "Let us all shut our eyes, and imagine ourselves on the beach," said Ellen, who was the poetess of the family. At that moment, the postman's knock at the door gave promise of a letter. Ruth ran to get it, and, returning in a moment, handed her mother a note, and said, "It is from that ugly, fat old Mr. Jenks, the grocer: his name is on the back. What can he want?" "Give me the letter, child," said Mrs. Turner; "and do not let me hear you speak of any fellow-being with contempt, because he is ugly, fat, or old. Mr. Jenks is all the time doing kind things. I am sorry to hear that his wife is ill." Mrs. Turner opened the letter, read it, and said, while her face flushed, "Hear this, Miss Ruth, you who were so quick to speak ill of Mr. Jenks:-- "DEAR MRS. TURNER,--Wife and I have concluded to take the next steamer for England, not to be back till next October. You and your honest husband must at once go down with your family, and occupy my furnished cottage at Crescent Beach. Cellar and store-closet are well stocked with groceries. Use and consume every thing as if it were your own. Don't say _no_, but send me round word that you will do it. I don't like to leave the cottage empty." Ruth ran to a corner of the room, turned her face to the wall, and covered it with her hands. "Handsome is, that handsome does, Miss Ruth," cried little Anna. "Well, Ruth, shall we accept the invitation?" said her mother. "On one condition," said Ruth, turning round; "and that is, that you let me go and thank Mr. Jenks myself for his great kindness. He is not old; he is not ugly; and, if he is fat, so much the better." The good grocer's offer was gratefully accepted. The little girls now pass most of the summer days on the beach, where they pick up shells, and pretty white stones, or bathe in the salt ocean. Every morning brings fresh delights. Anna has rosy cheeks once more, and as for Ellen, she sits on the rocks, and sketches, or writes poetry, every day. Ruth has broken herself of the bad habit of speaking ill of persons because of their looks. She knows now that a man may be "old, fat, and ugly," and at the same time be full of love and kindness. DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] RUTH'S WISHES. "I'D like to be now A bird on a bough," Said Ruth, one hot day As she paused in her play: "I'd like to be now A bird on a bough. "To be like a fish In the sea is my wish, Where the water is cool, And they go to no school: To be like a fish In the sea is my wish. "A squirrel I'd be High up on a tree; For he can go where He gets plenty of air: A squirrel I'd be High up on a tree. "A stag in a wood I'd be, if I could: He can lie on the ground Where 'tis cool all around: A stag in a wood I'd be, if I could." So wished, in her folly, Ruth, holding her dolly; The heat of the noon Put her all out of tune: So wished, in her folly, Ruth, holding her dolly. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] PHILIP'S NEW WHIP. NOW, what is all this noise about? The hens cackle and run about. The pig squeals. Over the fence flies the old gander, and after him flies the goose. Now, what can be the matter? I will tell you. It all comes from this: our little Philip has had a present of a new whip; and the first thing he does with it is to see how his friends in the barn-yard like it. He does not like to try it on the horse or on the cow; for the horse can kick, and the cow can hook with her horns. So, like a little coward, he frightens the hens, and the poor geese, and the pig, shut up in his pen. I do not think it right. We ought to protect the weak, and not try to scare or hurt them. A. B. C. [Illustration] THE THREE LITTLE LADIES. NOW, who can find out What these three little ones are about? Very busy, you see, They all seem to be; But what they are doing, What work or what pleasure pursuing, Is more than my wisdom can tell: And are not you puzzled as well? One little lady is standing On a cricket in posture commanding; Another is pulling out pieces From a drawer as fast as she pleases; Another is bearing a roll-- But what for? It is all very droll. And pray what is pussy about? She joins in the frolic, no doubt. These three little ladies, my dear, Know what they're about: that is clear. 'Tis something important, you see, Though a puzzle to you and to me; For they each look as grave as a judge: So, old folks, don't laugh, and cry, "Fudge!" It may be that your own great affairs Are not any more useful than theirs. ALFRED SELWYN. GRANDMA'S STORY. I AM only five years old; but I have a great deal of trouble. Papa pulls my ears, and calls me a sad rogue; brother Tom asks me every night what new mischief I have been up to today; and poor mamma sighs, and says I am the most troublesome child she ever saw. But dear good grandma looks up from her knitting, and smiles as she says, "Tut, tut, daughter! Our Amy isn't any worse than a little girl I knew some thirty years ago." "O grandma!" cried I one day, "do please tell me about her; for I like to hear about naughty little girls. What was her name, grandma?" Grandma looked over her spectacles at mamma and smiled, and mamma nodded and smiled back. Then grandma said, "I think I will tell you of one of little Clara's capers; but mind, you are not to go and do the same thing the first chance you get." This is the story as grandmother told it,-- "Little Clara lived on a farm away out in the country. She was the youngest of seven children, and a great pet, of course. But Clara's little restless feet and mischievous fingers often brought her into trouble and disgrace. "One day Clara's mother had occasion to go to the store, which was three miles away. Clara wanted to go too. Her mother feared she would be in the way, and looked doubtful; but big brother Ben said, 'Let her go, mother. She'll be good, I know.' "'Yes; let her go,' said Susan, who was trying to net a bead purse, and keep Clara's fingers out of her box of beads at the same time. [Illustration] "'Do let her go!' said Roger. 'I want to rig my ship this afternoon; and a fellow can't do much with her around.' "So it was decided that Clara should go; and it was the work of but a few moments to polish up the chubby face and hands, and brush the curly hair. The pink dress, red shoes, and white sun-bonnet, were put on as quickly as possible, and Clara was ready. "'Now, do try to behave yourself, child,' said Susan, as Ben lifted the little girl into the wagon. "'Of course I will,' replied Clara, pouting her red lips. "'But did she behave herself?' you ask. Ah! I will tell you. "When they reached the store, Mr. Dale, the storekeeper, came out to assist them; and, as he helped Clara out of the wagon, he called her 'a little lady,' which made her feel all of two inches taller than usual. Then he gave her a stick of candy, and lifted her to a seat on the counter, close beside a dear old pussy-cat, who purred loudly as the little girl smoothed her fur. "Clara's mother had a good many things to buy, and very soon forgot all about her little daughter; but when Ben came in, half an hour later, his first question was, 'Where's Clara, mother?' "Sure enough, where was Clara? Her seat was empty. She had disappeared. 'Clara, Clara!' called both her mother and Ben; but there was no answer. "'She's in some mischief,' said Ben; and, as quick as thought, he rushed into the back part of the store, followed by his mother and Mr. Dale. What a sight met their eyes! There stood Clara, in the centre of the room, stepping back slowly, as a pool of molasses, streaming steadily from a hogshead in the corner, crept towards the toes of her little red shoes. Ben caught up Clara as quick as a flash, and----" "No, grandma," interrupted mamma, "it was Mr. Dale who did that, while Ben made haste to turn the faucet to prevent further mischief." "Why, mamma," said I, "how do you know? Were you there?" "I heard about it," said she; and she and grandma both smiled. "The little girl was just my age, and I knew her very well." "And your names were both Clara," said I. "How queer!" And mamma and grandma must have thought it queer, too; for they both laughed heartily. F. A. B. [Illustration] [Illustration] AUNT MATILDA. WHAT should we do in our house if it were not for our Aunt Matilda? She is the first one out of bed in the morning, and the last one to go to bed at night. She sees that things are right in the kitchen, and right in the parlor. Father wants his breakfast by half-past six o'clock this summer weather. Aunt Matilda rises before five, and calls the girls, and sees that the rooms are in order. Then she calls the children to be washed and dressed. Yes, that is a good likeness of her, as you see her combing my hair. She is not young, you perceive, nor yet very old. Sometimes I get a little impatient, and fidget, because she is so particular; but our quarrels always end in my kissing her, and saying, "You are a darling Aunty, after all." Mother is an invalid: so she cannot do much house-work, or see to the children. But Aunt Matilda is mother, aunt, and house-maid, all in one. Sometimes she even acts as stable-boy, and harnesses the horse to the carryall; for there are few things that Aunty does not know how to do, and to do well. Do we go to school? Yes, and no. Our only school is one that Aunt Matilda keeps for us in the library. She teaches us to read, to write, and to draw. She can play on the piano, and has begun to teach me music. Oh! What _should_ we all do without Aunt Matilda? MISS MAUD. ANNA'S BIRD. ANNA has a little bird, and she calls it Tot. You must try to find out from the picture what sort of a bird it is. It can sing and play; and it is so tame, that it will put its bill between Anna's lips when she says, "Kiss me, Tot." Her dog Fancy is quite fond of the bird, and will let it light on his head; and Anna is trying to make Muff, the cat, give up her habit of killing birds. But I hope that Anna will be careful, and not trust Muff too far. I have heard of a cat in a bird-shop, that was trained to take care of birds, instead of harming them; but this is a rare case. It is hard to keep a cat from catching birds, and from troubling the little young ones in their nests. Anna is so fond of Tot, that she will not let a cat come into the room where he is. Tot can whistle a tune. He likes to light on Anna's head, and will sometimes almost hide himself under her thick hair. She feeds him, and gives him a bath every day, and lets him fly about the room. [Illustration] If Tot were to fly out of the window, I think he would try to get back to his own little cage, so fond is he of Anna. ANNA'S AUNT. THE STORY OF THE SQUASHES. I KNOW of two little boys, twin-brothers, who are just five years old. They are so nearly alike that their best friends can scarcely tell them apart. Sturdy little men they are; so strong and fair and stout, that I should be glad to kiss them even when they have come from the dirtiest depths of their mud-pies. I fancy their mother sighs often over their torn pantaloons, their battered hats, and their soiled boots; but for all that, they _must_ play, and things will wear out. One day in the fall, their papa sent up to the house a farmer's wagon full of great beautiful squashes, to be put into the cellar for the winter's use. The farmer put the squashes on the ground close by the cellar-door ready for storage. But, when their papa came home, the squashes had disappeared, and he inquired who had put them into the cellar, and went down to see if they had been properly stored. But there were no squashes there. And he inquired again where they were; but no one knew. He called to the boys, who were playing horse on the sidewalk, to ask if they knew any thing of the squashes. Oh, yes! and they ran to the barn, he following; and where do you suppose the squashes were? In the pig-pen--every one of them! They had toiled and tugged, and carried every squash--and many of them were large--out there, and fed them to the pigs. The mischief done, who could scold those two bright, hard-working little men? I think their papa had to console himself with thinking if only they would work as well at something useful when they were grown up, he could forgive their rather wasteful business when they were little. C. D. B. CHARLIE'S COMPOSITION. CHARLIE was ten years old, and his teacher thought he should begin to write compositions. So she gave him a list of words, and told him to write a letter or story, and put them all in. The words were these: Begun, Write, Boy, Hook, Two, Black, Said, Basket, Knife, Chair, Eyes, Ground. Charlie went home; and, before he went out to play in the afternoon, his mother said, "You had better work a while on your composition." "Oh, I never can do it!" he said. "Mother, you try too, and see if you can write one." So she took his list and wrote this true story,-- "A little _boy_ with roguish _black eyes_ was sitting on the floor, playing with some spools that he had taken from his mother's work-_basket_, which she had left in a _chair_. All at once he saw a cow coming up the yard. He dropped every thing, and ran to drive her out. She threw up her head, and looked so fierce, that he was afraid she would _hook_ him, and back he ran to the house. "Then he spied a fruit-_knife_ on the _ground_, where he had left it when he was eating an apple in the morning. He picked it up, and carried it to his mother, who had just _begun_ to _write_, and she _said_, that, if he would keep still about _two_ minutes, she would attend to him." "There," said mamma, "I have put in all the words: now you try, Charlie." Charlie then wrote:-- "I saw _two hooks_ and _eyes_ just as I had begun to _write_. Johnny brought mother's _knife_, which he found lying on the _ground_. He joggled mother's _chair_, and she _said_, 'There's a _black_ mark on my paper, and oh, dear! the _boy_ has tipped over my _basket_.' That's all." His mother read what Charlie had written, and said, "Pretty good for the first time;" and off he went to play. L. J. D. [Illustration: THE PEDLAR.] THE PEDLAR. Music by T. CRAMPTON, Chiswick, W. London. [Illustration: Music] 1. I wish I liv'd in a caravan With a horse to drive like a pedlar-man, Wherever he comes from nobody knows, But merrily thro' the town he goes. 2. His caravan it is painted blue, With a chimney small where the smoke comes thro'; And there is his wife with baby so brown, And onward they go from town to town. 3. "Old chairs to mend, and new jugs to sell," How he makes the basins ring like a bell! With baskets and tea-trays glossy and trim, And plates with my name around the brim. 4. A pedlar-man I should like to roam, And a book I'd write when I came back home; And all the good folks would study my book, And famous I'd be like Captain Cook. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number. 
28138	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 4. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Parrot that played Truant 97 Feeding the Ducks 100 Chestnut-Gathering 104 A Day with the Alligators 107 The Spider and her Family 110 Why Uncle Ralph did not hit the Deer 113 Faithful Dandy 114 Emma and her Doll 117 Our old Billy 119 The Thrush feeding the Cuckoo 120 The Cat and the Starling 125 IN VERSE. PAGE A Baby Lay 101 The Pigs 106 How to draw a Goose 112 Learn your Lesson 116 Jippy and Jimmy 122 The jolly old Cooper 123 The Express Package 126 The White Owl (_with music_) 128 [Illustration: Birds] [Illustration: THE PARROT THAT PLAYED TRUANT.] THE PARROT THAT PLAYED TRUANT. [Illustration: O]LD Miss Dorothy Draper had a parrot. It was one of the few things she loved. And the parrot seemed to love her in return. Miss Dorothy would hang the cage outside of her window every sunny day. Sometimes an idle boy would come along, and poke a stick between the wires; and then the old lady would say, "Boy, go away!" But one day, when the window was open, and the door of the cage was open also, Polly thought it was a good time to play truant. So she hopped out, rested on the sill a moment, and then flew into the street, from tree to tree, and from lamp-post to lamp-post. Poor Miss Dorothy was in despair. How should she get back her lost pet? She called in a policeman, and he advised her to get out a handbill, offering a reward. So in an hour this notice was pasted on the walls near by:-- LOST!--A green-and-white parrot. It answers to the name of Polly, and can talk quite plainly. It says, "Boy, go away!" also, "Polly wants a cracker," and "No, you don't!" Any one finding this bird shall, on returning it to its afflicted owner, Miss D. Draper, No. 10, Maiden Place, receive a reward of two dollars. Little Tony Peterkin was walking home from school, and wishing he had money enough to buy a copy of Virgil without going to his mother for it,--for she was a widow, and poor,--when he saw a man pasting this handbill on a wall. Tony read it, and said aloud, "Oh, I wish I could find that parrot!" A girl who heard him said, "I saw a parrot just now on one of the trees in Lake Street."--"Did you?" said Tony; and off he ran. The parrot had flown from the tree to the top of the lamp-post; and when Tony got there, two women, a newsboy, and a policeman were looking up at the strange fowl. It was the work of a second for Tony to spring at the iron post, and begin climbing up. "No, you don't!" cried the parrot. That frightened Tony, so that he almost dropped; but he took heart when he thought of the two dollars and a new fresh copy of Virgil. Up he climbed; but just as he was going to put his hand on the little cross-bar under the lamp, "Boy, go away!" cried Poll. Tony's heart beat at these words; but he held on. "Poll, Poll, pretty Poll!" cried he: "come and get a cracker!"--"Polly wants a cracker," replied the bird. The truth was, Polly was tired of the street, and wanted to get back to Miss Dorothy. So, when Polly heard Tony's kind words, she flew down to the cross-bar, and, when he held out his hand, she lighted on it, and Tony slid with her down the post to the ground. "Well done, my lad," said the policeman. He went with Tony, carrying the bird, to No. 10, Maiden Place; and Miss Dorothy was so much pleased that she gave Tony three dollars instead of two. On his way home he bought that copy Of Virgil. DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] [Illustration] FEEDING THE DUCKS. A MILD summer day, and one, two, three, four children sitting on the ground by the pond, and feeding the ducks! But I think I hear the larger girl, who is standing up, say to the sitters, "Children, don't you know better than to sit there on the damp earth? You will every one of you catch a cold. Get up this instant." That is what the larger girl ought to say; for many children take bad colds by sitting on the grass. The other day, as I went through the Central Park in New York, I saw a maid in charge of three children, one of them an infant, and she was letting them lie at full-length on the grass. I told her she must not do so; but she said the weather was warm, and there was no danger. As I knew the parents of the children, I told her she must take the children up at once, and let them sit on the seats near by. At length she obeyed me. Two days afterwards I called on the parents of the children, and then learned that every one of the little ones was ill with a cold. I told the mother what I had seen at the Central Park and she told the maid that never again must she let the children sit on the bare grass. The maid promised she would not do so again. AUNT MATILDA. A BABY LAY. [Illustration] WHAT does the kitten say? "Mew, mew, mew!" She shall have some nice milk, warm and new. [Illustration] Up jumps the dog, and says, "Bow, wow, wow! I'm as good as kitty, and I'm hungry now." [Illustration] What does the cow say? "Moo, moo, moo!" And the pretty little calf tries to say so too. [Illustration] "Ba-a!" says the little lamb,--"baa, baa, baa!" What does she mean? Is she calling her mamma? [Illustration] The rooster struts around, and cries, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" As if that were just about the only thing he knew! [Illustration] On the roof the gentle dove says, "Coo, coo, coo! Love me, little girls and boys, for I love you." [Illustration] What does the hen say? "Cluck, cluck, cluck!" As she scratches for her chickens, and has good luck. [Illustration] What does the bird say? "Peep, peep, peep!" As, early in the morning, she rouses us from sleep. What does our baby say? "Goo, goo, goo!" See the loving glances in her eyes so blue; How we rush to take her, at the slightest call! Oh! the darling baby is the sweetest pet of all. ELLA. [Illustration] CHESTNUT-GATHERING. DID you ever go chestnut-gathering? Such fun as it is! especially when a lot of girls and boys go together. On one of my father's farms there were many chestnut-trees; and every autumn, after the first frost, when the leaves were all turning, and beginning to fall, we used to have chestnut-gatherings. The boys used to get long poles, with which they would beat off the nuts. Sometimes they would climb the trees, and shake or beat off such nuts as they could not reach from below. And we girls used to help pick them up, and put them into baskets. Some years chestnuts are very scarce. I remember one year there was only one tree that had any nuts on; and we could not reach them: not even a man could climb it. One day, Henry, who was a very kind man, said, "Perhaps we will cut that tree down: it will make good rails, and then you children can get all the nuts." We no sooner heard this than we gave him no peace till it was done. And such an event! For we were to see the tree cut down. We children were stationed far away from danger; and another man and Henry chopped and chopped, till it was almost ready to fall, when they stepped back, and, in less than a minute, there was such a whistling through the air, such a crashing, and breaking of branches, and then a loud thud! The tree was down. I felt quite breathless with excitement; and so did the others; for it was some minutes before we ran up to see how many nuts there were. Oh, such lots! all spread around, and beaten out of the prickly burrs, all ready for us. I cannot remember how many we gathered, but it was some bushels; and we could not take all that day: so we concluded to return the next afternoon after school. [Illustration] And what do you think? When we got there, not a nut was to be found! The little squirrels had been busy in our absence, and had taken away every one of them. Saucy squirrels! But we did not grudge them the nuts; for we had plenty. AUNT JENNY. THE PIGS. THEY really are a pretty sight, My little pigs, so small and white! Their tails have such a curious kink; Their ears are lined with palest pink: They frisk about as brisk and gay As school-boys on a holiday. I watch them scamper to and fro: How clean they look! how fast they grow! But they are only pigs, dear me! And that is all they'll ever be. Beside their pen, above its wall, A garden-rose grows fresh and tall, Its blossoms, wet with morning dew, The sweetest flowers that ever grew. With every passing wind that blows Comes scattered down a milk-white rose, In leaves like scented flakes of snow, Upon the little pigs below. They only grunt, "Ur, Ur," and say, "We want more milk and meal to-day. The flowers may bloom, the flowers may fall, 'Tis no concern of ours at all." For they are only pigs, dear me! And that is all they'll ever be. Upon the rose's highest bough There often comes a robin now, And sings a song so sweet and clear, It makes one happy just to hear; For never yet, on summer day, Was sung a more delightful lay. What care the little pigs below? The bird may come, the bird may go; For while he sings, "Quee, quee!" they squeal, "We want some milk, we want some meal!" For they are only pigs, dear me! And that is all they'll ever be. MARIAN DOUGLAS. A DAY WITH THE ALLIGATORS. I WANT to tell the young folks who read "The Nursery" something of my visit to Florida last winter. We first went to Jacksonville, which lies on the St. John's River, and is a very pleasant city. I wish you would find it on the map. One day, as I sat in the reading-room of the hotel, I heard shouts of laughter, followed by the clapping of hands. "What can it be?" thought I, throwing down the newspaper I was reading, and running into the corridor. There I saw five or six little reptiles, about half the length of my arm, that seemed to be running a race over the canvas carpet with which the floor was covered. A number of people were looking on. They appeared to be highly amused by the queer movements of the creatures. "What are they? Lizards?" cried I. "Lizards! No: they are young alligators," said a little girl, in a tone that implied pity for my ignorance. "Alligators!" said I, retreating in alarm, as one of them came towards me. "Oh, you coward!" cried the little girl, laughing. "They are too small to hurt you. See me." And, saying this, she took one of them up in her apron, and brought it towards me. I ran into the reading-room, and she ran after me; but when she saw that I was really afraid of the reptile, she took it back to the corridor, and placed it on the floor. These little alligators grow to be huge creatures, sometimes more than twenty feet long. They live in the creeks and little rivers that run into the St. John's. They rarely go very far from the shore. They live partly on land and partly in the water. In Florida the weather in January is often quite as warm as it is in the Northern States in June. So on a fine winter day, my father took my sister and me on board the steamer "Mayflower" for a trip upon the St. John's River, and up some of the small streams, where alligators may be found. We went some thirty miles towards the south, and then turned into a small river, where the scenery on both sides resembled that given in the picture. Cypress-swamps and high trees overgrown with moss everywhere met our view. On the banks, and generally on fallen logs, might be seen alligators basking in the sun. Many of the passengers in the steamboat had brought pistols and guns, with which to fire at the poor alligators. This is a very cruel and useless sport, for the alligators do no harm to anybody. I saw ladies and young girls firing at them. We passed some fifty alligators on our way. Father and another gentleman took a boat, and rowed some distance up a creek. There we saw an alligator with a young one by its side. The young are very small, compared with the full-grown reptile. You can see from the picture, that the alligator is not handsome; but that is no reason why bullets should be lodged in its hide. I came to the conclusion that firing pistols at these animals was poor and mean sport. What a lovely day it was! and how we enjoyed the excursion! Just think of sitting in your summer clothing on a day in January, and passing through scenery where the trees and shrubs are all green. We returned to Jacksonville just in time to see the sun set, and we shall not soon forget our visit among the alligators. UNCLE CHARLES'S NEPHEW. [Illustration] THE SPIDER AND HER FAMILY. EVERY child has seen spiders in plenty, spinning their webs in some corner; or, after the web or tent is securely fastened and finished, lying in wait for some unfortunate fly or mosquito. [Illustration] Oftentimes in these webs small brown bags are to be seen, and these, if opened, will be found to contain a great many little eggs which the spider has laid; or, sometimes when you open them, you will find that the eggs have just hatched, and that there is a bag full of tiny spiders that have not yet seen the light. Spiders indeed have as many children sometimes as the "Old woman who lived in a shoe;" but, unlike that famed personage, they seem to know just what to do. It is very interesting to watch them, and see how they manage their little ones. One day as I was walking on a country road, where there was not much travel, my attention was caught by a large spider in the dust at my feet, so large that I stopped to look at it. Its body seemed rough and thick, while its legs were short. I took a stick, and poked it, when, presto change! my spider had a small, round, smooth body, and long legs. Truly this was more strange than any sleight-of-hand trick I had ever seen. I had heard of snakes and frogs shedding their skins, and many other queer stories of animals and insects, but of nothing at all like this. I stooped closer to the ground to see if I could get a clew to the mystery, and found that the dust all about the large spider was alive with little ones that she had just shaken off. What a load! And how did they ever get up on her back? Did they run up her slender legs, and crowd and cling on? How I wished I knew the spider language, that I might find out why this mother weighed herself down with such a burden of little ones as she walked the street! Was she giving them an airing, and showing them the world? or had the broom of some housemaid swept away her web, and forced her thus to take flight to save her family from destruction? Perhaps she had been burned out. Or was it the first day of May to her? and had her landlord forced her out of her house because she could not pay the rent? Alas! she could not tell me; and I left her there in the road with all her little ones about her. E. M. DAVIS. [Illustration] HOW TO DRAW A GOOSE. [Illustration] The Goose has a body the shape of an egg. With a round head a long neck and bill. When the weather is cold she can stand on one leg With some wings she can fly if she will. Now we give her a tail more for beauty than use And out of our egg comes a very nice goose. WHY UNCLE RALPH DID NOT HIT THE DEER. MANY years ago, when I was a little fellow, I went on a sail with my Uncle Ralph on one of the prettiest of our northern lakes. The day was fine, the air was mild but fresh, and the hills and banks around us were clothed in green. Besides Uncle Ralph, in the boat were my Aunt Mary, and cousins Walter and Susan Brent. Uncle Ralph was a sportsman, and he had a gun, with which he hoped to bring down a deer, in case he should see one. [Illustration] I did not at all like this part of his plan. I knew it would mar my own and my aunt's pleasure, if we were made to see the death of a noble stag or a gentle fawn. But I was too fond of a sail to express my dislike of Uncle Ralph's plan. At the foot of a hill we stopped in our little boat to pick berries. Aunt Mary said she would stay and read. The rest of us went with Uncle Ralph to a clearing near by, to pick raspberries. We had not been gone long, when Uncle Ralph sent me back for a mug with which to get water from a cool spring. As I came within sight of the boat, I saw Aunt Mary take the ramrod of the gun, extract the bullet, and then put in fresh wadding, and ram it down. I understood it all, but said nothing. After we had got berries and water enough, we set sail again, and this time for the opposite shore, where Uncle Ralph's keen eyes had detected a stag and two fawns. We landed in a little cove out of sight of the deer. Uncle Ralph took his gun, and crept through the woods. In about fifteen minutes we heard him fire. Aunt Mary smiled, and took up her book. Soon Uncle Ralph came back. "Where's your game, Ralph?" asked Aunt Mary. "Will you believe it," said he: "I got within thirty feet of them; had the fairest shot that a fellow could possibly have, but somehow I missed my aim--didn't so much as graze one of them." "Well, I'm not sorry for it," said Aunt Mary. "We shall enjoy our luncheon under the trees all the better." I looked at her, and laughed, but she checked me with a "Hush!" ALBERT MASON. FAITHFUL DANDY. MR. BAXTER, a poor laboring-man, was the owner of a fine dog, whose name was Dandy. Having to remove from one village to another in the State of Maine, Mr. Baxter hired a small wagon on which his furniture was packed. Then he led the horse, while Dandy followed behind. When he came to the place where he was to stop, Mr. Baxter unloaded his wagon, but was sorry to find that a chair and a basket were missing from the back-part of the wagon, and that Dandy, also, could not be found. The day passed; and, as the dog did not appear, the poor man feared that something must have happened to him. [Illustration] The next day, as Mr. Baxter was on his way back to the old cottage to take away another load, he heard the bark of a dog, which sounded very much like Dandy's. Judge how glad he was when he saw by the roadside, not only his lost property, but his faithful Dandy, seated erect by the chair and basket, keeping strict guard over them. They had fallen from the wagon when Mr. Baxter was not looking; but Dandy had seen them, and, like a good dog, felt it his duty to stay behind and guard what belonged to his master. Although left for so long a time without food, the faithful creature had never quitted the spot where the chair and basket had fallen. But, when he saw his master, how glad was poor Dandy! He leaped up, put his paws on the man's shoulders, and barked with joy. "Good Dandy! good Dandy!" said Mr. Baxter: "you must be hungry, old fellow! Come along: you shall have a good dinner for this. While I have a crust of bread, I'll share it with you, you noble old dog." UNCLE CHARLES. LEARN YOUR LESSON. YOU'LL not learn your lesson by crying, my man, You'll never come at it by crying, my man; Not a word can you spy, for the tear in your eye, Then put your mind on it, for surely you can. Only smile on your lesson, 'twill smile upon you; How glibly the words will then jump into view! Each word to its place all the others will chase, Till you'll wonder to find how well you can do. If you cry, you will make yourself stupid or blind, And then not an answer will come to your mind; But cheer up your heart, and you'll soon have your part, For all things grow easy when hearts are inclined. C. EMMA AND HER DOLL. [Illustration] EMMA has placed her doll Flora against the pillow. She says, "Now, dear Flora, I want you to be very good to-morrow, for I am to have company. It is my birthday." [Illustration] Then Emma sat down in a chair, and said to herself, "Why, what an old person I shall be! I shall be four years old; and I shall have to go to school soon, and read in my books. I love to look at the pictures now." [Illustration] Emma got down from the chair, and placed Flora in it, and said: "I want you to be very still now, my child, for I am going to say my evening prayers. You must not cry; you must not stir; for I shall not like it at all if you make the least noise." [Illustration] Then Emma said her prayers, and Flora kept quite still all the while. "Now I shall take off my shoes, and get into bed," said Emma; and then she thanked Flora for behaving so well. A. B. C. [Illustration] OUR OLD BILLY. WE call him _old_ Billy; but he is not really old: he is a young horse, and as full of capers as any puppy. After he has been standing in the barn for two or three days, he acts like a wild creature when he is taken out, and will whisk round corners, and scamper up and down the hill, as if he really meant to tear every thing to pieces. But just fill the carriage up with ladies or babies, and he will step along as carefully as if he thought an extra joggle would break some of them. He is very fond of my aunt, who usually drives him; and, when she goes to ride, he always expects her to give him something good,--an apple, or a crust, or a lump of sugar. If she has nothing for him, he will grab the corner of her veil, or the ribbons on her hat, and chew them, to teach her not to forget him next time; and he will lap her face and hands, like a dog. If she goes into a store, and stays longer than he thinks necessary, he will step across the sidewalk, carriage and all, and try to get his head in at the door to look for her. There is another horse in the barn where he is kept,--a very quiet, well-behaved nag, named Tom; and sometimes, when Billy feels naughty, he will put his head over the side of the stall and nip Tom, not enough to hurt much, but just enough to tease him, and make him squeal. One day auntie heard a great clattering in the barn, and went out to see what was the matter. When she opened the door, both horses were in their stalls, and all was quiet. She noticed that the meal-chest was open: so she closed it, and went out. Before she reached the house, the noise began again, and she went quietly back, and peeped in at the window. There was Billy, dipping his nose into the meal-chest, which he had opened. "Billy, what are you doing?" said auntie; and it was fun enough to see him whisk into his stall, and stand there as quiet and demure as a cat that had just been caught eating up the cream. Billy had slipped the halter, and so set himself free. Since then he has been fastened more securely; yet he still succeeds in freeing himself once in a while. IDA T. THURSTON. THE THRUSH FEEDING THE CUCKOO. THE cuckoo is a queer bird. It arrives in England about the middle of April, and departs in the autumn for the woods of Northern Africa. In every language the well-known notes of the male bird have suggested its name. [Illustration] In its habits it is shy; and its voice may be often heard whilst the eye seeks in vain to find the bird itself. Its food consists of caterpillars and various insects. The female cuckoo makes no nest, and takes no care of her young. How do you suppose she does? Having a wide bill, she takes up in it one of her eggs, which she puts in the nest of some other bird that feeds on insects. The strange nurses to whom the cuckoo confides her young become not only good mothers to them, but neglect their own children to take care of the young cuckoos. As the young cuckoo thrives and grows strong, he thrusts the other birds out of the nest, so that he may have all the room to himself. For five weeks or more his adopted mother supplies him with food. In the picture a thrush is represented as feeding a young cuckoo, that has probably driven off all the thrush's own children. DORA BURNSIDE. JIPPY AND JIMMY. JIPPY and Jimmy were two little dogs: They went to sail on some floating logs. The logs rolled over, the dogs rolled in; And they got very wet, for their clothes were thin. Jippy and Jimmy crept out again: They said, "The river is full of rain!" They said, "The water is far from dry! Ky-hi! ky-hi! ky-hi! ky-hi!" Jippy and Jimmy went shivering home: They said, "On the river no more we'll roam; And we won't go to sail until we learn how,-- Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow!" LAURA E. RICHARDS. [Illustration] THE JOLLY OLD COOPER. A JOLLY old cooper am I, And I'm mending this tub, do you see? The workmen are gone, and I am alone, And their tools are quite handy for me. Now hammer and hammer away! This hoop I must fit to the tub: One, two--but I wish it would stay-- The workmen have gone to their grub. How pleased they will be when they find That I can do work to their mind! Yes, a jolly old cooper--But stop! What's this? Where's the tub? Oh, despair! Knocked into a heap there it lies. To face them now, how shall I dare? The knocks I have given the tub Will be echoed, I fear, on my head. They are coming! Oh, yes! I can hear,-- I can hear on the sidewalk a tread. Shall I stay, and confess it was I? Yes, that's better than telling a lie! ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE CAT AND THE STARLING. THE European starling is a sprightly and handsome bird, about eight inches long, of a black color with purple and greenish reflections, and spotted with buff. It may be taught to repeat a few words, and to whistle short tunes. A little boy in England, who had one as a pet, which he named Dicky, tells the following story about it:-- "I took it home with me, and got a cage for it. But Master Dicky was not satisfied with so little room, and got out, and took possession of the whole house. One morning I was awakened by his chirping, and, on looking around, I saw him on my pillow, to which he used to come every morning. "We had at the same time a cat, with whom he soon became very good friends. They always drank milk out of the same saucer. One afternoon, a basin of milk being on the table, Master Dicky thought he would take a bath: so in he went, splashing the milk all over the table. "Sometimes he would take it into his head to have a ride on the cat's back, to which she had no objection. At night he would sleep with the cat and kitten; and once when the servant came down in the morning, she said that she saw the cat with her paw around the bird, keeping him warm, though that seems almost too much to believe." R. B. [Illustration] THE EXPRESS PACKAGE. A PACKAGE came, With Gold-Locks' name Written in letters bold and free Upon the cover: She turned it over, And cried, "Is it for me, for me?" 'Twas scarce a minute Before within it Her eyes had peeped with curious awe: There, sweet as a rose, And folded close In tissue, what do you think she saw? [Illustration] A doll? Ah, yes! You would never guess A dolly could be so very sweet, Or have such grace, From the blooming face Down to the tips of her slippered feet. She smiled, and smiled, Like a real live child, And opened her eyes of bluest blue, As little Gold-Locks From out the box Lifted, and held her up to view. In ruffles and puffs Of gauzy stuffs, She looked like a fresh white flower, full-blown, And Gold-Locks' heart Gave a happy start, As she thought, "She is all my own, my own!" MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. [Illustration: THE WHITE OWL] THE WHITE OWL. [Illustration: Music] Words by TENNYSON. Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1. When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round. Alone and warming his fine wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. 2. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock beneath the thatch, Thrice has sung his roundelay, Thrice has sung his roundelay. Alone and warming his fine wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number. Page 114, "go" changed to "got" (After we had got) Page 128, period changed to a comma on chorus of song (his fine wits,) 
28139	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 5. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Sarah's Picture 131 Kitty Bell 134 A clever Fox 136 How Ponto got his Dinner 138 The Pet Pigeon 141 Eighth Lesson in Astronomy 143 Drawing-Lesson 145 The Farm 146 The Drawing-Master 148 Learning to iron 151 Birdie and Baby 153 Boys and Rabbits 156 Tobacco and Egg 158 IN VERSE. PAGE Steering for Home 129 Three naughty Pigs 133 The Butterfly and the Grasshopper 139 Little Mosquito 150 A naughty Baby 154 The Apple Tree (_with music_) 160 [Illustration: Birds] [Illustration: STEERING FOR HOME.] STEERING FOR HOME. [Illustration: B]LOW, thou bitter northern gale; Heave, thou rolling, foaming sea; Bend the mast and fill the sail, Let the gallant ship go free! Steady, lad! Be firm and steady! On the compass fix your eye; Ever watchful, ever ready, Let the rain and spray go by! We're steering for home. Let the waves with angry thud Shake the ship from stem to stern; We can brave the flying scud, It may go, it may return: In the wind are cheerful voices, In the waves a pleasant song, And the sailor's heart rejoices As the good ship bounds along. We're steering for home. Standing on the briny deck, Beaten by the blinding spray, Fearing neither storm nor wreck, Let us keep our onward way. Loving hearts for us are yearning, Now in hope, and now in doubt, Looking for our swift returning, How they try to make us out! We're steering for home. Fainter blows the bitter gale, And more peaceful grows the sea; Now, boys, trim again the sail; Land is looming on the lee! See! the beacon-light is flashing, Hark! those shouts are from the shore; To the wharf home friends are dashing; Now our hardest work is o'er. Three cheers for our home! TOM BOWLING. SARAH'S PICTURE. MY name is Sarah. I live in Bristol, Conn., and am not quite five years old. I have taken "The Nursery" ever since I was two. About three years ago a lady gave me a little trunk, and I have kept my magazines in it ever since. Last winter, when snow was on the ground, and I had to stay in the house a good deal, I used to get my trunk and sit down on the floor by mamma, and look my "Nursery" through almost every day. So mamma thought she would like to have my picture taken just in that way. Now I must introduce you to my dog Beauty, who sits by my side in the picture. You see he is a Spitz; but do not be frightened: he will never have hydrophobia. I cannot think of having him muzzled, for one of his charms is the way he opens and shuts his mouth when he barks. Oh, no, Beauty! I will never hurt your feelings by making you wear a muzzle. My grandma gave me this dear dog a year ago last Christmas. He had two beautiful red eyes then; now he has none. He had two long silky ears then; now he has but one. He had four legs, and a bushy tail curled over his back; now he has but two legs, and no tail. But I love him just as well as ever. [Illustration] The dolly you see sitting up against the trunk is my daughter Nannie. I have four other children. Nellie is a fair-haired blonde, but is getting rather past her prime. You know blondes fade young. Rosa Grace once had lovely flaxen curls, and very rosy cheeks; but now her curls are few and far between, her cheeks are faded, and her arms and feet are out of order. Next comes Florence, who has joints, and can sit up like a lady anywhere. My papa brought her from San Francisco. She has yellow hair, and is dressed in crimson silk. My youngest is not yet named. She is quite small, has black hair and eyes, and is rather old-fashioned looking. If you can think of a name just right for her, I wish you would please let me know. It is so perplexing to name so many children! SARAH H. BUCK. THREE NAUGHTY PIGS. THREE naughty pigs, All in one pen, Drank up their milk Left by the men. Then all the three, Fast as they could, Dug their way out To find something good. Out in the garden A maiden fair Had set some flowers, Of beauty rare. Out in the garden A merry boy Had planted seeds, With childish joy. One naughty pig Ran to the bed; Soon lay the flowers Drooping and dead. Two naughty pigs Dug up the seeds, And left for the boy Not even weeds. Three naughty pigs Back in the pen, Never could do Such digging again. For in their noses Something would hurt Whenever they tried To dig in the dirt. F. L. T. [Illustration] KITTY BELL. ONCE there was a little girl named Alice, and she had an Uncle George whom she loved very dearly. One day, as Alice was looking out of the window, she saw her Uncle George coming into the yard with a covered basket in his hand. Alice ran to meet him, and, as she was kissing him in the hall, she heard a faint sound in the basket, and exclaimed, "O Uncle George! what have you brought me?" "Look into the basket and see," said her uncle. So Alice peeped in very carefully, and saw a little black kitten. The little girl was delighted, and fairly danced around her uncle as she said, "What a dear little kitten! Is it for me, Uncle George? Who sent it to me? Did you bring it from your house?" "Yes," said her uncle, "your Cousin Edith sent it to you; she thought you would like it." "Well," said Alice, "you must thank Edith a thousand times, and here is a kiss for you for bringing it to me; and I'm sure the poor little thing must be hungry: so I'll give it something to eat." She carried the kitten into the kitchen, and soon got from the cook a nice pan of milk. Her little brother Harry came running in to see the new kitten eat its dinner, and with him came the old family cat, Mouser, who rubbed and purred against Alice, as if he wanted her to pet him too. The next thing was to find a name, "pretty, and not too common," Alice said. While she was trying to think of one, she went up to her own little room, and searched among her ribbons for a piece to tie around the kitten's neck. She soon found one that was just the thing. In one of her drawers she found a tiny bell that somebody had given her, and thought it would be a good plan to hang that around kitty's neck by the ribbon. Kitty made no objection to being thus decorated, and a happy thought struck Alice; "Kitty Bell would be just the name for her!" and Kitty Bell it was. [Illustration] Kitty grew very fast; and one morning, after she had got to be a good-sized kitten, she came to Alice, and mewed quite piteously. Alice gave her some milk; but Kitty Bell was not hungry, and mewed still more. Alice could not think what was the matter. At last Kitty Bell gave her head a shake, and put one paw up to the ribbon on her neck, as if trying to pull it over her head. Alice untied the ribbon, and away ran Kitty Bell quite out of sight. In a short time she came back with a mouse in her mouth, which she laid at Alice's feet. Do you see what had been the trouble? The bell had frightened the mice away, so that Kitty Bell could not get near enough to catch them. W. A CLEVER FOX. ON a summer day, a gentleman was lying under the shelter of some shrubs on the banks of the River Tweed, when he saw a large brood of ducks, which had been made to rise on the wing by the drifting of a fir-branch among them. After circling in the air for a little time, they again settled down on their feeding-ground. There was a pause for two or three minutes, and then the same thing took place again. A branch drifted down with the stream into the midst of the ducks, and made them take to flight once more. But when they found that the bough had drifted by, and done no harm, they flew down to the water as before. After four or five boughs had drifted by in this way, the ducks gave no heed to them, and hardly tried to fly out of their way on the stream, even when they were near to being touched. [Illustration] The gentleman who had been observing all this now watched for the cause of the drifting of the boughs. At length he saw, higher up the bank of the stream, a fox, which, having set the boughs adrift, was watching for the moment when the ducks should cease to be startled by them. This wise and clever fox at last seemed satisfied that the moment had come. So what did he do but take a larger branch of spruce-fir than any he had yet used, and, spreading himself down on it so as to be almost hidden from sight, set it adrift as he had done the others! The ducks, now having ceased to fear the boughs, hardly moved till the fox was in the midst of them, when, making rapid snaps right and left, he seized two fine young ducks as his prey, and floated forward in triumph on his raft. The ducks flew off in fright, and did not come back. That fox must have had a fine dinner that day, I think. The gentleman who saw the trick pitied the poor ducks, but could not help laughing at the fox's cunning. UNCLE CHARLES. HOW PONTO GOT HIS DINNER. PONTO in his youth had been a very wise and active dog. Not only had he been brave at watching, but he had been taught to carry packages and notes for his master. But, as he grew old and feeble, he gradually got out of the way of doing such services, and spent his time mostly in sleeping, or in jogging about, without care. One day his mistress had told her husband, as he went to his business in the morning, to send around the carriage at ten o'clock. This he forgot to do; and when the hour came, and there was no carriage, the lady knew it would be necessary to remind her husband of his promise. But she had no one to send with a message. At last she chanced to remember that Ponto used to go on such errands, and, writing a note, she called him to her, and said,-- "Here, Ponto, take this note to your master." Ponto took the note carefully in his mouth, but did not seem to know what he was expected to do with it. "Go, Ponto," she said; "take the note to your master." He trotted on a little way, paused, turned and hesitated, and then trotted a little farther. This he repeated several times, and at last, started off at a good gait. But wise old Ponto! Did he, after so much pondering, take the note to his master? Not a bit of it! He went straight to the butcher's, and presented the billet, wagging his tail at the same time, as much as to say, "Here's an order for my dinner!" The butcher, understanding the situation, rolled up a nice piece of meat in a paper, gave it to Ponto, and then himself delivered the note to the gentleman. Ponto stalked home as proud as a king, laid the package at his mistress's feet, and waited, with a delighted, expressive wag, for her approval. Of course she gave him all the meat, patted his faithful old head, and called him "good Ponto." The carriage came in good time; and Ponto does not know to this day but what he did exactly as he was told. C. D. B. THE BUTTERFLY AND THE GRASSHOPPER. "PRETTY Butterfly, stay! Come down here and play," A Grasshopper said, As he lifted his head. "Oh, no! and oh, no! Daddy Grasshopper, go! Once you weren't so polite, But said, 'Out of my sight, You base, ugly fright!'" "Oh, no! and oh, no! I never said so," The Grasshopper cried: "I'd sooner have died Than been half so rude. You misunderstood." "Oh, no! I did not; 'Twas near to this spot: The offence, while I live, I cannot forgive." "I pray you explain When and where such disdain, Such conduct improper, Was shown by this Hopper." "I then was a worm: 'Tis a fact, I affirm," The Butterfly said, With a toss of her head. "In my humble condition, Your bad disposition Made you spurn me as mean, And not fit to be seen. In my day of small things You dreamed not that wings Might one day be mine,-- Wings handsome and fine, That help me soar up To the rose's full cup, And taste of each flower In garden and bower. This moral now take For your own better sake: Insult not the low; Some day they may grow To seem and to do Much better than you. Remember; and so, Daddy Grasshopper, go!" EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PET PIGEON. WHEN I was about nine years old, my father and mother were living in a Southern city; and, as I had been very ill for a long time, I was taken from school, and permitted to do as I liked. In one of my walks I met an old colored woman, who took quite a fancy to me; and once, when I was sick at home, she came to see me, bringing as a present a young pigeon. Its feathers were not grown enough to show its color; but it proved to be brown and white. I was very much grieved when my mother said that she could not have a pigeon kept in the house; but my father persuaded her to indulge me till I was able to go out again; and then my pet gave so little trouble that nobody objected to him. For the first two or three weeks, he was put at night in another room; but I begged so hard that finally "Pidgy," as I called him, was allowed to roost on top of the wardrobe in my bed-room. The first time he saw me asleep, he seemed very much alarmed (so my mother told me); but he settled down on my shoulder, and kept very quiet till I awoke. This he always did after that morning, sometimes waiting more than two hours. After amusing myself with him till it was time to get up, I used to give him a large basin of water, into which he would jump with great delight; and he would be making his toilet while I was making mine. For two or three months I kept his wings clipped, so that he could not fly far. When I went out for a walk, I generally took him, either in my arms or perched on my hand; and thus I and my pet became known all over the neighborhood; and, when my little playmates invited me to visit them, an invitation was always sent for "Lillie and her pigeon." He followed me everywhere. If I was reading, he rested on my chair; if playing on the piano, he would listen attentively: indeed he acquired such a taste for music, that the only time he ever seemed willing to leave me was to perch upon the foot of a gentleman who was singing very finely. I taught him a number of tricks, such as bringing me any thing that he could carry, lying down very still till I told him to get up, and running over the piano-keys to make music for himself. During the two years that Pidgy and I enjoyed so much together, he never fed from any hand but mine; and once, when I staid from home over night, he would not eat at all, but pecked at my mother and sister so that they were quite provoked with him. On my return, he flew to meet me with an angry "coo," his feathers all ruffled up, as if trying to reprove me for my neglect. What finally became of my pet I never knew. I had him out on the porch, one day, and, as I ran into the house for a few minutes, the door was blown to, so that he could not follow me. A boy caught him up, and was seen running away with his prize. Every effort was made to find him; but I never saw my dear little pigeon again. ANNE PAGE. EIGHTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY. HOW shall I make such little folks understand that the sun and the stars really stand still, when they seem to take a journey across the sky every day? Perhaps the best way will be to make a little game of it. We will explain it with boys. I want a boy to represent the earth, and as many as can be found for sun and stars: there is no danger of too many. Now, the fattest boy of all must be the earth, and stand in the middle. We want him fat and round, because the earth is as round as an orange. (We need not mind about the size of the stars: they always look small, they are so far off.) All the other boys must stand about him, and stand still. If they are not satisfied with their places, they must not move; for they are fixed stars. That is right. I can imagine you now just as you are, the fat boy in the middle. But _you_ must not stand still, fat boy, because I told the star-boys not to move. You are the earth, and must do what the earth does. Don't you know what it does? Oh! it does not run away. Come back, and I will tell you what it does. It turns around just as a top spins. That is right. Every time the earth turns, it makes a day and a night, by turning towards the sun, and away from it again. Don't turn so fast, my dear: you make the days and nights too short, and you will be dizzy. Besides, you are turning the wrong way. The earth turns from west to east, and you must remember you are the earth, and not Charlie. Now go the other way, and more slowly, and keep your eyes on the little boys who are the sun and stars. We will suppose now that Frank is the sun. There he is just behind you. He is shining now on the other side of the earth,--on your back. As you turn around to the left, to the east, you begin to see him: he rises. Now, as you turn more towards him, he seems to pass in front of you towards the west, and pretty soon he is out of sight. He has set. So much for the sun. It is just the same if you look at the stars,--John, or Willie, or James. As you turn round they all seem to be going round you. Now can't you see, that, as the real earth turns around, the sun and stars about it seem to you to rise and set, although they stand still, like Frank and John and Willie and James. A great many years ago, everybody supposed that the earth stood still, and the sun and stars revolved around it; but a wise man named Copernicus found out the mistake, and you had better call your game the Copernican game. M. E. R. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXII.--NO. 5.] THE FARM. VERY often in summer, after looking at the sky, and consulting the barometer, my father would say to me, "Tell John to bring around the horse and carryall, and we will all go out to the farm for the day." John had the horse harnessed in a little while, mother sent out a great basket of lunch, and in less than half an hour we were all off,--father, mother, Dick, and I. The farm was seven miles in the country, and the road leading to it was a fine one. There were some hills, to be sure; but, whenever we came to one, Dick and I used to climb out of the back-window, and hang on behind, fancying that we lightened the load by not being inside. We always enjoyed the ride very much. At the farm there was a pretty cottage, where the tenant Mr. Clark lived. We used to go in for a little while to see Mrs. Clark's babies, and then we started off in search of adventures. What fun we did have! Sometimes there would be great brush-heaps to burn, made of bushes and branches of trees that had been cleared off from the land. They made glorious bonfires. There was an old yellow horse on the farm, that used to run the wood-sawing machine. He was blind in one eye, but was the very gentlest horse in the world. Dick and I would both get on him at the same time, with only the halter to guide the horse, and go all over the farm. Now and then, in shaking himself to get rid of the flies, Bob (the horse) would shake us both off; but he always stopped at once when we met with such an accident, so that we could get on again. Once, when we were riding in this way, our horse stopped and refused to go on. On looking to see what was the matter, we saw a large black snake in the road just ahead of us. Being very reckless children, we slid off old Bob, found some heavy sticks, and attacked the snake. First Dick struck it, and, when it turned on him, I struck it; and so we pounded the snake, turn and turn about, until it was killed. [Illustration] Another thing that we enjoyed very much was to go down to the creek that ran through the farm, and put some ears of green corn in the water close by the edge. We would then keep very still, and watch the corn, and, as soon as we saw it move a little, we would give it a sudden slap out of the water, and would almost always succeed in landing one or two crawfish. We dug wells in the sand, which we would fill with water to put our crawfish in. Sometimes we would have a dozen or more. It would have been great fun to wade in the creek, but for one thing: there were sand-leeches in the water, and they would get between our toes, and bite so firmly into the flesh, that we could hardly get them off. A great event in the day was lunch, which we ate in picnic style on the ground near the spring. We were always so hungry, that the simplest food seemed delicious. I don't think we were ever very fond of bread and butter anywhere else. By night we were very tired, and generally went sound asleep on the way home. A. THE DRAWING-MASTER. OUR Peter has opened a school for teaching drawing. At present he has only two pupils; but he hopes to have more. They pay him two pins a lesson; not a high price. I fear that Peter will not get rich very soon at that rate. [Illustration] But he is no miser. He loves to do good, and to teach to others all the good he knows. So he says to Tom and Harry, "This that I am drawing now is what we call a horizontal line; and this is a curved line. Do you know what a circle is, Tommy?" "A circle is something round, isn't it?" replies Tommy. "A circle," says Peter, drawing one on paper,--"a circle is a plane figure, bounded by a single curved line called its circumference, every part of which is equally distant from a point within it called the centre." "How can I remember all that stuff?" said Harry. "Stuff! Do you call it _stuff_, sir?" said Peter, snapping him twice on his closely-shorn head: "I will teach you not to call my definitions _stuff_." "What's a definition?" asked Tommy. "A definition," said Peter, "is what I say to you when I tell you what a thing means. If I ask you what _green_ is, and I tell you it's the color of fresh summer grass, I give you a definition." "School is out!" cried Harry. "Peter uses too many big words for us. Hallo! there's Bob, the butcher's dog. I'm going to have a frolic with him. Good-by, drawing-master!" And so the school was broken up. "Never did I see boys behave so in school-time," said the teacher. I hope his pupils will be more attentive the next time he tries to teach them how to draw. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] [Illustration] LITTLE MOSQUITO. LITTLE Mosquito she sits on a sill,-- Whee, whee, whee! And longs for the time when the people are still, That she, in the darkness, may stab them at will,-- Whee, whee, whee! She whets up her dagger, and looks at the moon,-- Whee, whee, whee! She says to herself, "I'll begin pretty soon To look for my victims, and sing them a tune,"-- Whee, whee, whee! With a hum and a flutter, the way to prepare,-- Whee, whee, whee! She rises and circles about in the air; Then settles herself with a great deal of care,-- Whee, whee, whee! But one,--more awake than he seeks to appear,-- Whee, whee, whee! Slaps little Mosquito, alight on his ear, And thus puts an end to her hopeful career,-- Whee, whee, whee! FLETA F. [Illustration] LEARNING TO IRON. "NOW I've had my lesson in my 'Nursery Primer,'" said little five-year-old Ellen, "and I want to learn to iron clothes." "You are rather too young to be trusted with a flat-iron," said her mother: "you might burn your fingers." "I'll promise not to cry if I do," said Ellen. "Please let me go out and help Patience iron, mamma." Mamma at last gave her consent; and our picture of Ellen and Patience at work at the ironing-board gives about as good likenesses of the two as their reflections in a mirror could have given. Ellen saw how Patience used her flat-iron, and then used hers in the same way. She ironed a towel so well, that Patience praised her, and said she could not have done it better herself. But, as she was trying to put a flat-iron on the stove, Ellen burnt her fingers so as to make her hop. She did not cry; for she remembered her promise. Patience wet a cloth with cold water, and put it on the burn; then she remembered that common brown soap was the best thing for a burn, so she spread some soap on a cotton rag and put that on. Soon the pain was gone, and Ellen ran and told her mother what had happened. "You should not have tried to put the flat-iron on the stove," said her mother. "If your clothes had caught fire, you might have had a bad time." "Would my dress have blazed up?" asked Ellen. "I take care to dip your clothes in a weak solution of nitre before they are worn; for that prevents their blazing, even if they should catch fire," said mamma. "But you must not let that keep you from taking great care." "Next Tuesday may I take another lesson in ironing?" asked Ellen. "Yes: if you say your lessons well during the week, you shall not only learn to iron your clothes, but to wash them." "That will be fun!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands, and quite forgetting her burnt finger. DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] BIRDIE AND BABY. BIRDIE is a canary-bird of pale gold color. Tiny as he is, he is quite old compared with baby. He was the sole pet of the house long before baby came into the world, and he did as much as any bird could to fill a baby's place. All the bright hours of the day, the door of his cage stood open. He would fly to Aunt Minnie's shoulder while she sat sewing, and sing his sweetest notes for her, or perch on her finger and take the bit of fresh lettuce she brought for him from the table. But after baby came--can you believe it?--this dear little birdie behaved just like a spoiled child. He rolled himself up into a soft yellow ball, and actually moped. Not a note would he sing. Aunt Minnie could not coax him with green leaf or seed. He would insist on making himself unhappy until baby was taken out for an airing. Then he would burst into song again, and seem to feel that he was in his old place,--the only treasure. It was a long time before the poor little bird found out that Aunt Minnie's heart was large enough to love him and her precious baby too. But he is learning it now, and likes to have baby held up to his cage. When Aunt Minnie lets him out into the room, he hops close by the baby; and baby laughs, and stretches out his dimpled hands to catch him; but he is wise enough to keep out of baby's way. Don't you think it is nice for Aunt Minnie to have such treasures? E. P. B. A NAUGHTY BABY. HE'S a very naughty baby, For he will not shut his eyes And go to sleep, though I have done My best to hush his cries. I've trotted him, I've patted him, I've given him some food; But nothing that I do for him Will do him any good. I've sung a little lullaby, The one that mother sings; One that to weary little ones, Sweet slumber, always brings. I've scolded him, I've shaken him, All sorts of things I've tried; But the naughty, noisy baby-man Will not be pacified. He screams so loud he frightens me; He's getting worse and worse. I do wish mother would come home, Or get this boy a nurse. I'll toss him up, I'll tumble him, Play "creep-mouse," and "bo-peep," Perhaps if I can make him laugh, The laugh will make him sleep. You naughty, naughty baby, How could you vex me so? One would not think you ever cried, To hear you laugh and crow! Hush, hush! He's getting tired out: Now very still I'll keep; There's nothing like a hearty romp, To put a child to sleep! JOSEPHINE POLLARD. BOYS AND RABBITS. HERE are two little boys and two little rabbits, all down on the ground. The two boys are just the same age. They are twin brothers. Their names are Paul and John. The girl who stands near them is their sister Jane. She is quite a little girl, as you see; but she is full three years older than the boys: so she takes great care of them. You would laugh to see Paul and John try to lift their rabbits by the ears. The rabbits look most as large as the boys. But the boys are growing larger and stronger every day. [Illustration] A. B. C. TOBACCO AND EGG. OUR house had a long back piazza, covered all over with grape-vines, with steps going down to the yard. [Illustration] I discovered that by standing on my tip-toes, half way up the steps, I could see into the next yard, where there grew such different flowers from ours, and where there often came a little girl of six or seven--about my own age--to gather bouquets. She did not see me at first: so, for many days, I quietly watched the stout little figure. During one of my observations, her mother called her, and such a name as she had! The call, as I heard it, was "Tobacco, my daughter!" I felt deeply for the girl who was afflicted by such a name. I determined to throw her the finest bunch of grapes on our vine by way of consolation. Some days after, when I was giving my large family of dolls an airing in the garden, I saw a small face staring at me just over the top of the fence. Being familiar with the position myself, I was not alarmed, but hastened to mount to the same level on my side, and offer some grapes. After a long stare on the part of both of us, I timidly broke the silence by asking, "What is your name?" "Rebecca," was the reply. "Why," I said, "I was pitying you all this time, thinking you were called Tobacco." "Oh, no!" she cried, "it is not so bad as that. You have a funny name, though. I have often wondered how you came to have such a name. Perhaps you were born on Easter-Monday, or were very fond of eggs." "What can you mean?" I replied. "I don't see any thing funny about my name: I am told it is pretty." "Well, I should not call it pretty exactly," she giggled: "it always makes me feel hungry." "Hungry?" I was trying to be friendly; but I did feel slightly offended at this. At last, just as tears of vexation were rising to my eyes, I thought of asking, "What do you think my name is?" "Why, Egg, of course." "Oh the idea of such a thing!" We both laughed till we nearly fell off our perches. As soon as I was sober enough, I made haste to explain that my name was Agnes, but that my brothers and sisters called me "Ag." It must have been "Ag" that she heard, and thought it was Egg. AGNES. [Illustration: ANCIENT ARMOR.] [Illustration] THE APPLE TREE. Words by CLARA D. BATES. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. Up in the apple tree, See the rosy cheeks: See the balls that look like gold: See the crimson streaks. In the lovely autumn day, Bright as in the bloom of May, Filled with fruit and fair to see, Is the apple tree. 2. Under the apple tree, See the rosy cheeks: Little Jinx the baby boy; What is it he seeks? Ah! his tiny teeth are white, And are eager for a bite,-- Such a tempting store to see, Is the apple tree. 3. Under the apple tree, Other rosy cheeks: Edith, Mabel, Golden-Locks: Full of merry freaks, Here they run and there they run, Shouting merrily if one Fallen in the group they see, From the apple tree. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number. Page 150, single quotation mark changed to double (them a tune,") Page 159, double quotation mark added to text (fond of eggs.") 
28140	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXII.--No. 6. BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET, 1877. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON. [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Starlings and the Sparrows 164 Katie and Waif 166 Amy and Robert in China 169 About two old Horses 171 Baby's Exploit 173 Drawing-Lesson 177 Birdie's Pig Story 180 Our Friend the Robin 181 Frank's high Horse 183 Sagacity of a Horse 185 Phantom 186 IN VERSE. PAGE Steering for Home 129 Three naughty Pigs 133 The Butterfly and the Grasshopper 139 Little Mosquito 150 A naughty Baby 154 The Apple Tree (_with music_) 160 The last Guest 161 For Ethel 172 The Fox and the Crow 176 The Swallows and the Robins 178 Christmas (_with music_) 188 [Illustration: Birds] [Illustration: VOL. XXII.--NO. 6.] THE LAST GUEST. THE MORNING AFTER THE PARTY. MARY (_angrily_). [Illustration: O] Tommy, you deceiver! You've turned a regular thiever: I've let the light in on your deeds, You needn't sneak away. You thought it mighty pleasant To devour that dainty pheasant; Which cook and I for breakfast meant To have this very day. TOM (_calmly_). Miss Mary, I assure you You're entirely mistaken: I was finishing my supper-- Don't call me thief or brute, But please be so obliging As to broil a slice of bacon As my reward for self-control: I haven't touched the fruit. MARY (_sneeringly_). For that there is good reason, You thing of craft and treason; You did not touch the grapes, because The grapes you do not like. You get no slice of bacon From me, since you have taken The bird I'd set my heart upon. Away, or I will strike! TOM (_derisively_). Be patient, Mistress Mary, Of broomsticks I am wary: The door is open, and I see What you would now be at. MARY (_angrily_). Away! obey my order, You sneaking, base marauder! I'll teach you to steal birds again! Be off! Take that, and--Scat! [_Exit Tommy at double-quick time, followed by Mary, who strikes with the broom, but does not hit._] ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE STARLINGS AND THE SPARROWS. "LOOK here, my dear," said a starling to her mate: "in our pretty summer-villa a pair of saucy sparrows have taken up their abode. What shall we do?" "What shall we do?" cried Mr. Starling, who was calmly standing on a fence; "why, rout them out, of course; give them notice to quit." "That we will do," replied Mrs. Starling. "Here, you beggars, you: out of that house! You've no business there. Be off!" "What's all that?" piped Mrs. Sparrow, looking out of her little round doorway. "Go away, you impudent tramp! Don't come near our house." "It is not your house!" said Mr. Starling, springing nimbly to a bough, and confronting Mrs. Sparrow. "It _is_ ours!" cried Mr. Sparrow, looking down from the roof of the house. "I have the title-deeds. Stand up for your rights, my love!" "Yes, stand up for your rights. I'll back you," said Mrs. Sparrow's brother-in-law, taking position on a branch just at the foot of the house. "We'll see about that, you thieves!" cried Mrs. Starling, in a rage, making a dash at Mrs. Sparrow's brother-in-law. But two of Mrs. Sparrow's cousins came to the rescue just then, and attacked Mrs. Starling in the rear. Thereupon Mr. Starling flew at Mrs. Sparrow. Mr. Sparrow, without more delay, went at Mr. Starling. Mrs. Sparrow's brother-in-law paid his respects to Mrs. Starling. There was a lively fight. It ended in the defeat of the sparrows. The starlings were too big for them. The sparrows retreated in good order, and left the starlings to enjoy their triumph. [Illustration] "Now, my dear," said Mr. Starling, "go in, and put the house in order. I'll warrant those vulgar sparrows have made a nice mess in there. Sweep the floors, dust the furniture, and get the beds made. I'll stay here in the garden, and rest myself." "Just like that husband of mine!" muttered Mrs. Starling: "I must do all the work, while he has all the fun. But I suppose there's no help for it." So she flew up to the door of the house; but, to her surprise, she could not get through it: the opening was not large enough. "Well, Mr. Starling," said she, "I do believe we have made a mistake. This is not our house, after all." "Why did you say it was, then?" said Mr. Starling, in a huff. "Here I have got a black eye, and a lame claw, and a sprained wing, and have lost two feathers out of my tail, all through your blunder. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Starling!" "I own that I was hasty," said poor Mrs. Starling; "but I meant well." "Yes, you thought the sparrows were thieves, and so did I. But it turns out, that we are no better than burglars ourselves; and, what's more, we shall have a whole army of sparrows back upon us before long. We had better take ourselves off." And off they flew. DORA BURNSIDE. KATIE AND WAIF. I AM Katie Sinclair, and Waif is my dog. Now, as everybody who knows him says he is the nicest dog in the world, I will tell my "Nursery" friends why people think so. First I must tell you how I got him, and how he came to have such an odd name. One cold, rainy day, about three years ago, I heard a strange noise under the window, and ran to the door to see what it was. There stood a homely little puppy, dripping wet, shivering from the cold, and crying, oh, so mournfully! I took him in, and held him before the fire till he was dry and warm. Then I got him some nice fresh milk, which he drank eagerly; and he looked up in my face in such a thankful way, that he quite won my heart. "Poor little dog!" said I. "He hasn't had a very nice time in this world so far; but I will ask mamma to let him stay and be my dog." Mamma consented; and, if that dog has not enjoyed himself since then, it is not my fault. I was bothered not a little to find a name for him. I wanted one, you see, that would remind me always of the way he came to me,--not a common name, such as other little dogs have. No; I did not want a "Carlo," or a "Rover," or a "Watch." After trying in vain to think of a name fit for him, I asked mamma to help me. [Illustration] She said, "Call him Waif." I was such a little goose then (that was over three years ago, you know), that I had to ask her what "Waif" meant. "A waif," said she, "is something found, of which nobody knows the owner. On that account 'Waif' would be a good name for your puppy." So I gave him that name, and he soon got to know and answer to it. Waif grew fast, and we taught him ever so many tricks. He has learned to be very useful too, as I shall show you. On a shelf in the kitchen stands a small basket, with his name, in red letters, printed upon it. To this basket he goes every morning, and barks. When Ellen the cook hears him, she takes the basket down, and places the handle in his mouth. Then he goes to mamma, and waits patiently till she is ready, when he goes down town with her, and brings back the meat for dinner. When papa gets through dinner, he always pushes back his chair, and says, "Now, Waif:" and Waif knows what that means; for he jumps up from where he has been lying,--and, oh! such fun as we have with him then! He walks on his hind-feet, speaks for meat, and catches crumbs. Last summer I went out to Lafayette to visit grandma. Mamma says, that, while I was away, Waif would go to my room, and sniff at the bed-clothes, and go away whining and crying bitterly. When I came back, he was nearly beside himself with delight. We never found out where he came from that rainy day. But I don't love him a bit the less because he was a poor, friendless puppy; and when I look into his good, honest brown eyes, and think what a true friend he is, I put my arms around his neck, and whisper in his ear, that I would not change him for the handsomest dog in the country. S. E. R. [Illustration] AMY AND ROBERT IN CHINA. AMY and Robert, with their papa and mamma, live in China, in a place called Foochow. They came here last January, when Amy was just three years old, and Robert a little over one year. They came all the way from Boston by water. They have a good grandma at home, who sends Amy "The Nursery" every month, and she is never tired of hearing the nice stories. Out here, the children see many things that you little folks in America know nothing about. When they go to ride, they do not go in a carriage drawn by horses, but in a chair resting on two long poles, carried by some Chinamen called _coolies_. When it is pleasant, and the sun is not too hot, the chair is open; but, if it rains, there is a close cover to fit over it. It is so warm here, that flowers blossom in the garden all winter; and Amy is very fond of picking them, and putting them into vases. When it is too warm to go into the garden, she has a pot of earth on the shady piazza, and the cooly picks her flowers, to plant in it. Foochow is on a large river; and the children like much to go out in the sail-boats, called "house-boats." These boats are fitted up just like a house, with a dining-room, sleeping-room, bath-room, and pantry. The night before Fourth of July, Amy and Robert started with their papa, mamma, and Amah (their colored nurse), and went to Sharp Peak, on the seashore, twenty-five miles from here. They found the boat very nice to sleep in, but were glad enough to get into their own beds the next night. I am afraid you would not know what these little children say, if you should hear them talk; for they pick up words from their Amah, and do not speak like little American girls and boys. By and by I shall have more to tell you about them. AMY'S MAMMA. ABOUT TWO OLD HORSES. IN my great-great-grandfather's barn-yard stood an old-fashioned well, with a long sweep or pole, by which the bucket was pulled up. This well was used entirely for the horses and cattle. Grandfather had a horse named Pete, who would walk out of his stall every morning, go to the well, take the pole, by which the bucket was attached to the well-sweep, between his teeth, and thus pull up the bucket until it rested on the shelf made for it. Then old Pete would drink the water which he had taken so much pains to get. But one of my uncles had a horse even more knowing than old Pete. This horse was named Whitey. Every Sunday morning, when the church-bell rang, Uncle George would lead Whitey out of his stall, harness him, drive him to church, and tie him in a certain shed, where he would stand quietly till church was done. After a while, Whitey grew so used to this weekly performance, that, when the bells rang, he would walk out of his stall, and wait to be harnessed. One Sunday morning, Old Whitey, on hearing the bells, walked out of his stall as usual, and patiently waited for Uncle George. But it happened that uncle was sick that morning, and none of the family felt like going to church. I do not really know what Whitey's thoughts were; but I have no doubt that they were something like this: "Well, well! I guess my master is not going to church this morning; but that is no reason why I should not go. I must go now, or I shall be late." Whitey had waited so long, that he was rather late; but he jogged steadily along to his post in the shed, and there took his stand, as usual. As soon as old Mr. Lane, who sat in one of the back-pews and always came out of church before anybody else, appeared at the door, Whitey started for home. At the door of the house he was greeted by several members of the family, who had just discovered his absence, and who learned the next day, from Mr. Lane, that old Whitey had merely been attending strictly to his church-duties. K. H. S. FOR ETHEL. "GOOD-BY! little Ethel, good-by!" says the Light; For what does my sleepy one need but the night?-- The soft quiet night, like a great downy wing, To shelter the wee ones, too tired to sing. Good-by till the dawning: Some bright star will keep Its watch o'er your pillow When you are asleep! "Good-by, little Ethel," so many things say,-- The wind, that has played in the grasses all day, The pretty red squirrels you never can catch, And the kitten, that tries all your playthings to snatch. When bird, bee, and blossom Their bright eyes must close, Is Ethel awake? Go to sleep like a rose. CHARLOTTE M. PACKARD. [Illustration] BABY'S EXPLOIT. IN the first place baby had her bath. Such a time! Mamma talked as fast and as funny as could be; and the baby crowed and kicked as if she understood every word. Presently came the clean clothes,--a nice, dainty pile, fresh from yesterday's ironing. Baby Lila was seven months old that very May morning; but not a sign had she given yet of trying to creep: so the long white dresses still went on, though mamma said every day, "I must make some short dresses for this child. She's too old to wear these dragging things any longer." When baby had been dressed and kissed, she was set down in the middle of the clean kitchen-floor, on her own rug, hedged in by soft white pillows. There she sat, serene and happy, surveying her playthings with quizzical eyes; while her mamma gathered up bath-tub, towel, and cast-off clothes, and went up stairs to put them away. Left to herself, Lila first made a careful review of her treasures. The feather duster was certainly present. So was the old rattle. Was the door-knob there? and the string of spools? Yes; and so was the little red pincushion, dear to baby's color-loving eyes. [Illustration] She was slowly poking over the things in her lap, when mamma came back, bringing a pot of yeast to set by the open fire-place, where a small fire burned leisurely on this cool May morning. She put a little tin plate on the top of the pot, kissed the precious baby, and then went out again. Baby Lila was used to being left alone, though seldom out of mamma's hearing. At such times she would sit among the pillows, tossing her trinkets all about, and crowing at her own performances. Sometimes she would drop over against a pillow, and go to sleep. But this morning Lila had no intention of going to sleep. She flourished the duster, and laughed at the pincushion; then gazed meditatively at the bright window, and reflected gravely on the broad belt of sunshine lying across the floor. That speculation over, she fell to hugging the cherished duster, rocking back and forth as if it were another baby. A smart little snap of the fire,--a "How-do-you-do?" from the fire-place,--made the baby twist her little body to look at it. She watched the small flames dancing in and out, as long as her neck could bear the twist. As she turned back again, her eyes fell on the pot of yeast. Oh! wasn't that her own tin plate shining in the sunlight? Didn't she make music on it with a spoon every meal-time? and hadn't her little gums felt of every A, B, C, around its edge? Didn't she want it now? And wouldn't she have it too? How she ever did it, nobody knows. How she ever got over the pillows, and made her way across to the fire-place in her long, hindering skirts, nobody can tell. [Illustration] Mamma was busy in another room, when she heard the little plate clatter on the kitchen-floor. Not a thought of the real mischief-maker entered her head. She only said to herself,-- "I didn't know the cat was in there. Well, she'll find out her mistake. I'm not going in till I get this pie done, any way. The baby's all right, and that's enough." As soon as mamma's hands were at liberty, she thought she would just look in and see what kept the darling so quiet. "All right," indeed! What a spectacle she beheld! On the bricks before the fire, her pretty white skirts much too near the ashes, sat Baby Lila, having a glorious time. She had found her dear little plate empty; but the brown pitcher was full enough. She had dropped the plate, dipped the feather-duster into the yeast, and proceeded to spread it about, on her clean clothes, on the bricks, on the floor, everywhere. So, when mamma opened the door, she saw this wee daughter besmeared from head to foot, the yeast dripping over her head and face as she held the duster aloft in both hands. Just then papa came in by another door. "O John! do you see this child! What if she had put the duster into the fire instead of the yeast!" Mamma shuddered as she took little Lila into her lap for another bath and change of clothes. Papa standing by said,-- "You don't seem to mind having all that to do again." "Indeed I don't. To think how near she was to that fire! I can never be thankful enough that she dusted the yeast instead of the coals. But how do you suppose she ever got over there?" S. D. L. H. THE FOX AND THE CROW. A CROW, one day, stole a nice bit of cheese, And flew up in a tree to eat it at her ease. A sly young Fox, who was passing below, Saw her as she flew, and he said, "Oh, ho! Madam Crow." "What a fine bird you are, with your feathers so gay! As brilliant as the rainbow, and fairer than the day. If your voice is as sweet as your form would show, Then sing me a song: pray don't say 'No,' Madam Crow." The crow began her song, when down fell the cheese: The fox sprang and caught it as quickly as you please; And as he trotted off, he said, "Oh, ho! That is just what I wanted. I'll go, Madam Crow." ANNIE MOORE. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.] [Illustration] THE SWALLOWS AND THE ROBIN. THE woods were showing autumn tints Of crimson and of gold; The sunny days were growing short, The evenings long and cold: So the swallows held a parliament, And voted it was time To bid farewell to northern skies, And seek a warmer clime. Southward with glad and rapid flight They flew for many a mile, Till in a quiet woodland glen They stopped to rest a while: A streamlet rippled in the dell; And on a hawthorn-tree A robin-redbreast sat alone, And carolled merrily. The wandering swallows listened, And eagerly said they, "O pretty bird! your notes are sweet: Come, fly with us away. We're following the sunshine, For it is bright and warm: We're leaving winter far behind With all its cold and storm. "The iron ground will yield no food, The berries will be few; Half-starved with hunger and with cold, Poor bird, what will you do?" "Nay, nay," said he, "when frost is hard, And all the leaves are dead, I know that kindly little hands Will give me crumbs of bread." C. [Illustration: THE ENGLISH ROBIN.] BIRDIE'S PIG STORY. I TOLD my story first, as mammas usually do; and it was all about a naughty little pig, who did not mind his mother when she bade him stay in the sty, but crawled through a hole in the wall. Of course this pig got into the garden, and was whipped by the farmer, and bitten by the dog, and had all sorts of unpleasant things happen to him, till he was glad to get back again to the sty. "Now I'll tell you a pig story," said Birdie, with a very wise look. "Once there was a big mother-pig, and she had _lots_ of children-pigs. One was spotted, and his name was Spotty; one's tail curled, and he was Curly; another was white, and he was Whitey; another was Browny; and another was Greeny." "Oh, dear! the idea of a _green_ pig!" said I. But Birdie's eyes were fixed on the floor. He was too busy thinking of his story to notice my remark. He went on,-- "One day the pigs found a hole in the wall, and they crawled through,--all of 'em, the mother-pig and all; and, when they got out, they ran off, grunting with--with joy. And when the farmer saw them, he went after them on a horse; but he couldn't catch them, for they all ran down under a bridge where there had been a brook; but the water was all dried up. "Then the farmer got a long pole, and poked under the bridge; but he couldn't reach them. He put some potatoes down there too, but the pigs weren't going to be coaxed out. And when they had staid as long as they wanted to, they came out themselves, and got home before the farmer did." That was the story, and I forgot to ask how they got home before the farmer did unless he drove them; but I think they must have gone home across the field, because it is plain that Birdie's pigs did just as they liked all through. What I did ask was, "Well, what was the good of it all?" for I thought nobody ought to tell a story without meaning some good by it. "_Why, they got some fresh air!_" cried Birdie, triumphantly; and considering that most farmers keep their pig-sties in a filthy condition, which can't be healthy for the pigs, nor for those who eat them, I thought Birdie's story had a very good moral, which is only another way of saying that it had a good lesson in it. BIRDIE'S MAMMA. [Illustration] OUR FRIEND THE ROBIN. ONE very hard winter, a robin came, day after day, to our window-sill. He was fed with crumbs, and soon became tame enough not to fly away when we opened the window. One cold day we found the little thing hopping about the kitchen. He had flown in at the window, and did not attempt to fly out again when we came near. We did not like to drive him out in the bitter cold: so we put him in a cage, in which he soon made himself quite at home. Sometimes we would let him out in the room, and he would perch on our finger, and eat from our hand without the least sign of fear. When the spring came on, we opened the cage-door and let him go. At first he was not at all inclined to leave us; but after a while he flew off, and we thought we should never see him again. All through the summer and autumn, the cage stood on a table in a corner of the kitchen. We often thought of the little robin, and were rather sorry that the cage was empty. When the winter set in, we fancied we saw our old friend again hopping about outside the window. We were by no means sure that it was the same robin; but, just to see what he would do, we opened the window, and set the cage in its old place. Then we all left the room for a few minutes. When we returned, we found, to our great delight, that the bird was in the cage. He seemed to know us as we petted him and chirruped to him; and we felt certain that it was our dear old friend. T. C. CHISWICK, LONDON. [Illustration] [Illustration] FRANK'S HIGH HORSE. FRANK wanted a high horse: so he took the sewing-chair, put the hassock on it, put the sofa-pillow on that, and mounted. How he got seated up there so nicely I don't know; but I know just how he got down. The horse did not mind the bridle, but he would not stand the whip. He reared, lost his balance, and fell over. Down came Frank with sofa-pillow, hassock, and all. By good luck, he was not hurt; but he will not try to ride that horse again. A. B. C. [Illustration] [Illustration] SAGACITY OF A HORSE. A YOUNG gentleman bought a hunting-mare from a farmer at Malton in England, and took her with him to Whitby, a distance of nearly sixty miles. One Wednesday morning the mare was missing from the field where her owner had placed her. A search was made for her, but with no success. The next day the search was renewed. The owner and his groom went some ten miles, and were told that the mare had crossed the railway the morning before. At this point the trail was easy. The mare had taken the high road to her old home at Malton. Six men had tried, but in vain, to stop her. At a place called Pickering, she jumped a load of wood and the railway gates, and then, finding herself in her old hunting country, made a bee-line for home. In doing this, she had to swim two rivers, and cross a railway. She was found at her old home, rather lame, and with one shoe off, but otherwise no worse for her gallop of nearly sixty miles across the country,--all done in one day; for her old owner found her on Wednesday night, standing at the gate of the field where she had grazed for two previous years. Was she not a pretty clever horse? UNCLE CHARLES. PHANTOM. WE have a little white dog whose name is Phantom. This is his portrait. I hope you are glad to meet him. Ask him to shake hands. He would do so at once if you could only see him in reality. When he was only a few months old, he followed us all to church without our knowing it; nor did we see him, till, in the most solemn part of the service, we heard a patter, patter, patter, coming up the aisle, and there stood Phantom at the door of our pew. In his mouth was a long-handled feather duster, which he had found in some obscure corner of the building, and where it had been put (as it was supposed) carefully out of everybody's way. Phantom is very intelligent, and has learned a number of tricks. He can understand what is said to him better than any dog I ever knew; but he is best known among the children here for his love of music and singing. He has only learned one song yet; but he knows that as soon as he hears it. Wherever he may be,--up stairs, or down stairs, or out of doors,--if he hears that song, he will sit up, throw his head back, and you will hear his voice taking part in the music. [Illustration] You may sing a dozen songs, all in about the same tone; but he will take no notice till he hears the tune he has learned, and then he will sing with you--not in a bark or a yelp, but in a pure, clear voice, as if he enjoyed it. If you could see him sitting up, with his nose in the air, his mouth open, and his fore-paws moving as if playing the piano, and could hear his music, I am sure you would laugh till the tears came into your eyes. UNCLE TIFFY. CARONDELET, MO. [Illustration] CHRISTMAS. Words by ALFRED SELWYN.[A] Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] Treble clef lyrics: Bass clef lyrics: Hark! the bells are sounding, Welcome to our pleasures Christmas draweth nigh; And our Christmas cheer! Now let joy abounding, We'll not stint the measures, Bid all sorrow fly. Would you all were here! Ye who pine in sorrow, Boys and girls together-- Come be cheer'd to-day; From all parts and climes, Of our gladness borrow, To enjoy this weather, As you freely may. And these Christmas times! FOOTNOTE: [A] Nursery, 1876. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number. The notes about treble and bass clef lyrics were added to indicate what the original music score represented. Page 176, period added to end of paragraph (in both hands.) 
28141	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIII.--No. 2. Contents. IN PROSE. PAGE Ebony and Lucy 34 Daisy 37 My First Attempt at Fishing 40 New Method of Catching Mice 43 Jamie Canfield's Sand-Heap 45 Dick's Dream 47 Drawing Lesson 49 Romeo the Shirk 51 Tied Not Mated 54 My Kitten 55 A Lesson in Flying 58 How Little Edith Went to Sleep 62 IN VERSE PAGE The Terrible Trio 35 Shy Little Pansy 41 A Song for Baby 44 Three Little Chicks 50 Mother's Last Look 53 "Lullaby!" 60 Blow, Blow, East Wind (_with music_) 64 [Illustration: VOL. XXIII.--No. 2.] EBONY AND LUCY. [Illustration: E]BONY is the name of Lucy's black dog. I will leave you to guess why he is so called. On a bright, cold winter day, when no wind was stirring, and the ice of the pond was smooth as glass, Lucy went out, followed by Ebony. Such joyful barking as there was! Her father knew that the good dog would pull her out of the water, if the ice should break through. But the day was so cold, there was little danger from thin ice. A bright idea occurred to Lucy when she had put on her skates. She had scarfs and handkerchiefs with her, and, tying three or four of these together, she made a noose, which she threw over Ebony's head. Thus she held him, so that he could pull her on her skates over the ice. "Now, Ebony, let us see how fast you can go," said Lucy. Ebony started at a full gallop; and she began to sing,-- "We issue no tickets, we close no gate, We blow no whistle, and nobody's late; Our train is off as soon as we're in it; We go at the rate of ten miles a minute, (And that is six hundred miles an hour!)-- For ours is an engine of one-dog power; But that dog's Ebony, bold and fleet, A dog, you'll find, that is hard to beat: So look out, stragglers and tramps! I guess You'd better not trifle with our express!" Hardly had Lucy finished her song, when Ebony, who had been going at great speed for some distance, slipped on his haunches, where the ice was very smooth, and, sliding along, fell over on his side. Lucy fell too, but she was not hurt. "You good Ebony," said she. "You have done well. But it is too bad to make you play the part of a locomotive engine. And so, old fellow, I will take off your harness, and let you go free." Then Lucy took the scarf from the dog's neck, and darted off alone on her skates to a part of the pond where her brother Felix had just had a tumble on the ice. But Ebony would not forsake her. He kept close at her heels; for he knew there was water underneath the ice, and he meant to be near at hand, should any accident happen. I am glad to say, that, after a good frolic on the ice, they reached home safely in time for dinner. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] THE TERRIBLE TRIO. THESE are the robbers,--the terrible three! In showing no mercy they all agree; They fill the woods with their war-whoops dire: Policemen and soldiers, beware, retire! Rinaldo's the name of the captain: you learn His rank from his cap, and his frown so stern. The next is Grimaldi, a desperate fellow! His eyes they are blue, and his hair it is yellow. The youngest but dreadfulest of them all Has a terrible name that I cannot recall: 'Tis hard to pronounce; and it's well, perhaps, That memory here has suffered a lapse. Oh! doesn't it make you all shudder to look At their likenesses even, all here in a book?-- Rinaldo the fierce, and Grimaldi the grim, And that young, nameless bandit, so bold and so trim. But if you should meet with this terrible band, Now don't run away, but come quick to a stand: Be humble and quiet, and don't act amiss, And all that they'll rob you of, will be--a kiss! IDA FAY. [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY. A FRIEND of mine, Mr. S., had a beautiful colt named Daisy, who was the pet of all the family. She was so tame she would put her head in at the open windows to see what was going on in the house; and very often, when she saw the front-door open, she would go up the steps of the piazza, and deliberately march into the hall. No one ever struck Daisy with a whip, or even a switch. A little slap of the hand, and a "Go out, Daisy," were all that were necessary. Mrs. S. had a new cook; and one day she set a pan of custard on the back-porch to cool. When she went out to get it, an hour or two after, she found nothing but the empty pan. Molly ran to Mrs. S. in great distress, and told her of the loss of the custard. "Ah!" said Mrs. S., "then Daisy has eaten it." And, sure enough, Daisy was the thief. Another time the naughty colt put her head in the kitchen-window, and ate up some apple-pies that were on the table. All this was very bad indeed, but Daisy was always forgiven because she was so lovely and gentle. She would follow any of the family about the grounds, and rub her head against them to show how much she loved them. One day a man came to Mr. S.'s house to make a visit. He was not in the habit of visiting the family, and so had not made Daisy's acquaintance. After tea, Mr. S. and his visitor were standing on the piazza, when Daisy came trotting up, as she always did when she saw one of the family there, and opened her mouth, expecting Mr. S. to put a piece of bread or apple in. The stranger did not understand this little trick, and (coarse man that he was!) spat a quantity of tobacco-juice into Daisy's face. Poor little Daisy! She hung her head down, and walked off under the trees, where she stood looking very miserable. The next morning Mr. S. asked his visitor to walk with him through his grounds; and, as they were walking along, they passed a place where Daisy, who still looked as if she felt insulted and injured, was quietly grazing. As soon as she saw her enemy (as she must have considered him), she pricked up her ears as if some happy idea had come into her head. She gave herself a little shake, and, walking behind him until she was quite near, suddenly wheeled around, and gave a kick that would have broken some of his bones, if he had not jumped out of the way just in time to escape her heels. As it was, he was very much frightened, and looked very mean; for he knew that a kick was just what he deserved for his vulgarity and insolence. Daisy had never been known to kick at anybody before, and she never kicked anybody afterwards. A. THE FAMOUS MOZART BAND. THE famous Mozart Band, as everybody ought to know, was formed in our village. It has serenaded almost every family on the street; and there is no end to the money (in the form of beans and smooth stones) that has been poured into the hat carried round by Miss Amy, the youngest member. [Illustration] The band is composed of five members, whose names are Charles, Edwin, Susan, Bella, and Amy. Charles was the founder of the band. While on a visit to his uncle in the city, he had seen a strolling band of men in the street, who played finely on trumpets and flutes. He resolved to form a band at home, and to call it the Mozart Band. But why call it the Mozart? Well, Mozart was a wonderful musical genius, who could compose music when he was five years old, and who astonished all Germany by his skill and aptness as a performer. So Charles decided on calling his band the Mozart Band. At great expense I have obtained a drawing of the members of the Mozart Band. Charles (first drum) is the leader; Edwin (second drum) is next in rank; Amy (trumpet) is the next, for she owns the trumpet, and so comes before the other two ladies, who are merely vocal performers, by which I mean singers. Now, if you want to hear the famous Mozart Band, you must come to our village. Performances take place every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and sometimes oftener. If you come, you must bring some money to put into Amy's hat; for the band cannot afford to play for nothing. They are getting to be so famous that I should not wonder if they were to have an invitation soon to come on to New York or Boston, and give a concert in one of the large halls. AUNT CECILIA. MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT FISHING. WHEN I was seven years old, my father took me down to the river to fish. I had a nice new line, and a little hook that I bought of a peddler the week before. My father cut me a pole from the woods near by; and I caught a grasshopper for bait. I tried to put the grasshopper on the hook, but I pricked my finger: so my father put it on for me. Then I threw in my line, and kept moving it up and down. Pretty soon I thought I felt a bite, and called out to my father, "O father, I've got a fish!" I pulled it up, and what do you think I had caught? You could not guess in a week. It was my sister's old rag baby. FRANK LYNN. [Illustration] SHY LITTLE PANSY. "WHY so shy, my Pansy, Tell me why so shy? Mother's arms are round thee; This is grandma by. She can tell you stories Of the time, my dear, When she was a little girl Just like Pansy here. "Once there was a dolly, And its name was Bess; Grandma then, like Pansy, Was--how old? Now guess! Just the age of Pansy! Well, one night, you see"-- "Grandma," said the little girl, "Take me on your knee." Pansy's shyness melted; Grandma won the day: Now hugged tight in grandma's arms Little Pansy lay; And she heard a story Of a doll so fine, Left out on the cold, cold ground, Where no sun could shine. And the snow fell slowly, Softly fell, like down, Till a heap of drifted flakes Covered dolly's gown. Yes, it hid and covered All the bright blue dress, Then her hair and rosy cheeks-- Poor forsaken Bess! Dolly's little mother Hunted for her child; But no trace of her was seen Till the air grew mild. When the snow was melted, There was dolly found, With her silken dress all soiled On the muddy ground. EMILY CARTER. NEW METHOD OF CATCHING MICE. PERHAPS some of your youthful readers will be glad to know how I catch mice. If you think so, you are at liberty to publish the following; for I do not intend to apply for a patent. One evening last week we made some molasses candy; and, as too much of it, eaten before going to bed, is not good for the teeth, I spread some on a baking-tin, and set it away to cool for the next day. It was not cooked enough to harden thoroughly; and a little mouse had the curiosity to taste it; but, the moment his feet touched it, they stuck fast, and he could not get away. His cries for help brought two other mice to his assistance; but they shared the same fate, the molasses candy holding all three prisoners. When I found them the next morning, all three were stuck fast. This shows what a useful thing molasses candy is to have in a house, and is a warning to all mice not to meddle with it. ARTHUR F. CORBIN. GOUVERNEUR, N.Y. A SONG FOR BABY. NUTS for all the baby-birds In the merry budding spring; Roses, where the dusty bees May sip and cling. Shade for all the pretty lambs That in the summer stray; Hedges, where the crickets chirp Their time away. Holes, where nimble squirrels hide When autumn hours are chill; Heaping barns, where horse and cow Have shelter still. Homes for rabbit, mouse, and mole, When winter strews the ground; But mother's arms for baby dear The whole year round! GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] [Illustration] JAMIE CANFIELD'S SAND-HEAP. JAMIE CANFIELD is a three-year-old boy who lives in Lawrence, Kansas, the prettiest town in the State. He and Freddy Bassett, a four-year-old neighbor, love to play in the dirt; and their mammas allow them to do it, because it is so healthy. It certainly has proved to be so in Jamie's case; for he was quite pale and delicate in the spring, and now he is brown and rugged, and ready to eat all the food he can get. But dear me! he used to get so dirty! What was the use of washing him, and putting on clean dresses and aprons, when he was constantly throwing aside his other playthings, and making mud pies, or carting earth in his little red wagon? His papa laughed and said, "Oh, never mind! Dirt is good for him." But mamma thought it was not very good for his clothes; and, besides, she wanted him to be clean enough to kiss without being washed every time he came into the house. So she said one day to his papa, "James, I think it would be a good idea to get a load of sand for Jamie to play in. It will at least be cleaner than that dust-heap." That very day up came a load of yellow, shining sand. It was heaped into a shady corner by mamma's bedroom-door, and Jamie and Freddy dived into it at once. They made pies; they dug holes, and filled them with water for wells; they made mountains with caves in their sides, and every thing else they could think of. When dinner-time came, Jamie had to be coaxed away from his sand-heap; and mamma said she believed he would sleep in it, if he were allowed to. After dinner, as soon as he waked from his nap, he went straight to his sand again. Freddy was there before him; and soon Minnie Rich, a little girl eleven years old, came out, and played with them. She knew how to work sand better than any of them. First she wet it. Then she made a house with holes in the sides for doors and windows, and a chip for a chimney. Then she made a smooth lawn in front of the house, and some hills and valleys in the rear, fenced in a yard, and set out some flowers. The boys were delighted; and mamma went to the door more than once to look at the plantation, as Jamie called it, before it was finished. It was really quite a pretty thing, and Jamie declared his intention of keeping it just as it was. But the hot sun dried the sand, so that the house crumbled away; and the two boys were soon digging and shovelling in their own way as before. JAMIE'S MAMMA. [Illustration] DICK'S DREAM. "YES, step right down upon me, and kill me, if you like," said Mrs. Tarantula to Dick, as they met at the schoolhouse door. "This is a hard world, Dick Adams, and I am about tired of living in it. "You don't know what a fine home I once had! It was in that clay mound; and, when I had dug me a hole fully a foot deep and an inch across, my jaws and my eight legs were quite tired out. I left some small stones on the side for stairs: I lined the hole with brown silk next to the dirt, and with white satin inside, both of which I spun and wove on the spot. "My nice round lid fitted so snug and even, that I thought no one but myself ever could find my house. But, last week, your brother Will's sharp eyes spied the round ring that marks my nest; and he went and tore the lid from its hinges, and left my hundred and ten children without a roof to cover their heads. _How I would like to bite that boy!_ "I found the lid, and tried to fasten it down again; but a heavy shower came up, and I could not fix it in the rain. Then my husband came over from his house. You know our husbands never live with the rest of the family. They are too cross and get too hungry at times. "We were not on very good terms; for, some time before, when he thought I was away from home, he tried to get into my house. I heard him, and, running up stairs, I put my claws in the two little holes in the lining of the lid, and braced myself so that he could not pry open the lid. He said he only wanted to pay me a visit; but I knew he was hungry, and wanted to eat up our children. "But now he spoke very kindly to me, and told me that my lid could not be fixed on; but, as my children were now old enough to care for themselves, I had better go home with him. I went to his house to talk it over and forgot to give the children their supper, and tell them to work for themselves after this. "My husband told me a few days after that my boys and girls got into a fight, and, before they quit, ate each other up; but he was away from home for two days, and looked very full when he came back. "He may have told the truth; but I can't see how one of my little ones could eat the other one hundred and nine, and then swallow himself too." This is what Dick Adams dreamed that a tarantula said to him. He had seen one on his way to school, and what the teacher told him about the insect had interested him so much that he found himself dreaming about it all night. C. M. DRAKE. SAN DIEGO, CAL. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON BY HARRISON WEIR. VOL. XXIII.--NO. 2.] THREE LITTLE CHICKS. THREE little chicks, so downy and neat, Went out in search of something to eat: Ter-wit, ter-weet! Something to eat! And soon they picked up a straw of wheat. [Illustration] Said one little chick, "That belongs to me!" Said the other little chick, "We'll see, we'll see!" "Ter-wit, ter-weet! It is nice and sweet," Said number three: "let us share the treat!" One little chick seized the straw in his bill, And was just preparing to eat his fill, When the other chick Stepped up so quick, He hadn't a chance for a picnic pick. They pulled, and they tugged, the downy things; And, oh, how they flapped their baby wings! "Ter-wit, ter-weet! Something to eat! Just please let go of this bit of wheat!" Fiercer and fiercer the battle grew, Until the straw broke right in two, And the little chicks Were in a fix, And sorry enough for their naughty tricks. For a saucy crow has watched the fight, And laughs, "Haw, haw! It serves you right!" So he snatches the prize From before their eyes, And over the hills, and away, he flies! JOSEPHINE POLLARD. ROMEO THE SHIRK. SIXTY years ago, when grandpa was a boy, he had a dog called Romeo, who was made to do the work of churning butter. I never saw a churn that went by dog-power; but it must have been a clumsy affair. The task could not have been an agreeable one, and I do not wonder that Romeo did not like it. One morning, when the churn was taken out, and the cream was all ready to be made into butter, there was no Romeo to be found. Long and loud were the calls made for him; but he did not answer to his name. The churning was done that day without his help. Nothing was seen of him until just before dark, when he came into the house with the air of a prodigal son. He did not walk up like an honest dog to get his supper, but slunk under a table. [Illustration] The family had agreed to neither chide him nor caress him; but grandfather, who was then a little boy, slyly carried him some supper. Romeo ate it greedily, but looked unhappy all the time as though he knew he had done wrong. It was plain that his conscience was smiting him. The next week, when churning-time came, Romeo did not try to get away. He stood by watching while the cream was made ready; and, when his master whistled for him to take his place at the churn, he came forward, wagging his tail, as much as to say, "I am not going to be a shirk. I was not half so happy the day I ran away as I should have been if I had done my work cheerfully. I will never be caught shirking again." And he never was. DAISY'S MAMMA. [Illustration] MOTHER'S LAST LOOK. THEY'RE asleep, So I'll keep Very still, and peep: Not too bright, Candle-light Is for them to night. Saturday Makes them gay, And they've had their play: Sled and shout Have, no doubt, Tired them fairly out. Once in bed, Prayers were said By each curly-head: But, before Half was o'er, They saw slumber-shore. Darlings! may Angels stay, Bless and for you pray! May their love, Like a dove, Watch you from above! EMILY CARTER. TIED, NOT MATED. ONE fine summer day, Master Fritz took his mother's greyhound, Leda, and his father's spaniel, Neptune, out for a run. They were quite ready for a frolic, for they had been tied up in the barn all the forenoon, and had been longing for Fritz to come. So off they went; and, after they had gone some distance, Fritz thought it would be fine fun, as he had in his pocket a piece of string, to tie the two dogs together, and play they were a span of horses. No sooner had he got them well tied than some one called him, and off he ran, leaving the two dogs tied, but not mated. They roamed about a while over the fields and meadows, till they came to the pond. Now, the dogs could not talk in our language; but they made certain noises, which meant, I think, just this: "Here's a chance for a fine swim!" cried Neptune. "Come, Leda, the water is nice and cool." "I'd rather not go in," said Leda. "I'm not a very good swimmer, and I easily take cold. Pray don't drag me in. Come back and have a race in the meadow." [Illustration] "Oh, it's too fine, too fine!" barked Neptune; and he began to lap up water with his tongue. Leda pulled back, and cried, "Oh, don't!" But the temptation was too great for Neptune. In he pulled poor Leda, and swam about with her till she was chilled through. Fritz's father, Mr. Pitman, passing that way, saw the dogs, and called them out. Glad enough was Leda to get on dry land. She shivered; but Neptune shook himself till he drenched her all over. Then Mr. Pitman untied the dogs, and, taking some dry grass, gave Leda a good rubbing till she felt warm and brisk. Then she began to bark at Neptune, and to caper round him, as much as to say, "Did you not serve me a pretty trick, sir? But I shall not let Master Fritz tie me to you again. Never, never!" ALFRED SELWYN. MY KITTEN. I WANT to tell you about my kitten, and some of her funny ways. She is black and white, and her name is Beauty. I have great sport making her run up and down the room after my ball. But a little piece of string is the best plaything for her. She will jump right up on my shoulder to catch it. If I throw a newspaper on the floor, she will jump upon it, and tear holes in it, making believe that she hears a mouse under it. This she seems to do to amuse me; for, as soon as I stop looking at her, she will go away and lie down. But she is growing fast, and soon will be a grave old cat. [Illustration] VIOLA DAY. [Illustration] A LESSON IN FLYING. BIRDS have their trials as well as little boys and girls. To be sure they don't have to stand in a line, and shout "Twice one are two" at the top of their voices; but they have to learn to fly, and I think it very likely that they take singing-lessons, although I am not sure as to that. One day last summer I was picking flowers in the woods, when, happening to look up, what should I see perched on a twig just in front of me but a cunning little bird! At first I kept very quiet, lest I should frighten him away; but, as he showed no sign of moving, I ventured nearer and nearer, until I even covered him with my hand. "Why, dear me! he's nothing but a baby-bird, and can't fly," I said to myself; and then I sat down on a mossy mound near by, and waited; for I knew the mother-bird was not far off, and I wanted to see what was going on. It was not long before I heard a gentle whirr in the leaves overhead, and, looking up, saw two birds circling around the twig, but at some distance above it. Then one of them, the mother, of course, drew nearer and nearer in smaller and smaller circles, at the same time calling to her baby in encouraging little chirps. Birdie on his perch seemed very much excited, turning his head from one side to the other in the cunningest way. But when his mother came close to him, only to dart off and call on him to follow, he looked so disappointed that I really felt as if I must comfort him. The mother came back very soon and resumed her lesson in flying, and very hard work she found it too, for the little fellow was timid and refused to follow her, in spite of all her coaxing and scolding. After working a long while, she flew off, leaving her baby trembling on his perch. I pitied the poor little fellow, he seemed so forlorn and helpless. The little bird, left to himself, got tired at last of staying where he was, and made one or two efforts to fly. He flapped his wings, rounded up his back until he looked like a ball of down, and leaned forward, as much as to say, "I'll do it now." But when he saw the awful distance between himself and the ground, his courage failed him, and he clung to his perch more tightly than ever. After a while the mother-bird came back, bringing a large bug which she used as a bribe for her timid birdling, holding it under his very bill, and then darting off in the hope that he would follow. The youngster chirped for the bug, but he would not fly for it; and, after many efforts, the old bird, unable to resist his pleading, perched on a twig just beneath him, and held up the bug, which you may be sure he was not slow to seize and eat. The little fellow now seemed to make up his mind to fly, even if he died in the attempt. He flapped his wings, rounded his back, and leaned forward as before, while the mother-bird flew about, fluttering and chirping to such an extent that the father came down from the top of a high tree to see how they were getting along. The little bird was just about to fly, and I was just ready to clap my hands in applause, when, lo! there he was clinging to his perch again, trembling with fear, and chirping, "I can't do it. I dare not. Oh, dear!" The two old birds flew away much disappointed; but the mother soon returned with another bug, and the lesson was repeated. Indeed it was repeated so many times, that I began to lose patience with the little coward, and to be full of pity for the poor tired mother. His birdship had just eaten a bug, and the parent-birds were chirping and flying around, when, with the hope of helping them in their labors, I stepped forward, and tapped him on the bill with a flower-stem. The blow was so sudden and unexpected, that, before he had time to think, he lifted his wings and flew to a neighboring twig, where he clung, frightened and delighted at what he had done. I left him then, with his father and mother making just such a time over him as your fathers and mothers made over you when you took your first steps. MABEL ELWELL. "LULLABY!" NOW the shadows gather fast, "by-low" time has come at last; Little birds have gone to rest, safe within their downy nest; Little lambkins seek the fold, warmly housed from wind and cold: Baby darling, you and I now must sing our lullaby! I will sing a sweet good-night to my baby's blue eyes bright, To the little cheeks so fair, to the sunny, golden hair, To the rosy lips so sweet, to the dimpled hands and feet; Gently rocking to and fro, singing softly, singing low. Into "Dreamland," baby wee, you will slip away from me; Out from shadow into light, to the world of visions bright; While the mother-love so true, keeping tender watch o'er you, With the lullaby shall seem still to soothe and bless your dream. [Illustration] Lullaby, oh, lullaby! stars are lighting in the sky; All the sunshine of the day like yourself is tired of play: Tell me, are the sunbeams _there_ in that dreamland bright and fair? Bring them back, my baby, then, when you wake to earth again. Sweetly on her mother's breast sinks the little one to rest. By-low time is sweeter far than all the hours of play-time are: So thinks baby, so think I, as we sing our lullaby, Rocking gently to and fro, chanting softly, chanting low. MARY D. BRINE. HOW LITTLE EDITH WENT TO SLEEP. "I'M sleepy; and I want my mamma to rock me to sleep; and I don't want grandma, or auntie, or papa, or any one else, to rock me, but just my own mamma." And the little queen planted her feet firmly, and looked at us with so much defiance, that we felt it was of no use for us to coax, rock, or sing. Little Edith was tired, and sadly in need of her nap; but her mamma was sick in bed, and could not be disturbed. What was to be done? Papa held up a bright silver-piece as a reward of merit to the little girl, if she would be good, and go to sleep. Grandma ventured a little coaxing. But it was all of no avail: the sleepy eyes opened wide, as if they meant to keep open in spite of us all. But when auntie remarked that she was going to her room to sharpen her pencil, and draw some pictures of a cat, or a dog, or a rabbit, Edith's eyes brightened; and she said, "Let me go too?" So Edith sat on her auntie's lap, and asked her to draw a rabbit,--a "yabbit," Edith called it,--and to begin at his ears. "Yes, little pet. Here are his ears, and here is his body, and here is his tail, and here are his feet, and here are some spectacles for him to see through," said auntie, drawing each article as she named it. "And here are some pretty red beads around his neck, and some rings in his ears; and now we will tie a nice blue ribbon on his tail." Here Edith suggested shoes for his feet. "Yes," said auntie. "And now he wants an apple to eat: so here is an _apple_ for him (1). Now he wants some _grass_ (2); now some _nuts_ (3). Now he is crying for a piece of _pie_ (4); no, he doesn't want that kind, he wants _gooseberry-pie_: well, rabbit, here it is (5). Here is some _bread_ for him (6), and we will spread it with nice butter; and he wants a _potato_ too (7), and a nice sweet _orange_ (8), and a _brush_ to smooth his fur (9)." Little Edith's eyes were gradually closing; but, becoming aware of the fact, she started up as if she thought of going away. [Illustration] "Stop, darling," said auntie. "We must give the rabbit a _wash-bowl_ to wash in (10), and some nice cool water in it; and now he must have a _comb_ (11), and a _cup and saucer_ to drink his tea from (12), and a _doll_ to play with (13). Now he says he wants a _house_ to live in (14), with a tree growing by it, and a nice walk to the front-door, and a fence all around it; and there he is crying for a bed to sleep on. Oh, what a rabbit you are! you want so many things! Well, here is a nice _bed_ for you (15). Now I hope you will go to sleep, and not ask for another thing; for little Edith's eyes are shut." And, sure enough, Edith was fast asleep. C. L. K. BLOW, BLOW, EAST WIND! [Illustration: Music] 1. Blow, blow, east wind! What does the east wind do? Shine, shine, sunlight! And what does the sunshine do? The sunshine clear Goes here and there, And searches ev'ry nook; And while it is going, The wind it is blowing Much farther than you can look. 2. Blow, blow, east wind! Woodlands and valleys through! Shine, shine, sunlight! With beams of a golden hue The fields grow green By winds swept clean, But end your blowing, do! And south breezes dear Very soon will be here With the skies of a deep warm blue. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: The title page and table of contents were created for this issue following the pattern from the 1877 issues. Page 48, comma removed from text. The original read (said, he only) Page 63, end quotation mark added (his fur (9).") 
28142	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIII.--No. 3. Contents In Prose PAGE In the Swing 67 How My Boys Helped Their Mother 69 "Stop That Quarrelling." 71 A Letter from Calcutta 73 Prairie Dogs 75 The Catbird 79 How to Draw a Cat 80 Playing Cook 81 How a Boy Caught a Fish with His Nose 82 An Old Fable 83 Our Fly 84 Grandpa's Watch 85 Helen's Bird 87 The Geese and the Hawk 90 Mabel's Secrets 91 The Snow Country 94 In Verse PAGE Nobody's Dog 66 The New Moon 68 The Girl Who is Always Good 72 The Street-Player 77 Three Little Chicks Born in a Shoe 89 The Little Student 93 The Froggie's Party (_with music_) 96 [Illustration: NOBODY'S DOG.] NOBODY'S DOG. [Illustration: O]NLY a dirty black-and-white dog! You can see him any day, Trotting meekly from street to street: He almost seems to say, As he looks in your face with wistful eyes, "I don't mean to be in your way." His tail hangs drooping between his legs; His body is thin and spare: How he envies the sleek and well-fed dogs, That thrive on their masters' care! And he wonders what they must think of him, And grieves at his own hard fare. Sometimes he sees a friendly face,-- A face that he seems to know; And thinks it may be the master That he lost so long ago; And even dares to follow him home, For he loved his master so! Poor Jack! He's only mistaken again, And stoned and driven back; But he's used to disappointments now, And takes up his beaten track; Nobody's dog, for whom nobody cares,-- Poor unfortunate Jack! FRED B. KING. [Illustration] IN THE SWING. THE swing was hung from an old oak-tree in grandmother's grove. There Mabel and I used to go every fine summer morning before breakfast, and swing for five minutes. We did not swing longer than that because too much of this kind of exercise is not healthy. Once, when I had swung her very high, Mabel had a fall, but it did not hurt her, for she fell among some tufts of soft grass; but, if her head had struck a stone, it might have done her great harm. After that we were both more careful. Five years have gone by since those days. We both go to school, and I do not think you would know us, from the likenesses in the picture. But next summer we hope to visit grandmother once more, and we shall revive old times in the swing under the old oak-tree. The sly squirrels will come out and look at us; the birds will twitter, and try to make us think that they have no nests in the trees and bushes thereabouts: but we shall say, "We shall do you no harm, birds, squirrels, beetles--no harm--for we love you all! So play on, and please let us play too." EDITH. THE NEW MOON. PRETTY new moon, white new moon, What do you bring in your horn? Silver light to paint black night As fair as the early dawn? Sweet new moon, pretty new moon, Where did you harvest your rays? In the deeps of dark were you but a spark Till the sun shone along your ways? Fair new moon, kind new moon, Will my wish come true some day, When you're but a ghost of yourself, at the most, And your glory passes away? MARY N. PRESCOTT. HOW MY BOYS HELPED THEIR MOTHER. WHEN we first came here to live, the lot next to ours was vacant; but afterwards a house was built on it, and the boys were very much interested in the progress of the building. Often, when obliged to stay in doors, they would sit by the window, watching the work on the "new house," as they called it. [Illustration] Mr. Little, the owner of the house, was an old acquaintance of ours, and very fond of children. So occasionally, when he came to oversee the work, I would allow the boys to go up and see him; and he would give them a few nails, or some blocks to play with. One day, Mr. Little called their attention to the wood which the carpenters had thrown aside as rubbish, and told them he was going to pick up some of it, and send it home to burn; "and now, boys," said Mr. Little, "if you would like to help your mother, here is a chance to get her some kindling-wood. You may come every day, and get all you can carry home." They came home delighted with the plan; and the next morning, as soon as breakfast was done, they were ready to begin their work. The two oldest boys took their wheelbarrows, and the youngest one his cart, and off they started. I could see them from my window, working very diligently, and they soon came back, each with a good-sized load. They knocked at the back-door, and asked me where I would have my wood put. I told them they could put it in the cellar, and opened the outside cellar-door for them. Each one threw out his load, and started for another; and so they kept at work nearly the whole forenoon. They continued to work in this way for a week, sometimes getting one load a day, and sometimes four or five; and every night, when their papa came home, they invited him down cellar to see how much wood they had. In a little room back of the parlor, there was an old-fashioned fireplace, in which, when the evenings began to grow cool, papa would build up a nice fire, just after supper. Then he would sit down in the firelight with the boys, and tell them stories till their bed-time, greatly to their delight. So you see they had a reward for their labor, besides having the satisfaction of knowing that they helped their mother. H. L. [Illustration] [Illustration] "STOP THAT QUARRELLING." IN England recently, a curious incident of geese-life was witnessed. A number of very fine geese, belonging to a Mr. Woodford were having their morning ramble, when suddenly a strange noise was heard. Two of the geese had begun quarrelling, probably over some choice morsel of food. They fought each other furiously, when they were suddenly stopped in a way that caused no little surprise to the beholders. An old goose came flying across the road, and cackling in tones that must have meant, "Stop that quarrelling!" for they seemed to be well understood by the combatants. Having chided them well, the old goose proceeded to punish them. Instantly the quarrelsome geese obeyed the command of the old goose; and the whole flock, that had been witnesses of the fight, began to gobble their approval of the peace that had been brought about. How much wiser they were than some bad boys, who like to see a fight, and do not try to stop it! UNCLE CHARLES. THE GIRL WHO IS ALWAYS GOOD. SHE never sighs; She never grumbles; She never cries When down she tumbles. She never soils Her pretty dresses; She never spoils Her silken tresses. With cap on head, And wee hands folded, She's put to bed, And never scolded. Oh, she's a pearl! No mischief scheming; There's such a girl,-- Don't think I'm dreaming. But not to tell Her name were folly: You know her well, For she's your Dolly! GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] A LETTER FROM CALCUTTA. _Dear "Nursery,"_--Way out here, a long distance from my real home, which is not far from Boston, my grandmamma sends you; and I am so fond of hearing the stories read, that I think some of your children would like to read a story about this country. There are many things here which would be new and strange to most of them; but few things are more funny than the crows playing their pranks. The crows are very like those at home, except that these little fellows have slate-colored necks, and are much more bold. If a window or door is left open, it will not be a minute before one or more crows will arrive and look about in search of food. If you chance to leave any thing about that is eatable, it is seized and carried off in an instant. There is a great park here, known as the Maidan, where dogs run with bones to pick; and this habit of the dogs suits the crows perfectly, for they always try to get away the bones, and often succeed too. This is the way they usually go to work. The first crow that sees a dog with a bone calls all his friends, and off they fly to where the dog is. There they alight, and stand around him. Then they talk to one another. Perhaps one says, in crow language, "This is an ugly cur;" another says, "He has crooked legs;" another, "His tail is cut off;" and so they keep talking until the dog gets angry, and with a snap and a bark, tries to drive them away. This only makes them laugh; and they begin again to torment the dog by talking, and even by jumping upon his back, and pulling his tail. Now, no dog of any spirit will stand this insult. So he springs up in a rage, to punish the saucy birds. That is precisely what the crows want; for, as soon as he turns his head around to bite one crow, another darts down, seizes the bone, and carries it away. Then how they do laugh at the poor dog! and isn't he angry! We have also a bird commonly called a "kite," but often called the "Indian swallow," as it sails about in the air just as our home swallows do. It does not seize its food with its bill, as the crow does, but with its claws or talons, and eats as it flies. Now, the crow can't help tormenting something; and the kite often gets his share of their attention. I have seen crows sit on a fence on both sides of a kite, and provoke him by their talk, just as one boy often provokes another by saying saucy little things. At first the kite pretends not to care; but very soon his feathers ruffle, and he flies at a crow, as if to tear him in pieces. The crow is quick and darts away, but returns just as soon as the kite flies at another crow. And in this way the crows amuse themselves for a long time. It is believed here that crows hold meetings, and decide upon the punishment due to other crows that have been bad; for they have often been seen to gather in large numbers, and, after chattering like magpies for a time, take one of their number, and peck him severely, sometimes even killing him. Good-by, dear old "Nursery." Your little friend, LEON K. DAVIS. PRAIRIE DOGS. HOW many of the bright-eyed boys and girls who read "The Nursery," or hear it read, month after month, ever saw a prairie-dog village? Ah! I see several little hands up. "The Nursery" has many readers in Western Kansas; and there is the very place where prairie-dog villages are found. I will tell you about my first visit to one of them. As we were riding over the beautiful green prairie, we came to a place dotted here and there with hillocks about a foot high, and on each sat a funny little yellow dog. These little hills, which have a hole in the top for a door, are the houses of the prairie-dogs. They would let us come quite close to them, when, with a comical squeak, intended, I suppose, for a bark, down they would go, head first, into the holes, giving their tails a "good-by" shake. The noise they make sounds exactly like the noise made by toy-animals when you press them in your hands. Fifty prairie-dogs all barking together could not be heard very far. On a number of the hills sat solemn old owls, trying to look very wise. Most of these owls sat perfectly still as we drove by; but I saw two or three fly slowly away, as if half asleep. I wonder if these sober old birds teach the little prairie-dogs any of their wisdom. All the prairies in this part of Kansas are covered with a short, thick grass, called "buffalo-grass," and the dogs live on its roots. These roots are little bulbs, and make nice rich food for the funny little fellows. A gentleman who has lived here for many years tells me that all their houses are connected underground by halls or passages, so that they can travel a mile or so without coming to the top of the ground. Wherever you see a prairie-dog village, there you will find good water by digging a few feet. Sometimes boys capture these queer little dogs, and they become quite tame and make cunning pets. MARY MAXWELL RYAN. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE STREET-PLAYER. UNDER my window I hear a sound, The scrape of a fiddle, the clatter of feet; And a curious crowd of boys and men Has gathered there in the street. And in their midst is a little child, With ragged shoes and a brimless hat, Not bigger than Hop-O'-my-Thumb, at most, And wan and thin at that. I see his fingers like little claws, His berry-brown eyes, and wistful smile, As he plies the bow of his fiddle fast, And tries to sing meanwhile. And when his shrill brief song is done, He plucks the hat from his curly head, And begs a penny from every one, Though not a word is said. Just fit for a mother's arms to fold, Yet here alone in the heat and dust, Doing his poor, tired, baby best To earn for himself a crust. He looks like Teddy, for all the world; Just such a tanned and rosy skin; Only he lacks the apple cheeks, The dimples, and double-chin. And I think if Teddy were motherless, And had to wander from place to place, How quickly the twinkle would leave his eye, And the dimples leave his face. So, Teddy, open the little bank, And give him the pennies kept for toys, And under my window let me see Two little nut-brown boys! MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. [Illustration: ] THE CATBIRD. THE catbird belongs to the family of thrushes, and is one of the most peculiar of our American birds. It is dark colored, with brown head and neck, and greenish-black tail. The bird is fond of society, and usually builds its nest near the dwellings of men, rather than in the quiet of the forest. Its voice, when angry or disturbed, is harsh and shrill, but at other times, soft and sweet. It has also a cry like the mewing of a cat, from which it derives its name. It is very courageous, and will defend its young until it falls exhausted. The catbird can be tamed, but is as mischievous as a young monkey,--meddlesome, full of curiosity, and so jealous, that it will drive any other pet bird out of the house. It dislikes to be caged, preferring the freedom of the room, so that it may look in the looking-glass, take pins off from the cushion, or perch on the plants in the window. AUNT ALICE. [Illustration: HOW TO DRAW A CAT.] When Ellen makes up dough for bread, A roll like this you see. One turnover she puts on top, Because it pleases me. Now when I saw Miss Pussy's back As she lay upon the mat, I thought of Ellen's bread and pie It surely looks like that, So adding ears and tail I had, The rear view of my cat. [Illustration] PLAYING COOK. JENNY was at her little table, making a pudding for her doll's dinner, when brother Albert came in with Snap the dog, and said, "Let me be the cook, sister: I know how to make a pudding. First I will break these three eggs into the dish." "But I can see no eggs," said Jenny. "Look sharp," said Albert, going through the motion of breaking an egg. "Good and fresh." "I see no eggs," said Jenny. "You must be losing your eyesight," said the cook, taking a spoon. "Now, then, I will stir up the eggs; and now I will put in a little flour; and now I will grate in some nutmeg." "I think you had better put in some milk," said Jenny. "Of course, I shall," replied the cook. "Where's the basin of milk?" "You will find it on the floor," said Jenny. Albert looked, and cried out, "Go away, Snap!--See, Jenny, that greedy dog has lapped up all the milk!" "No matter," said Jenny. "You can get some more where you got the eggs." So Albert seized the little pitcher, went through the motion of emptying it, stirred the pudding once more, and then placed it on the little doll-stove. "Oh, what a fine cook you are!" said Jenny. "But, when I am very hungry, I think I shall not come to you for my dinner." IDA FAY. HOW A BOY CAUGHT A FISH WITH HIS NOSE. A FEW years ago, a little boy was out fishing with his mother, on Crooked Lake, in the western part of New York; or perhaps I should say, _she_ was fishing, and he was looking over the side of the boat. He could see the fish darting about here and there, and liked to watch them, and he put his face as close down to the water as he could to see them more plainly. A big trout came along, and saw something smooth and round and white close to the top of the water. It was the boy's nose. The trout was hungry, and I suppose he thought it was a piece of meat, or something else good to eat: so he gave a spring out of the lake, and caught fast hold of it with his teeth. Very much startled, the boy jerked his head back suddenly, and landed Mr. Trout in the boat. He was a fine large fellow, and weighed several pounds. I hope he did not bite off the end of the boy's nose. I wonder if the boy would like to try to catch another trout in the same way. Everybody thought this so funny, that the boy became, for a while, quite famous, and had his photograph taken, with the mark of the bite on his nose. This may seem a very tough story, but it is true. The thing took place only a few miles from where I live. ELIZABETH SILL. [Illustration] AN OLD FABLE. AN ass, having put on a lion's skin, roamed about in the forest, and amused himself by frightening all the animals he met with in his wanderings. At last he met a fox, and tried to frighten him also; but the fox no sooner heard the sound of his voice than he exclaimed, "I might have been afraid, if I had not heard you bray." This fable was written by �sop, a famous Grecian who lived nearly three thousand years ago. A fable is a fictitious story designed to enforce some useful lesson or moral. See if you can tell the moral of this one. UNCLE CHARLES. OUR FLY. [Illustration] I WANT to tell "The Nursery" readers about a fly who has lived in my mamma's room all winter. At night he hides away in some warm place; but, when the sun shines, he flies all about the room, and acts as if he were very happy. When my mamma was sick, he used to fly about her, and make a great buzzing; and, when the girl brought up her dinner, he would crawl about the tray as if he were hungry. Mamma would give him some sugar, which he liked very much. We missed him once for a whole week. We looked all over the room, but could not find him anywhere. At last, one day, we saw him on the window trying to fly, and what do you think? The poor fellow had lost one of his wings. Mamma said that he must have flown into the gas-light, and got burnt. She gave him some sugar, and he seemed to feel better for eating it. I watched him a long time, and when he had eaten enough he crawled on to my hand. I took him off, and put him on the window again; but he kept coming back to my hand, and I think, if he could have spoken, he would have said, "Thank you, little girl, for my nice dinner." I will tell you more about him some time. VIOLA. [Illustration] GRANDPA'S WATCH. GEORGE is never so happy as when he is on grandpa's knee; and the first thing that grandpa has to do, when little George is seated there, is to pull out his watch. "Watch, watch!" cries little George; and grandpa takes it out, opens it, and lets him see all the queer little wheels and the bright works, that shine and glitter so, and keep up the quick movements, and make the watch say, "Tick, tick!" Grandpa and George are good friends, because grandpa tries to explain things to him. One day he brought home a watch and gave it to the little boy for his own, and showed him how to wind it up, and make it tick. George is very proud of it, and will soon learn to tell the time of day. He knows now how to count ten. A. B. C. [Illustration] HELEN'S BIRD. WHEN Helen was eight years old, a pretty little canary-bird was given to her as a birthday present. She named it "Chirp;" and she and Chirp soon got to be very fond of each other. Helen took the whole care of him; and he grew so tame that he would perch on her hand, and take seeds from her finger, and even from her lips. He was a fine singer, and Helen liked to be waked in the morning by his music. His cage was placed on her table near her bed, and she always began the day by having a little talk with Chirp. There was not the least risk in opening the cage, and letting him out into the room; for he would fly to Helen as soon as she called him. So for years the little bird and the little girl lived happily together. One November day, when Helen was almost eleven years old, she had been out making a call, and, on her return, Chirp was missing. Helen saw that a window had been left open, and knew that he must have flown out. "Oh, dear!" said she, in great distress, "my poor little Chirp is gone, and I shall never see him again." Her mother tried to comfort her by saying that he had not been gone long, and could not be far away. "But," said Helen, "it is cold weather, and is snowing too, and he must be chilled to death." However, without wasting time in talk, she snatched up a handful of canary-seed, and ran out of doors at once in search of her little pet. She looked up into the vine that grew on the side of the house, and called, "Chirp, Chirp!" She could see nothing of him; but Chirp saw her, and in a moment came fluttering down among the snowflakes, and perched upon her hand. Oh, how delighted Helen was to see him! The first thing she did was to give him some seeds to eat; for she knew he must be half starved. "You dear little venturesome thing," she said. "You wanted to see the world, didn't you? But why couldn't you wait for warmer weather? You have given me a dreadful fright. Come into the house now and be contented, and next summer you shall go out with me." JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] THREE LITTLE CHICKS BORN IN A SHOE. THREE little chickens, Born in a shoe, When the freshet came, Didn't know what to do: One went on deck, Just to watch the weather, While down below The others sat together. "Oh, what shall we do! Mother is not here: Captain there on deck! Oh, what cheer? what cheer?" "Water everywhere, Far as I can see! But the wind is fair; Let us easy be." "Oh, we want our mother," Cried the other two: "Stop that!" said the captain,-- Captain of the shoe: "We are lucky chickens In our little boat; Water-tight it is, And it keeps afloat. "I hear mother calling From the barn-yard wall: Courage, little sisters! Don't you hear her call?" Yes, they heard it plainly; Oh, how glad they were! "Now blow fair, thou gentle wind, Bear us all to her!" And the wind kept blowing, Fair and fair it blew, Bearing to the barn-yard wall All that little crew. When their mother saw them, She flew down apace; On her back she bore them To a nice dry place. EMILY CARTER. THE GEESE AND THE HAWK. ONE day in May as Charles walked through the fields, he saw a large hawk hovering in the air, and heard a noise as of geese cackling. Soon an old mother-goose with a troop of little ones came running towards him. She knew that Charles would protect her and her fledglings from the cruel hawk; and she was not mistaken. He took up a stick, and, looking up at the hawk, said, "Now come on if you dare, you old thief!" The hawk made a swoop down to the top of a tree near by, caught sight of the goslings, and would, no doubt, have liked to clutch one of them, and carry it off; but the robber-bird was not quite bold enough to do this while Charles stood by. At last the hawk flew off out of sight, and Charles called his good dog Fido, and pointed at the geese, and said, "Take care of them, sir." So Fido sat down near by, and watched the geese. I think if the hawk had come then, Fido would have been more than a match for him. [Illustration] UNCLE CHARLES. MABEL'S SECRETS. AND what were her secrets? She was one of the children allowed to make Christmas-gifts to their friends. But it was hard for Mabel to keep her secrets. When her papa came home at night, she always climbed upon his knee to tell him every thing that had happened in her little world during the day; and her papa always listened to her prattle with a great deal of interest. Now, that there was something she must not tell, Mabel could think of nothing else. She climbed upon his knee, and sat so silent, that her papa said, "Well, puss, have you nothing to tell papa to-night?" "Oh, I mustn't tell you my secrets, papa," said wise little Mabel: "I've lots of 'em, and one is for you; and, if I tell, you will know all about it." Now that the ice was broken, Mabel chatted on, innocently thinking that her secrets were safe in her wise little head. "Mamma knows," she continued; "but you mustn't know; and we are going to have a Christmas-tree to put 'em on, and everybody will be so _sprised_." Sure enough, when Christmas Eve came, every one was surprised, but, most of all, little Mabel; for a beautiful doll and many other pretty things hung upon the tree for her. "Why, mamma," she exclaimed, "somebody else must have had secrets too!" M. B. L. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE LITTLE STUDENT. IN the sun by the wall, with Lion close by, With her book in her hand, little Ruth you may spy: She is getting her lesson as fast as she can, While the birds sing their song and the soft breezes fan. See, that is her slate lying there on the ground: She can make a square figure, and then make a round; She can add up a sum, if it's not very big; But she cannot yet draw me a cat or a pig. But she tries to learn something, though little it be, Each day of her life,--something useful, you see: And in two or three years you will find she can spell, Read, cipher, and write, and do it all well. ELLEN SIMPSON. THE SNOW-COUNTRY. "WHAT a funny looking man!" cried Harry, running to me with his book open, to show me a picture. "Where does he live, aunty? and why does he wear such clothes?" "He is an Esquimau, and lives in the snow-country, and his clothes are made of fur." "Tell me about the snow-country, aunty." "Up in the far north, near the north pole, it is winter all the time. There the snow is always on the ground; and instead of having, as we do, many days and nights, they have only one day and one night in all the year. "You will wonder if the people sleep all through the long night, and if they do not get tired of the long day. No; for they go to bed and get up about as often as we do. "During the night they have the stars to light them, and bright flashing colors in the sky, such as we call the 'Northern Lights.' When the sun comes back, he makes them a long visit; but never gets so high in the sky as he does with us, and never makes the weather warm." [Illustration] "What are those things in the picture that look like bee-hives?" said Harry. "The picture shows you an Esquimaux village, and those are the houses. They are made of blocks of snow. Some of the houses have pieces of clear ice for windows. Others have no windows at all; only a small hole for a door, which is closed up with snow after the family have all gone in." "A snow-house with ice windows!" said Harry. "Why, how do they keep warm?" "They warm the houses with oil lamps, and get them very warm and very smoky too." "Well," said Harry, "the Esquimaux are a queer people. I should like to hear more about them." "I will tell you more some other time." G. D. Y. THE FROGGIE'S PARTY. [Illustration: Music] 1. The frog who would a-wooing go, Gave a party, you must know; And his bride dress'd all in green, Look'd as fine as any queen. Their reception number'd some Of the best in Froggiedom: Four gray froggies play'd the fiddle,-- Hands all round and down the middle; Oh! oh! oh! oh! away we go! Hopping and jumping away we go! 2. Some stern old croakers there did come, In white chokers to the room; While the belles with rush-leaf fans, Danc'd with beaux in green brogans, Flirted in the bowers there, Hidden from the ball-room's glare: Three old froggies tried a reel,-- Twist 'em, turn 'em, toe and heel, With a oh! oh! oh! away we go! Hopping and jumping away we go! 3. One little Miss was ask'd to sing, But she had a cold that spring; Little frogs were sound asleep, Late hours--bad for them to keep. Each one wish'd the couple joy, No bad boys came to annoy: This next fall the news is spreading They will have their silver wedding! Oh! oh! oh! oh! away we go! Hopping and jumping away we go! * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The title page and table of contents were created for this issue following the pattern from the 1877 issues. Page 70, period added at end of paragraph (a good-sized load) Page 75, extra comma removed. Original read (crow, is quick) Page 95, single quotation mark changed to double quotation mark (more about them.") 
28143	----	by Linda Cantoni. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIII.--No. 4. Contents IN PROSE. PAGE Tired Out 98 Emma and the Book 101 The Bear and Her Cubs 103 How Two Boys Were Made Happy 107 The Summer Shower 109 A Monkey Story 110 Drawing Lesson 113 What Bravo Told Rory 116 Playing the Chinaman 119 Pansy's Secret 120 Sagacity of the Deer 125 IN VERSE. PAGE The Herons 100 Billy Brown Sold 105 Time to Go to Bed 114 A Trotting Song 123 Grandma Asleep 127 The Lay of the Grasshopper (_with music_) 128 [Illustration: TIRED OUT.] TIRED OUT. [Illustration: O]NE day Miss Lily Macnish heard the door-bell ring. She put down her spelling-book, and asked, "Who can that be, mamma?" Before mamma could give an answer, Jane the housemaid entered, and handed her a note. "Why, this is not for me: it is for you, my dear," said Mrs. Macnish, giving the note to Lily. "For me!" said Lily, while her cheeks flushed; for it was the first note she had ever received. "Please read it for me, mamma," she said; for Lily could not read handwriting quite as well as some little girls of her age that I could tell of. "It is an invitation to a children's party at Mrs. Vane's," said mamma. "Miss Lucy Vane asks the pleasure of Miss Lily's company on Thursday evening, at seven o'clock." "Oh, can I go? Can I go?" cried Lily, jumping up, and clapping her hands. "I do not quite approve of children's parties, especially when they take place in the evening," said mamma. "But I know who will say 'Yes,' and I suppose I shall have to do as he says." She was thinking of Lily's papa, who loved the little girl so much, that he could not bear to say "No" to any request she might make. Well, mamma was right. Papa saw that his little girl was bent on going to the party, and so he teased his wife into yielding her consent. So, when Thursday came, Lily was dressed up in her little white robe, with straw-colored ribbons, and her pretty slippers, and sent in a carriage, with Jane the housemaid, to the party. It was not quite such a party as I approve of. I do not like to see little girls and boys trying to act like grown-up people. I like to see them act like children. Lily had the good taste to get tired of it all very soon. Little girls would come along and stare at her slippers; but she did not feel much pride in them. Little boys would come and bow, and ask her to dance; but she had had enough. There was music and singing, and then ice-cream and cake were handed round; but Lily had promised to eat nothing, and she kept her promise. At half-past eight o'clock she saw Jane beckoning to her at the door; and very glad she was at the sight. Bidding Miss Vane "good-night," she let Jane put on her shawl, and lead her to the carriage. "Oh, I am so tired, so tired!" said poor Lily. Mamma received her at the door of her own house, and, taking her in her arms, bore her up stairs to the little girl's papa. "What! has she come back so soon?" said he, throwing down his newspaper, and taking her on his knee. "Oh, you dear papa, I am so tired, so tired!" murmured Lily. "Oh, do sing me 'Flow gently, sweet Afton,' and let me go to sleep on your lap." But mamma said, "No, Lily. You must go to bed while you can keep your eyes open." And so Lily kissed papa, and was borne off to bed. I think she will wait till she is older, before she will care much to go to another "children's party." DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] THE HERONS. [Illustration] A VERY shy bird Is the heron, my dear; It will run fast away, If you come very near: It has a sharp bill, A neck slender and long; It is fond of small fish, And goes where they throng. It builds a snug nest On some very high tree, And there lays its eggs, Where the boys cannot see. Woods marshy and wet, It likes to frequent; For there it finds food, And there lives content. No sportsmen with guns Come often to kill: And when they appear The heron keeps still; It keeps still and hides On a lofty bough near, Till the fowler says, "Well, I can find no birds here." Then he and his dogs Go off in the dumps, And the heron flies down To the bushes and stumps; There flaps its big wings, Right glad to have cheated The life-seeking foes, Who now have retreated. IDA FAY. EMMA AND THE BOOK. [Illustration] ONE day little Emma said to herself, "It is about time that I knew how to read. I wonder if I could read that big book on the table." So she went to the table, and tried to reach the book; but it was too high up. Now, Emma had a brother Fred, who was older than she was. Fred was always very kind to Emma, and now he said, "That is not such a book as you would like, but if you will be quiet, I will read you a story out of my own book." It was a pretty little story that he read; and Emma stood very still, and listened to every word. "Now," said she, "will you please let me have the book, Fred; for my dolly likes stories too, and I want to read to her." So Fred gave her the book, and she sat down and read to her doll. WILHELMINA GRANT. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE BEAR AND HER CUBS. "ARE there any people besides Esquimaux in the snow-country?" asked Harry, one day. "Not many," said I. "There is a small Danish settlement in Greenland; but, with that exception, the Esquimaux and the bears have the country pretty much to themselves." "Tell me about the bears," said Harry. "I saw a bear last summer at the White mountains. He was chained to a tree." "But the bear that roams about over the snow and ice of the Arctic regions, is much larger and more savage than the common black bear that you saw. It is of a dingy white color. When full grown, it sometimes measures nine feet in length." "Didn't I see one in Barnum's menagerie?" "I think not, Harry; for the polar bear suffers so much from heat, even in our coldest winters, that it will not live long in this climate. "There is one thing very interesting in the bear nature, and that is the affection of the female for its young. This has often been noticed. Here is a picture showing an instance of it. "A Greenland bear with two cubs, was pursued across a field of ice by a party of armed sailors. At first she tried to urge the young ones along by running before them, turning around and calling them to her; but finding that the pursuers were gaining upon them, she pushed and threw the cubs before her, one after the other, until she effected their escape. "Each cub would place itself across her path to receive the impulse, and when thrown forward, would run onward until overtaken by the mother, when it would adjust itself for another throw." "Well, that shows that even a bear has some good feeling," said Harry, "and some common sense too. I'm glad that the sailors did not catch them. What would those cubs have done without their mother?" UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] BROWN BILLY SOLD. EDITH, with cheek against the window, Is sobbing out her grief; Gold-Locks is in a sad condition Of pocket-handkerchief. And Teddy at his play is sniffing, His little nose all red! Is Tony sick? Is pussy stolen? Is the canary dead? Else why this universal crying?-- Weepingly I am told, With many a look of indignation, "Brown Billy has been sold!" And why? No one can tell the reason; And yet I chance to know, It was--ah, wicked little pony!-- Because he acted so. Sometimes the phaeton all too heavy Would grow for him to draw; You'd think his feeble strength must perish Under another straw. Sometimes as light as any feather He rolled its dainty wheels, Humming and whirring like a spindle After his flying heels. And, worse than that, he had a fashion Of rearing in the air; And what became of load or driver He did not know nor care. Yet, without least alarm, the children Would laugh at him, and say, "Do see dear, cunning, old Brown Billy: How well he likes to play!" And bits of apple, lumps of sugar, From little hands were given, With fond pet names, and soft caresses, And sometimes kisses even. Brown Billy, but for your wild frolics We might have had you yet; And then these three sweet doleful faces With tears would not be wet. MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. HOW TWO BOYS WERE MADE HAPPY. MAY I tell the readers of "The Nursery" how happy two little boys were made this evening by the arrival of a present from a kind friend? And what do you think it was? A magazine with a green cover, on which Guy, one of the boys, pointed out these letters, "N-U-R-S-E-R-Y." Max, with his chubby hand, turned to the first page, and found the Christmas-tree, with the baby and flag at the top. Then mamma had to read the story, and, after it was finished, the same little hand turned the leaf back; for the blue eyes wanted to see baby Arthur again. Then how both pairs of eyes looked at Teddy with his new sled! and, while mamma read to them the pretty verses of Teddy's mamma, they were still as mice. And how their eyes sparkled when they saw the picture of the wheelbarrows and cart loaded with earth! for this was just the way they used to play in the warm pleasant weather. They thought the three little boys must have had lots of fun. Then they wanted to hear about "Georgie's Pet Mouse," and "Bess and the Kitten." They did not wonder that "Baby" felt cross at having his picture taken; for Max had to sit still so long, and so many times for his, that he knew how to pity the poor baby. The "Rooster" pleased them very much; and mamma promised to take "The Nursery" to the Kindergarten, and draw the rooster on the board for the little children there. When we came to "Bed-time," mamma thought it would be just the thing to read last, before putting her little boys to bed. But they begged for one more story, and _just_ one more, till we came to "By-lo-land," and after hearing that read, they wanted me to sing it to them. Then the night-dresses were brought, and snugly in their little bed the brown eyes and blue eyes were closed, and my happy little boys went "over the hills to By-lo-land." MRS. F. A. B. D. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE SUMMER SHOWER. WELL do I remember dear old aunt Rachel, as we called her, my first schoolmistress. She wore spectacles, and I have heard it said that she sometimes took snuff; but, if she did, she was careful not to do it in the presence of her pupils. She was the aunt of nobody in particular; but, had she been aunt to all of us, she could not have taken more pains to keep us from harm, and to lead us in the way of right. One day, just as school was dismissed in the afternoon, a severe rain-storm began. "Oh! how shall I get you all home," said the dear old lady, opening the door, and looking up at the clouds. First she fitted me and my little sister Eva out with her best umbrella, and told us to make the best speed we could, and send the umbrella back. As for the boys, they ran out, rejoicing in the rain, and well pleased at the prospect of getting wet through. The other little girls were kept waiting till the sky should clear, or some one should come for them. My sister and I started off, side by side, under our umbrella. It was a large cotton one, with a long, heavy handle,--just about suited to the capacity of a giant. But, by taking hold very high up, I managed to carry it without any trouble, and it kept us both dry. We really enjoyed our walk; and, the harder the rain came down, the better we liked it. No sooner had we got home than the clouds broke, and patches of blue sky began to appear. Then Eva spied a rainbow. So mother told us to put on dry shoes and stockings, and take back the umbrella. How glad Aunt Rachel was to see and welcome us! "I am so glad you did not get wet," said she; "but, as for those wild boys, they would rush out into the rain, and I could not keep them from it." IDA FAY. A MONKEY STORY. THIS is one of the true stories that I tell my little boys over and over again, as we sit before the fire, and make ready for their journey to "Sleepy-Land." "When your grandfather was a lad about twelve years old, an uncle of his made a voyage to South America, and brought home as a present to his nephew a fine large monkey. Of course Master Richard was very much pleased; and the frolicsome pet would have had a warm welcome from the whole household, had not the uncle seen fit to report some of Jocko's pranks on shipboard. [Illustration] "This put the young ladies upon their guard. But old Bella, the cook, never seemed prepared for his capers; and the fuss she made over them pleased Jocko so much, that she became the object of his attacks. "One day Bella went to the city, and brought home a fine new bonnet in a large bandbox. During the evening she showed it with great pride to the young ladies; and, unknown to her, Jocko enjoyed the sight of the ribbons and laces and flowers from behind the parlor sofa. "Like Bella herself, he was fond of finery; and the bonnet seemed to him a very fit garment for a monkey to wear. So the next morning, while Bella was busy in the kitchen, Jocko went to her closet, took out her bandbox, dressed himself in the bonnet, and stole down the back-stairs. "Bella, hearing a noise, looked around, and there he was, his head literally lost in a sea of red and yellow ribbons. With a shout of rage, she seized the broomstick, and hurried after the thief. But before she could reach him, Jocko had mounted two flights of stairs, leaped out on the porch, and climbed up to the roof of the house. "There he rested; and there he was when the whole household, frightened by Bella's shrieks, came running up to see what was the matter. In vain Bella scolded. In vain Richard coaxed and threatened. Jocko would not come down until he had finished his work; for he was busily engaged in tearing poor Bella's bonnet into fragments. "As ribbon after ribbon was destroyed, her screams grew louder and louder; and nothing could move her from her determination to kill the monkey, except the promise of a gayer bonnet than the one that Jocko had stolen. "But Jocko never was forgiven; and the poor fellow would have gone supperless a great many times, had it not been for his devoted young master." MRS. G. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.] TIME TO GO TO BED. DAUGHTER. "WHY must I go to sleepy-land, sleepy-land, sleepy-land? Why must I go to sleepy-land So early in the evening? I'd like to stay up longer, pa, longer, pa, longer, pa; I'd like to stay up longer, pa: To sleepy-land it is too far, So early in the evening." FATHER. "'Tis time to go to bed, my dear, bed, my dear, bed, my dear; 'Tis time to go to bed, my dear, Though early in the evening. For such a little girl as you, girl as you, girl as you, For such a little girl as you Should be abed, and sleeping too, Thus early in the evening." DAUGHTER. "Oh! then I'll sing another song, another song, another song; Oh! then I'll sing another song, So early in the evening! For you must take me pick-a-pack, pick-a-pack, pick-a-pack, For you must take me pick-a-pack, My good papa, upon your back, So early in the evening." [Illustration] FATHER. "Then jump, and we'll go up the stairs, up the stairs, up the stairs; Then jump, and we'll go up the stairs So early in the evening. Now here she is! My pig is safe, pig is safe, pig is safe, Now here she is! My pig is safe: It must not squeal, or kick, or chafe So early in the evening." DAUGHTER. "So up we go! Good-by, mamma, by, mamma, by, mamma; So up we go! Good-by, mamma, So early in the evening! I'm going off to sleepy-land, sleepy-land, sleepy-land, I'm going off to sleepy-land: To all good folks I kiss my hand, So early in the evening!" EMILY CARTER. WHAT BRAVO TOLD RORY. "TELL us a story, Kate," said Emma. "Yes, _do_," chimed in Bertha. "_Will_ you tell us a story?" said Herbert. Thus entreated by these dear, good children, I could not refuse. So while their three heads, close together, with their bright faces beaming upon me and upon each other, formed a pretty picture, I told them this story about two shepherd-dogs, Bravo and Rory:-- "When farmer John and his bride moved into their little white house, a mile from the old homestead, they took with them the young dog, Bravo, and left Rory to guard the old house. Bravo was large and wide awake, but only five months old. He seemed very happy in his new home. His master taught him many curious things; and for a week or more he showed no signs of home-sickness. "But when old Toss, from the tannery near by, made an attack upon him, although Bravo's fleetness saved him from harm, he began to wish he had never left his puppy-hood's home to live with farmer John. Down he sat at the door of his kennel, with a lonely and forsaken look, trying to smooth down the hair of his sleek coat that old Toss had ruffled. "The tanner's dog repeated his attack for two or three days, and, more than that, drove poor Bravo from his nice warm quarters at night, compelling him to lie out in the cold. Then Bravo said to himself, 'Something must be done. I dare not fight Toss; for he has long teeth, and is a savage dog,--more than a match for me. I think my best plan is to go and tell Rory.' And away he sped, just at sunrise, and came back in time for breakfast, with a cheerful look in his face. [Illustration] "Now, Rory was steady and brave and wise. He had no love for running round nights: so it surprised his master, when, just as the sun went down that day, Rory started down the road, and up the lane to farmer John's. On he went, with a grave look, without stopping to greet any old friend, even by a wag of his tail. Bravo met him, and whisked around him; and, after a short consultation, the two dogs crawled into the kennel, Rory staying nearest to the door. "The moon shone clear and bright, and all was still until about midnight, when farmer John's wife was suddenly awakened by a sound of growling, snarling, and yelping. 'Wake up, John, quick, quick! Get up!' she shouted. The farmer leaped from his bed, and, half-dressed, ran to the door, thinking that the dogs were killing sheep; but instead of sheep, Rory and Bravo had Toss at their mercy, and were giving him a fearful punishment." "Good, good!" shouted Herbert. "That served him just right." But little Bertha turned a wondering look upon Herbert; she could not help feeling pity even for Toss. "Let us hear the rest of the story," said Emma. So I went on,-- "The sharp voice of the farmer made Rory and Bravo release their victim; and Toss, in a crestfallen way, started for his home; but, before he could get over the fence, Rory gave him a final clutch that sent him off yelping. He never came back; and when he met Bravo afterwards, he was careful not to trouble him. "In a short time Bravo grew to be so strong and brave, that he could fight his own battles without the aid of his friend Rory." The three children, who had listened very attentively to the story, now talked it over; and they came to the conclusion that Toss received a good lesson, and was probably a better dog after it. "For," said Herbert, "a dog who abuses a smaller dog is almost as mean as a big boy who tyrannizes over a little boy." M. KATE BRAWLEY. [Illustration] [Illustration] PLAYING THE CHINAMAN. FRANZ is a little boy about four years old, who lives in Brooklyn, California. His favorite play is to take some pieces of cloth, fill his mouth with water, turn his head from side to side, letting the water squirt from the corners of his mouth upon them (as he has seen the Chinamen do at the laundry), fold them, turn the iron-stand on its back, and carefully smooth them. This is Foo Lee, washing and ironing. Sometimes the clothes are not wet enough, and the sprinkling goes on with the ironing. "Your clothes will smell of tobacco and opium, if you sprinkle them so much," says Franz's elder brother. "No, they won't," says the little wash-man. "Me do them good; me do them cheap." When he gets tired of this, he puts his wash into a piece of paper, and takes the bundle to mamma. "I hope the clothes are not too blue, John," says mamma. "No," answers Foo Lee. "They done good this time." "And did you find my stockings, which were missing from last week's wash?" "Yes, they all here. I found them: they all right this time,--fifty dozen." "How much shall I pay you?" "Six bits." (Seventy-five cents.) "I do them velly cheap." Mamma gives him two buttons,--one large one for the four-bit piece, (fifty cents), and a smaller one for the two bits (twenty-five cents). "Thankee. Good-baah!" says Foo Lee. "Good-by," returns mamma. L. M. PANSY'S SECRET. PANSY had a secret, and nobody could find it out. She would come down stairs in the morning, and seat herself at the breakfast-table, and then papa would say, "Well, Pansy, are you going to tell us your secret to-day?" Pansy would shake her head, and reply, "You must guess it, papa! Can you not guess it?" "Well, I guess you have a new tooth coming." "Oh, no, that is not it. Mother can guess better than that, I think. It concerns you, mother." "Well, I guess," said mother, "that you are to have the present of a kitten from aunt Julia." "And I guess," said brother John, who was five years older than Pansy, "I guess you are knitting a pair of woollen cuffs for papa." [Illustration] "You are all wrong," cried Pansy, "and I shall not tell you my secret to-day." The next morning, as she was coming down stairs, she paused, and said to herself, "Shall I tell them my secret now? No, Pansy, let them see that you can keep a secret." No sooner was she seated at the table in her high-chair, than papa said, "Well, Pansy, how much longer are you going to keep us in the dark? Are you going to tell us your secret?" "Not yet, papa," said Pansy, looking up with a roguish smile. "What can it be?" said mother, laying down her knife and fork, and putting her hand to her head. "I don't believe it is any thing of any account," cried brother John. "She wants to keep us curious." "Well, I think Pansy must be learning a new piece to recite," said her mother. "That's not it," said Pansy. "It's a 'portant secret: one that my mother will like to hear." "Oh, it's important, is it?" said papa. "I do wonder what it can be." "Mother, what day was it that you lost your wedding-ring?" said John. "Don't speak of it, John. It was more than a month ago. I have hunted high and low, and cannot find it. I would have given all my other jewelry rather than have lost it." Here Pansy turned red in the face, got down from her high-chair, and ran out of the room. "Did you see that?" said papa. "The little rogue has found the ring, and that's her 'portant secret." In a minute Pansy came back, holding up the ring, and her face radiant with delight. "I found it, mother, among my doll's things. You must have dropped it there when you were fixing them." And so little Pansy's secret was out at last! DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] A TROTTING SONG. UP and away! now up and away! We've a good long journey before us to-day. The road is smooth, and the sky is bright: Whoa, now! My darling, hold on tight! There's joy in the saddle. We'll scour the plain With a gentle trot and an easy rein; And, as we journey the way along, I'll sing my darling a trotting song. Up and down! Up and down! And over the hills to Sleepy Town! Fast or slow, Soon, we know, Into the land of nod we'll go. Oh, dear me! Right off my knee, Into a hollow I didn't see; And baby small, On steed so tall, Came near getting a horrid fall. She's not afraid, My little maid, Too oft on her that trick is played; And good is she As good can be, If I'll only trot her upon my knee. Over she goes! But don't suppose I'll let her tumble upon her nose, Or give a fright To my darling bright, Who laughs and frolics with such delight. Whoa! now, whoa! We must not go So fast, my darling; for don't you know, At such a pace, So like a race, We never shall come to a sleepy-place? Trot, trot away, And tell me, pray, How many miles we have gone to-day? Up and down! Up and down! And over the hills to Sleepy Town! JOSEPHINE POLLARD. [Illustration] SAGACITY OF THE DEER. A FRIEND of mine who has been in the habit of hunting deer in the Adirondack Mountains, is of opinion that the deer is often more than a match for the dog in sagacity. The deer seems to be well aware that the dog is guided by his faculty of scent in tracking him; and all the deer's efforts are directed to baffling and thwarting this keen and wonderful sense with which the dog is gifted. With this purpose, the deer will often make enormous leaps, or run around in a circle so as to confuse and puzzle his pursuers. He will mount a stone wall, and run along it for some distance, well aware that the dog cannot scent him so well on the rock as on the grass. If he can find a pond or stream of water, the deer will plunge in and swim a long distance, so that the dogs may lose his trail. It is a joyful sound to the poor hunted deer when the dogs send up that sad, dismal howl, which they give utterance to when they have lost all scent of the deer, and despair of finding it. He is then a happy deer. He hides quietly in some covert among the bushes, and he will take care to place himself where the wind will carry all odors of his body away from the direction where he supposes the dogs to be. So you see the deer is by no means a stupid animal. He knows, better than many a little boy, how to take care of himself, and get out of the way of danger. And now can you tell me in what part of the State of New York are the Adirondack Mountains? From a correspondent in Springfield, Mo., I have a letter, in which the writer says: "I suppose the Boston boys don't have deer for pets. I have a young one named Billy, and he eats corn out of my pocket. When I come home from school he always runs to meet me. Although he can jump over fences, he never tries to run away. He wears a collar with a bell on it: so we can hear him when he is down in the orchard eating apples, which he seems to be very fond of." UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] [Illustration] GRANDMA ASLEEP. GRANDMA dear has gone to sleep; See how still the children keep! Little Johnny leaves his toys, And, without a bit of noise, Rests his book on grandma's lap While she takes her peaceful nap; Darling Mabel on the floor Sits all quiet and demure; And old pussy tries to be Just the stillest of the three. JANE OLIVER. THE LAY OF THE GRASSHOPPER. [Illustration: Music] 1. There was a grasshopper lived in a palm-tree, Silver-voiced as a frog in June; Was not pleas'd with his situation, Thought he'd like to go to the moon. Oh! Heigh-ho! . . . How shall I get there? oh! . . . A hop and a skip and a flop and a flip, and over the clouds I'll go. 2. Up he went like a streak of lightning, Lit on the moon like a thunderbolt. Nought could he find but a man with a lantern, Riding about on a pea-green colt. Oh! Heigh-ho! . . . Why did I come here? oh! . . . A fling and a swing and a flap of my wing, And back to the earth I'll go. 3. Off he shot like a blazing rocket; Down he came like a falling star. What should he meet but a gay little goshawk, Flying up from the earth so far. Oh! Heigh-ho! . . . Poor little grasshopper, oh! . . . A snap and a squeak in the bonny bird's beak, And there was an end of him, oh! * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Page 104, opening quote added ("Each cub would) Page 128, "silver-voiced" was capitalized. Page 128, closing quotation mark removed. Original read (earth I'll go.") 
40752	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 1. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE That Merry Christmas 1 Baby and the Bird 4 The Sheep follow the Shepherd 7 "A Friend in Need" 8 "In a Minute" 10 Down the River after the Boy 14 Drawing-Lesson 17 Jack the Magpie 19 Among the Holly-Bushes 23 The Basket of Apples 25 IN VERSE. PAGE Baby's Quiet Family 3 A New Year's Dialogue 5 The Christmas-Tree 12 "Flutter, Flutter!" 16 Christmas Bells 18 Portraits for Little Folks 21 Christmas (_with music_) 32 [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: THAT MERRY CHRISTMAS. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 1.] THAT MERRY CHRISTMAS WHAT a glad noise there was that Christmas morning! The children had got up early to look in their stockings. John's were not quite large enough to hold all of his gifts. It is rather hard to crowd a sword, a gun, and a rocking-horse all into one stocking. Mary had a fine new doll. Harry had a box, and, on taking off the cover, up sprang a wise-looking little man, with a cap on his head. Jessy had a doll, and a very pretty one it was too. Tommy had a what-do-you-call-it. Why did he look up the chimney? I think it was to see if there was any sign of Santa Claus. John mounted his horse, waved his sword, and held up his gun. But very soon he began to get tired of them all. The thought came into his head that he was more than eight years old. "What do I want of these toys?" said he. "Why was I so silly as to choose them, when aunt Susan would have given me a microscope?" And John laid down his sword and gun, feeling quite above such childish things. When aunt Susan came, she saw that John did not seem as glad over his presents as the rest of the children did over theirs. "What is the matter, John?" she asked. "Why are you not playing with your toys?" "Aunt Susan," said John, "I wish I had taken the microscope. Is it too late?" "No, John. I thought you might repent your choice, so I said to Mr. Grover, who keeps the toy-shop, 'I think I shall want to change the microscope: can I do so?' He said, 'Yes.' His shop will be open till eleven o'clock. So run round and get the microscope, and tell him to send to-morrow and take back the toys." In five seconds John had on his hat, and was running down the street to Mr. Grover's. He came back with the microscope in about half an hour, and was full of joy at the change. A merry Christmas it was then for all the children! UNCLE CHARLES. BABY'S QUIET FAMILY. WHENEVER I walk With my children three, I laugh and I talk For the whole family. There's Ruth (her arm's broken!) And Jane and Annette, They never have spoken Or laughed even, yet; But I know when they're glad,-- Mothers always can tell,-- And I'm sad when they're sad, For I love them so well! Whenever we walk, Though they're still as can be, I can easily talk Quite enough for the three. W. G. BABY AND THE BIRD. BABY is looking out of the window. Jane is holding him up so that he will not fall out. What does he see that makes him jump up and down with joy? He sees a dear little bird. It has come for its daily meal of seed and crumbs. It is not afraid of baby? Why should it be? How could any bird be afraid of such a dear child? When the bird has had its dinner, I think it will sing. A. B. C. [Illustration] A NEW YEAR'S DIALOGUE. HARRY. LOUD from the north the wild wind blows; It sweeps the blue sky clear, And parts, amid the drifting snows, The path of the New Year; The glad New Year that always brings So many bright delightful things, Gay holidays and merry plays, And loving wishes from our friends. A "Happy New Year" let us make, And keep it "happy" till it ends, By trying every day to see What good, good children we can be. KATE. Last year, when any thing went wrong, I used to fret the whole day long, And sometimes sob and cry aloud, Dark-looking as a thunder-cloud; But, even in a gloomy place, I now must keep a sunny face; For, all this year, I mean to see How bright and cheerful I can be. MARY. Last year, the flitting butterfly Was not so idle as was I; I liked my sports and frolic well, But would not learn to read and spell: Now I must change my ways at once, Or I shall surely be a dunce. This glad New Year that has begun, Must leave me wiser when 'tis done. JAMES. Last year, my temper was so quick, My angry words came fast and thick, And brother Tom I'd scold and strike When he did what I did not like. I am so sorry! Loving words Are sweeter than the song of birds; And, all this year, I mean to see If I a gentle child can be. ALL. (_Four or more._) The past is past; the year is new: We will be patient, brave, and true; When we are bidden, quick to mind; Unselfish, courteous, and kind; And try in every place to see What good, good children we can be. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration: 1881] [Illustration] THE SHEEP FOLLOW THE SHEPHERD. THE tenth chapter of St. John says, "He calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. He goeth before them, and the sheep follow him; for they know his voice. And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him; for they know not the voice of strangers." But may it not be the form or dress of the shepherd that the sheep know, and follow him? To test this, a traveller, who had put the question, once exchanged dresses with a shepherd, and went amongst the sheep. The traveller in the shepherd's dress called the sheep, and tried to lead them; but "they knew not his voice," and did not move. But when the shepherd called them, though he was in the traveller's dress, they ran at once to him, thus proving that it was the voice that led them. I have a dog that will sometimes bark at me when I put on an overcoat which he has not seen me wear before. But, the moment he hears my voice, he seems ashamed of not having known me, and will whine, as if he would say, "Pardon me, good master. It was very stupid in me not to know you. It was your coat I did not know. I will try to be wiser the next time." DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] "A FRIEND IN NEED." HENRY lived in the great city of London. He was known as "the boy at the crossing." He used to sweep one of the crossings in Oxford Street. In wet weather these crossings are very muddy. Now and then some one would give him a penny for his work. He did not make much in a day; but what he got was a great help to his mother. That thought kept him daily at his work. One day he saw a little girl trying to lead her little brother across the street. The carts and the horses made her afraid, and she ran back timidly. "What's the matter, little girl?" asked Henry. "I am afraid we shall be run over," said the girl. "I'll help you across," said Henry. Then, lifting the little boy in his arms, he took the girl by the hand, and led her safely to the other side of the street. [Illustration] "Thank you!" said the little girl; and "Thank you!" said her little brother, as plainly as he could speak it. I went up and asked the boy with the broom if he knew the children. "I never saw them before in my life," said he; "but such little ones can't get across without help." "You are a good boy," said I. "I think you must have a good father." "I had one once," said he; "but now I have only a good mother." "Well, Henry," said I, "give her this shilling, and tell her I send it to her for teaching her boy to do good when he can get a chance." Tears came to the boy's eyes. A shilling seemed a good deal of money to him, and it pleased him all the more because it was given him for his mother. "Thank you, sir; thank you!" said he, and he ran back to his work one of the happiest boys in London, I think, at that moment. JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] "IN A MINUTE." IF you asked Dora to do any thing, she would reply, "In a minute." It was a bad habit she had. "Dora, please bring me a drink of water."--"In a minute."--"Dora, go up stairs, and bring me down my comb."--"Yes, mother, in a minute."--"Dora, come to your dinner."--"In a minute." One day the bird was hopping about on the floor. Somebody went out, leaving the door open, just as "somebody" is always doing. Dora's mother said, "Dora, shut the door, or the cat will be after your bird." "Yes, mother, in a minute," said Dora. "I just want to finish this line in my drawing." But the cat did not wait till this was done. In he popped, and with one dart he had the bird in his mouth. Down went the slate on the floor, and away went cat, bird, and Dora. There was a wild chase on the lawn. "In a minute" Dora came back weeping, with the poor bird in her hand, but, oh! the life had all been shaken out of him. [Illustration] How Dora cried! Mamma was sorry for her, but said, "A great many things may happen 'in a minute,' Dora. I hope the next time you are told to do a thing, you will do it at once." MARY ADDISON. The Christmas Tree [Illustration] SPRING and Summer and russet Fall Come and go with a varied cheer; Each has something, and none has all, Of the good things of the year. Winter laughs, though the trees are bare, With a kindly laugh that is good to see; For of all the forest is none so rare As his merry Christmas-tree. It blooms with many a taper's flame; And hidden under the leaves of green Are fruits of every shape and name, The funniest ever seen,-- [Illustration] Book and bundle, and scarf, and shawl, Picture and peanuts, skate and saw, Candy and album, and bat and ball, Hatchet, and doll, and taw, Games and frames, and comical dames With walnut faces wrinkled and old, Fillets rare for the sunny hair, And jewels of pearl and gold. For the good St. Nicholas blest this tree, And it blooms and bears for every one, With a gift of love to you and me, For beauty, or use, or fun. Poorer than any the Child whose name Has given a name to our Christmas-tree; Yet kingly gifts to his cradle came, And kingly gifts gave He. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. DOWN THE RIVER AFTER THE BOY. WALTER DALE was a little boy six years old, who lived with his parents on the bank of the River Thames in England. One day, after dinner, he went to the water's edge to play. Seeing a small boat tied to a big stone by a rope, he pulled the boat up to the shore. "What a nice little boat!" said he. "I will get into it, and rock it, as I once saw a big boy do." So he got into the boat, and began to rock it. The boat got loose, and drifted down the river. Walter did not notice this until he was quite a distance from the shore; then, turning round, he saw what had happened. Every moment the current was carrying him further from home. Walter was not a timid boy, and, instead of crying, he began to reason in this way: "The boat does not leak. It is safe and sound. There are no waves to make me afraid. The wind does not blow. Here on a seat is a thick blanket. In this box is a loaf of bread and a knife. The water of the river is good to drink, and here is a tin mug. I think I will not cry, but hope for the best." So he sat down. He called to some people on the shore; but they did not hear him. He stood up, and waved his hat to a man in a passing boat, and cried, "Help, help!" But the man thought it was some little fellow making fun of him. Meanwhile Walter's mother had become anxious. She ran down to the river, and followed his foot-tracks to the edge of the water. Then she ran back to her husband; but he was not in the house. In about an hour he came back, and she said, "Quick, quick! Get a boat, and call John to help you. Walter is drifting down the river in that little green boat, I am sure." Mr. Dale ran out of the house, called his man John, and they went down to the bank. Here they took a good fast boat, pulled it out into the stream, and began to row with the current. [Illustration] It was getting late. A mist was creeping over the great city of London. They could hardly see the tall stores, the masts and steeples on one side. But on they went, rowing swiftly with their good oars, as if for dear life. They looked out sharply on both sides to catch a sight of the little green boat. At last, when they had rowed about two miles, with the tide in their favor, Mr. Dale cried out, "I see it! I see it! But, ah! it is empty. I see no sign of a boy in it. What can have become of poor Walter?" On they rowed, and at last came up with the boat. Still no Walter was to be seen. The poor father was in despair, when all at once Walter started up from under the great blanket, where he had been hiding. He cried out, "Here I am, papa, safe and sound!" "Oh, you little rogue! Come here and let me pull your ears!" They all got back to their home in time for a late tea, which mother had kept warm for them. Walter was kissed and then cuffed; but the cuffs were so tender, that they made him laugh even more than the kisses. ALFRED STETSON. [Illustration] "FLUTTER, FLUTTER!" FLUTTER, flutter, with never a stop, All the leaves have begun to drop; While the wind, with a skip and a hop, Goes about gathering in his crop. Flutter, flutter, on bustling wings, All the plump little feathered things: Thrush and bobolink, finch and jay, Follow the sun on his holiday. Flutter, flutter, the snowflakes all Jostle each other in their fall, Crowd and push into last year's nest, And hide the seeds from robin-redbreast. Flutter, flutter, the hours go by; Nobody sees them as they fly; Nobody hears their fairy tread, Nor the rustle of their wings instead. MARY N. PRESCOTT. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 1.] [Illustration: CHRISTMAS BELLS.] "ARE you waking?" shout the breezes To the tree-tops waving high, "Don't you hear the happy tidings Whispered to the earth and sky? Have you caught them in your dreaming, Brook and rill in snowy dells? Do you know the joy we bring you In the merry Christmas bells? Ding, dong! ding, dong, Christmas bells! "Are you waking, flowers that slumber In the deep and frosty ground? Do you hear what we are breathing To the listening world around? For we bear the sweetest story That the glad year ever tells: How He loved the little children,-- He who brought the Christmas bells! Ding, dong! ding, dong, Christmas bells!" GEORGE COOPER. JACK THE MAGPIE. ONE day last summer, a man in Colorado found a magpie by the roadside. Its wings had been clipped, so that it could not fly. The man gave it to a little boy named Ernest Hart. He lived with his parents in a neat cottage near by a mountain stream. He ran home, and showed the bird to his sister Edith. They named it Jack. Jack was quite a large bird. His body was black as coal; his breast was white; and his wings and tail shaded off into a dark green. His bill was long and very strong. He had a shrewd, knowing look. As he was quite tame, he must have been some one's pet. He would hop and strut around in such a funny, pompous way, that one could not help laughing. He would take food from any one's hand, but would not let any one touch him, except Mr. Hart, the children's father. To Mr. Hart he seemed to take a great liking. He would hop on to his hand or shoulder: he would follow him all over the place. As soon as Mr. Hart came into the house, Jack would stand outside the door, and scream to him to come out. Indeed, Jack was almost too fond of him. One day when Mr. Hart was chopping wood, Jack kept laying his bill within two or three inches of the place where the axe fell. It seemed just as if he wanted his bill chopped off. Jack could talk a little. He could say "pretty," "what," and "yes, sir." When hungry, he would come round to the kitchen-door. There he would keep up a loud chattering, till food was given him to eat. Jack was shy of Marcus, the dog. But, while Marcus was eating his dinner, Jack would steal up, and seize a bone from the plate. Then he would run off and hide it. I believe that all magpies are thieves. I know that Jack was a sad thief. He would carry off almost any thing he saw lying about. One day he was caught in the act of carrying off the gardener's pipe. [Illustration] It was fun for Ernest and Edith to watch him at his mischief. All summer they made much of him. Now, in October, though the trees are still green and the wild flowers are not gone, we have had in our Colorado home a taste of winter. The ground has been white with snow. Jack is still with us, and seems quite happy. Edith and Ernest may stay here all winter. Perhaps I may tell you something of their winter sports. Would you like to hear it? AUNT SADIE. PORTRAITS FOR LITTLE FOLKS. THIS is Master Baby, Paying a morning call, Sitting so good upon his chair, But speaking not at all. Listening to every word, The funny little man! Wondering at the news he hears, Thinking all he can. [Illustration] This little lady, I'd have you know, Is Miss Mary Vernon, With cheeks in a glow. She has a doll Bella, Quite dear to her heart, And takes her to ride In a nice little cart. [Illustration] This is Tommy Trip: Bubbles he can blow; When a bubble breaks too soon, Tommy cries, "Don't go!" Older folks I know, Who their fine schemes make, And, when any fine scheme fails, Cry, "Oh, do not break!" [Illustration] 'Tis the winter cold, All the ponds are ice; Susan loves the winter cold, Calls the weather nice. Warm with muff and coat, She can go and skate; She can glide along the ice At a merry rate. [Illustration] This is Mary Jane, See! she has a saucer: To her cat she says, "Give me up your paw, sir. I've some fresh, nice milk You will relish greatly." Pussy then put up her paw; All this happened lately. [Illustration] This is Baby May: She looks out to spy If her own dear papa comes On the road near by. Yes, she sees him now, He is coming fast; For he loves his Baby May, Loves her first and last. K. G. [Illustration] [Illustration] AMONG THE HOLLY-BUSHES. AND who is this, looking out from amid the holly-bushes, this cold winter day? Whose sweet, merry, roguish face is this? She is wrapped up warm; she has gloves on her hands, and a nice thick hood on her head. It is my niece Clara. She has been out with her brothers and the men to gather holly and evergreen for Christmas. First they cut down a little pine for the Christmas-tree. It was not so very little either; for it was twenty feet high. There was snow on the ground, and they had a sledge on which to pile the hemlock-boughs, the evergreens, and the holly. Clara saw a squirrel run up a tree, and called to her brothers to look; but they were not quick enough to see it. Then she spied a hollow place by the side of a hill, and going to look at it, she found it was a little pond of ice. It was smooth as glass, and she and her brothers had a nice time sliding on it. Clara was sorry when it got to be twelve o'clock, and it was time to go home. The sledge was piled up with boughs, and the oxen wanted their dinner. Yes, they must go. But when Clara was nestled in her little bed that night, and had said her prayers, this was her thought, "Oh, I never shall forget this happy, happy day; the bright, bracing air, so sweet and clear; the mild, soft sunshine; the smell of the pines; the frolic on the pond; the ride on the sledge; the little snowbirds that came in a flock when I began to feed them. Oh, I never shall forget it; no, never, never-r-r, nev--;" And with this last word half uttered, my little niece fell asleep. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE BASKET OF APPLES. I. ALBERT is a bright little fellow. He is not three years old; but he can read ten words in "The Nursery." These words are, cat, dog, cow, horse, bird, mother, father, brother, sister, apple. One day, John the gardener left a basket of apples at the top of the garden-steps. Albert saw it, and knew it was meant for the house. "I will take it in," said he. "I am strong." [Illustration] II. But the basket was not so light as he had thought. Indeed it was quite heavy. Perhaps this was because it was full of apples. The gardener had just picked them from a fine old tree in the orchard. Albert was a stout little fellow; but the basket was too much for him. In trying to lift it, he upset it; and some of the apples rolled out down the steps as fast as they could go. Perhaps they saw it was a good chance to run away. [Illustration] III. Albert did not cry. He knew that crying would do no good. What was now the first thing to be done? Albert thought for a while, and said to himself, "The first thing to do is to set the basket upright." He did not find it hard work to do this. All the apples had not run out. Some were still in the basket. Albert picked up one, smelt of it, and then put it back. He next placed the basket upright. [Illustration] IV. Having done this so that the basket stood firm, he said, "What is the next thing to do? The next thing to do is to put back the apples; and I am the boy that can do it." And he did it well. He did not once think of keeping any of the apples for himself; nor did he even take a bite of one of them. He was a good boy, and too honest for that. If any one had said to him, "Give me an apple," Albert would have said, "The apples are not mine to give." [Illustration] V. "Now it is all right again," said Albert. "What next? If the basket will not let me carry it, the basket shall carry me. That would be fair play." So he mounted the basket, as you see, took hold of the handle with his left hand, and cried out, "Get up, sir!" He made believe it was a horse. "Get up, sir!" he cried. But the horse would not move. [Illustration] VI. Albert then began to shake the basket, as if to urge it on. Ah, me! who would have thought to see it play the gay horse in earnest? It seemed so gentle! Who would have thought to see it shy, and kick up, and throw Albert off? But so it did. Albert put out both hands to save himself, but he could not keep his seat. Over he went. [Illustration] VII. Over went the basket. Albert, apples, and all rolled down the steps. "Help!" he cried. The gardener ran up to see what was the matter. "Where are my apples?" said he. "Here!" said Albert, jumping up, for the lucky rogue was not hurt a bit. UNCLE SAM. [Illustration: Music] CHRISTMAS. Words by ALFRED SELWYN.[A] Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1. Christmas is coming, ho, ho, and ho, ho! Now bring on your holly and do not move slow; We'll deck the whole house with the branches so green, On wall and on picture the leaves shall be seen. Oh! merry the time when we all meet together In spite of the cold, the wind, and the weather, When grandparents, uncles, and cousins we see, All gather'd around the mahogany tree. 2. It stands in the hall, the mahogany tree; And very nice fruit it will bear, you'll agree; The turkeys and capons, the puddings and pies, On Christmas day feed something more than the eyes. The poor and the needy then come to our door, And carry off with them a bountiful store Of all the good things that we have for ourselves, In cupboard and cellar, on table and shelves. 3. When dinner is ended, what sound do we hear From holly-deck'd parlor ring merry and clear? 'Tis Uncle Tom's fiddle! the tune is a call To all the good people to come to our ball. They come, young and old, and partake of our cheer, For old Christmas comes only once in a year! Then hand up the holly, and let us prepare The house for the pleasure in which all can share. FOOTNOTE: [A] Nursery, Vol. XXIV. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
40753	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 2. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Almost ready for Launching 33 Louis's new Plant 36 "One-old-cat" 39 What is the Horse doing? 40 Why wouldn't the Kite fly? 45 Drawing-Lesson 49 Bertie at his Uncle's 50 Rich and Poor 56 Red Coral Beads 58 IN VERSE. PAGE The Would-be Travellers 37 A Queer Kitten 42 How Blue-Eyes watched for the New Year 43 The New-laid Egg 47 The Good Ship "Rosa Lee" 54 The Snow-Fairies 57 His Royal Highness 62 Nursery Song (_with music_) 64 [Illustration: ALMOST READY FOR LAUNCHING. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 2.] ALMOST READY FOR LAUNCHING. HERE we have a picture of a ship on the stocks, with a gang of men hard at work giving her the finishing touches. There are full twenty-six men in sight. What are they doing? Well, most of them, I think, are calkers. Do you know what that means? I will tell you. After the frame of a ship is set up, the timbers firmly bolted and braced, and the planking put on and fastened, inside and out, the next thing to be done is to make the seams water-tight. For this purpose, slivers of oakum, rolled up in the hand, are driven into the seams between the planks. When the seams are filled, they are covered with melted pitch or rosin to preserve the oakum from decay. This process is called calking. Most of the men seen in the picture are doing this work, but not all of them. Some are driving in the oakum with a tool called a calking-iron. Some are putting on the pitch. I will leave it for you to find out what the others are doing. If we could look on deck and on the other side of the ship, we should see men at work there too. Hark! Don't you hear the sound of their hammers? All is bustle, but there is no confusion. Every man knows what to do, and does his work with a will. After the calking is done, the painters will take their turn. They will put on two or three coats of paint; then the carvers and gilders will make a handsome figure-head; every thing will look as neat as a new pin; and then it will be time to be thinking of a name for the vessel, for, if I am not mistaken, the ship will be ready for launching. Let us fancy that we are present at the launch. I think I see her now gliding into the deep water that awaits her. She floats away from her cradle. She sits like a duck upon the water. She is staunch and strong and tight. So far the work has been well done. What comes next? [Illustration] The riggers will now take her in hand. Masts and yards and shrouds and sails will soon be in their places. Soon we shall see her in the harbor all ready for sea; and by and by, with sails all set and streamers all afloat, she will move gracefully down the bay. May she always have fair winds and prosperous voyages! UNCLE CHARLES. LOUIS'S NEW PLANT. LOUIS moved to a new home last spring, and, to his delight, had the use of a plot of ground for a garden. Beans, morning-glories, and other common plants, edged the little space; but his mamma planned to have some new thing in the centre. So they planted three or four peanuts. Louis expected to raise peanuts enough for the whole neighborhood; and one lady to whom he mentioned it engaged a bushel on the spot. In due time a little plant appeared, carrying one of the nuts on its head; but, finding that too much of a load, it left the parent nut on the surface of the ground, and sent bright green leaves up, and little threads of roots down, until, with its sisters, which had been growing in the same way, it made a group of three pretty plants. All summer Louis took pride in showing them. Although they grew so finely, many persons prophesied that they would never bear nuts. But, in the latter part of September, Louis dug from one of his plants a nut which was perfect in form, though not yet divided into shell and meat. It was like a raw potato. He waited patiently, and early in November he dug a saucer-full of well-ripened nuts. The plants had sent out a shoot from each joint, and these grew downward into the ground, and at the end of each shoot grew a nut. So Louis thinks it is correct to call it a ground-nut. Louis took a sample of the nuts to "The Nursery" office, and it was pronounced to be of good quality. Although he could not supply the order for a bushel, he intends to try again next year, and hopes to raise a larger crop. AUBURNDALE, MASS. LOUIS'S MAMMA. [Illustration] THE WOULD-BE TRAVELLERS. [Illustration] ARTHUR. OH, if I only had a pair Of Indian snow-shoes I could wear, The storms might beat, the winds might blow, Across the drifts I'd northward go, And see the Northland's splendid sights,-- The red, and green, and yellow lights, That up the sky at night-time stream, The icebergs on the sea that gleam, And, peering from his hut of snow, In walrus-coat, the Esquimau; And with my loud hurrah I'd scare From out his den the grizzly bear. [Illustration] BERTHA. And, if I only had a boat, I'd spread my sail, and eastward float, And see the far-off Eastern lands, The palm-trees, and the desert sands, The camels and the caravans; Tall shining towers, and curious towns, And men with turbans on, and gowns; And bring home, lovely to behold, A charming dress of cloth-of-gold. [Illustration] DICK. And, if I only had a horse, I'd westward, westward take my course; With flying feet and floating mane He'd gallop with me o'er the plain; As lightly as the wind we'd pass Across the waving prairie-grass, And strange, tall blossoms, blue and red, Would nod about my horse's head. ELSIE. And, if I had some wings to fly, I'd southward soar along the sky, And see the Southland all aglow With roses, when with us there's snow; And flutter down to rest me, where The starry myrtle scents the air, And humming-birds dart out and in The blossoms of the jessamine; Where his green mate the parrot calls, And oranges, like golden balls, Hang on the boughs, I'd spend the hours In gathering figs, and plucking flowers. LITTLE SUSY. Oh, if you want to, and you can, I'm willing you should roam; But I'm dear mother's little girl, I'll stay with her at home. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration] "ONE-OLD-CAT." GRANDMA sat at the window one fine afternoon, knitting. In a group, on the ground below, sat three little boys dressed in blue sailor suits, red stockings, and polo caps. "What nice-looking little boys!" thought grandma. Presently up jumped one boy, and said, "Come on, fellows, let's play something."--"All right," said another boy, "One-old-cat." Then they all ran into the house. "Dear me!" said grandma, "I thought they were good boys; but they seem to be going to tease pussy." In a few minutes the boys came back. One of them carried a large club, while another had something which grandma, who could not see very well, took to be a stone. "Oh, what cruel boys!" thought the old lady. "It's bad enough to tie things to a cat's tail; but to beat her with a club and to throw stones at her is still worse." "I'll be pitcher," shouted one of the boys. "There!" said grandma, "he says he'll pitch her. Who would believe that boys in red stockings and blue suits could be so cruel?" "I'll be inner," cried another boy. "Inner!" said grandma. "What does that mean? Some new expression. I have no doubt, which I never before heard; but an old lady of eighty years can't be expected to keep up with the times. It's something dreadful, of course." But what was the old lady's surprise when the boys threw aside their blue jackets, and two of them began to throw the "stone" back and forth, one to the other; while the third boy stood between, striking at it as it flew through the air, and sometimes hitting it and sometimes not. There they staid all the afternoon doing the same thing. "Why," said grandma, putting on her glasses, and looking more closely. "I declare! they're only playing ball, after all. Well, I'm glad they're not so cruel as I thought them. They are such pretty little boys, and have such pretty red stockings too!" "But," said she, after a long pause, "there is still one thing that troubles me. Where is the 'old cat'?" MATTIE B. BANKS. WHAT IS THE HORSE DOING? CAN any one of my young readers guess from the picture what the horse is doing to the dog? Do not read the rest of my story till you have tried to answer this question. Some boys had placed in a field a snare by which they hoped to catch a rabbit. It was a sort of noose made of coarse, twisted grass. Fido, the dog, put one of his forefeet in the noose, and in trying to get away his leg was doubled up by it. [Illustration] He limped off howling to his friend Hero, an old horse that was grazing near by. Fido lifted up his leg, and Hero at once saw what was the matter. But Hero had no knife with which to cut the noose. What could he do? He did not stay long in doubt. He put down his head, and began to gnaw at the noose. Taking good care not to bite Fido, he nibbled at the wisp of twisted grass till it dropped off, and the good dog was free. You should have seen Fido as he scampered round, jumped up, and barked at his old friend. "Barked at him?" Yes; but it was all in play, as much as to say, "You dear old Hero! How I thank you! I will do as much for you, should you ever get into trouble. Bow, wow, wow!" And Hero galloped round, and threw up his heels, but took good care not to hit his friend Fido. Each seemed to be glad in the feeling that a kind act had been done. This is a true story, and Mr. Harrison Weir has told it well in his drawing. UNCLE CHARLES. A QUEER KITTEN. CHRISTMAS-DAY, in her stocking, Our Marion found a prize,-- A dear little spotted kitten With wonderful bright blue eyes; With fur that was fluffy as cotton, Yellow and white and gray, With paws that were soft as velvet, And brimful of fun and play. She looked at her little mistress, And loved her, it seemed, at sight; For she climbed on Marion's shoulder, Purring with all her might,-- Careful never to hurt her With sharp little tooth or nail; But one thing was very funny,-- The kitty had never a tail. "O mamma!" Marion shouted, "What in the world can ail This dear little baby-kitty, That she hasn't a bit of tail? "How funny!" said Marion puzzled, And wondering almost frowned, "What will she have to play with, And run after, round and round? "Did somebody snip it with scissors Or pinch it off in the door? Did you ever see a kitten Without a tail, before?" Then mamma laughed at her darling, And kissed her, and then began To tell her about the kittens That come from the Isle of Man. E. A. A. [Illustration] HOW BLUE-EYES WATCHED FOR THE NEW YEAR. LITTLE Miss Blue-Eyes shook her head At nurse's call, "Come, time for bed!" "Oh, no! oh, no indeed! not yet! I'm 'stonished at you! you forget That I and all my family Must watch the Old Year out, you see, And I must be the first to say To all, 'A happy New Year's Day!'" "Oh, bless your little heart, my dear!" Said nurse, "the New Year won't be here Till midnight hour: your curly head Must long ere then be snug in bed." But Blue-Eyes answered, "No, _no_, NO! Please, nursie, do not make me go! I mean to keep awake, and hear The bells that ring in the New Year." But, when the nurse came back to peep, A minute later, sound asleep Was little Blue-Eyes on the floor; And still she slept while nursie bore Her softly to the pretty bed Which waited for the curly head. And the New Year was bright with sun, Ere little Blue-Eyes' sleep was done. [Illustration] Then the gay sunbeams kissing her Caused the small, drowsy limbs to stir, Caused the blue eyes to open wide, And see her mother at her side: And "Happy New Year!" all things said To this same little sleepy head, Who meant to be the first to say, "To all a happy New Year's Day!" MARY D. BRINE. [Illustration] WHY WOULDN'T THE KITE FLY? JACK and Fred sat on the steps, trying to think of something to do. They had spent their morning in digging wells and ditches in the sand; for it was vacation-time, and they were living down by the sea. Just before dinner they had been in bathing. Since dinner they had been over in the fields, picking up long feathery grasses to put in mamma's vases. And now, what should they do next? At last, Jack thought it would be fine fun to make a large kite, much larger than any they had ever seen. Fred said he would help; and off they ran to get sticks, tacks, paper, paste, and string, so as to have every thing ready. When they could think of nothing else that was needed, they set to work. Jack cut and tacked the sticks together, just as the smaller ones were in his little old kite; while Fred cut the papers, and made the tail. Having joined the four ends of the sticks with string, they covered the whole with newspaper, pasted nicely, and left the kite in the sun to dry. Then Jack thought of one thing that had been forgotten: they had not tied on the string. So they had to cut a hole in their paper, and put the string through. Then, of course, the holes had to be patched up again, and this took a good while. The wind was blowing quite briskly, and the boys thought they could not wait any longer, although the kite was not quite dry. Fred said he would pitch the kite, if Jack would let out the string. You can imagine how Fred looked, as he ran out before the wind, with this big kite that was much taller than himself. Jack said it seemed as though the kite had legs of its own, and was walking off. Fred pitched the kite. It went up bravely. Jack ran with it, letting out the string, little by little, when, all of a sudden, there came a heavy gust of wind. The string broke, and the kite fluttered down, flat on the ground. But these boys had been taught to always "try again." So they went to look for a stronger string. Jack thought of the clothes-line. Off he went, and soon came back with a good long rope. This they tied on, and now they thought the kite would surely fly. Jack pitched it this time, and what do you think happened? The string was too heavy. The kite went up, but soon came down; and, what was worse, the paper was so thin, that the wind tore it all to pieces. "Never mind!" said Jack, "we'll try again to-morrow. You see, Fred, if we have a large kite, we must have a strong cover for it and a stout string." Then the two boys went to work, and covered the kite-frame with cloth. They got a string that was very strong but not too heavy; and the next day they had a grand time flying their kite. Some day I will tell you more about these boys who were always ready to "try again." M. THE NEW-LAID EGG. WHO laid the egg? "Cut, cut-ca-dah!" said the hen: "When the clock struck ten, I laid an egg." [Illustration] Who'll take it to the house? "I," said little Dick: "I'm very quick, And I'll take it to the house." [Illustration] Who knows how to cook it? "I," said good Mary Ann; "In my own frying-pan: I know how to cook it." [Illustration] Who'll eat it when it's done? "I," said little Phil, "Because I am ill: "I'll eat it when it's done." [Illustration] Who'll lay another? "Cluck, cluck, cluck!" said the hen; "Feed me well and then I'll lay another." [Illustration] C. L. K. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 2.] BERTIE AT HIS UNCLE'S. BERTIE is a little boy six years old. His home is in the country. He has an uncle Frank. Uncle Frank lives in the city. Bertie has come to uncle Frank's house to stay two weeks. He has never until now been away from his papa and mamma for a day. But he thinks he shall not mind it, because uncle Frank is such a funny man. He can make you believe that there is a big bumble-bee on your hair, or flying and buzzing about the room. He can squeak just like a mouse, or mew like a cat, or chirp like a bird. But uncle Frank cannot play with Bertie all day long. He has an office down town, where he must stay part of the time. So he tells Bertie to keep off the street, and be sure not to follow the circus, or the man with the organ and monkey. Bertie says he will stay in the house, and visit with Poll the parrot, and Dick, the canary. "If you need any thing more to make you happy, ask Dora the housekeeper for it. She will look after your wants till I return," uncle Frank says as he takes leave of Bertie at the door. "Good-by, uncle Frank!" says Bertie. "Don't follow the circus! don't follow the circus!" cries Poll from her perch. Bertie laughs, and answers back, "Don't scold! don't scold!" This puts Poll in the very best of humor. She turns up her eyes, tries to look smart, and screams back at the top of her voice, "Thieves, thieves! Call the police; call the police!" Then Dora comes in, and finds uncle Frank gone. She tells Bertie she has something to show him. He follows her out through the kitchen, and up a long pair of stairs, to an attic. There is a large box in the attic. Dora calls it a chest. It is painted blue, and has a lid to it. The lid is made of woven wire. Dora goes on tiptoe and looks over into the box. Then she softly raises the lid, and lifts Bertie up so that he can see into it. "Oh, what funny cats!" cries little Bertie. [Illustration] "Indeed they are not cats," Dora says, smiling. "Then they must be little puppies. But what red eyes they have! and such straight bodies! How funny they do look!" Bertie says. "No, my little man, they are not puppies. You will have to guess once more," says the good-natured housekeeper. "Are they rabbits?" asks Bertie. "No, not rabbits, either," is the reply. "Guess again." "Oh, please tell me what they are!" pleads Bertie. "I am sure that I can never, never guess all alone." Dora laughs, and says they will go down and get Poll the parrot to help him guess. Poll is still on her perch; and Dora, holding a cream-cracker, says, "Here is a nice cracker, Poll. Now tell Bertie what is in the big chest in the attic." [Illustration] "Polly wants a cracker!" cries the bird. "What is in the attic?" asks Dora. "Ferrets, ferrets! Run, rats! Run for your lives!" screams the parrot. "Polly wants a cracker!" "There, my little man; now do you know what is in the chest?" asks Dora as she gives the cracker to Poll. "Polly says they are ferrets," replies Bertie, dropping his eyes; "but I do not know what that means." So Dora asks Bertie to sit beside her, and she will tell him about the little ferrets. Just as she finishes a nice long story about an old ferret and a great long-tailed rat, a little girl's voice under the table calls out, "Come here, Bertie: I want to tell you something." Bertie slides down from the sofa, and runs to the table. He lifts up a corner of the table-cover and looks under. There is nothing to be seen there, except a pair of very crooked legs, which belong to the table, of course. "What does all that mean, I wonder!" Bertie says. And his eyes are as round as moons. But, before Dora can reply, the same voice says, "Go to the door, Bertie: there is something there for you." Bertie walks slowly toward the door, but stops halfway there, and asks, "Is it April-fool's Day?" And the voice under the table answers, "Go to the door and see." So Bertie tries to look bold, and marches up, like a soldier going to battle. "Left, left! right, right!" calls out the voice under the table. But this time it is loud and strong, like that of a captain of the drill. Bertie is a brave little boy: so he marches straight up to the door,--which stands open,--and looks out. Then he claps his chubby hands, and shouts, "Oh! it was my uncle Frank under the table. I forgot he was such a funny man. Oh, uncle Frank! How can you get in the house and out of the house, and nobody see you?" "Look down here at me!" says a strange barking voice from the bottom of the steps. Bertie looks, and sees something that makes his eyes brighter than ever. It is a great, black, shaggy dog, hitched to such a nice little express-wagon. The harness fits its wearer as nicely as can be, and has silver rings and buckles. The reins are red, white, and blue. A neat whip lies across the seat of the wagon. On the sides of the wagon, in large gilt letters, are the words, "CITY EXPRESS." The dog has a bright silver collar around his neck, with a small bell hung from it. The dog's name is on this collar. It is Nero. [Illustration] But when uncle Frank tells Bertie that the dog, and the wagon, and the pretty harness, and the whip, are all his own to keep, he is so glad that he jumps up and down like a young monkey. He says, "Thank you, thank you, uncle Frank! When I am a man, I shall try and be just like you." Then his uncle lifts him into the express-wagon, gives him the reins and the whip, and away they go, down the area-walk, to the stable. M. J. TAYLOR. [Illustration] THE GOOD SHIP "ROSA LEE." "GAYLY, gayly, over the sea, Over the sea and far away, Sail, my good ship 'Rosa Lee,' Bring ivory, silk, and gold to me In another summer's sunniest day. "Ever and ever so many a mile, Deep in the endless, hazy blue, Is a golden shore and a spicy isle; The orange blooms there all the while; And the monkeys laugh at the kangaroo. "Purple and yellow and emerald-green, The parrots flit in the groves of palm; Like sparks of living fire are seen The humming-birds that hover between The scarlet blooms in a tropic calm. "Over the blue, unending sea Sail away, and into the west, Till the west is east; then come to me, Freighted as full as full can be Of all that misty island's best,-- "Dust of gold and apples of gold, A kangaroo, and a monkey or two, A cage of parrots to laugh and scold, And a silken web, that, when unrolled, Would reach to the moon, and back to you." The boy lets slip his cedarn boat; Gaily she scuds before the breeze, With a steady helm, till, far remote, Only a dim, white speck afloat Is the last glimpse of her that ever he sees. No matter! His thoughts sail far and free With his good ship, and he finds new joy In learning of lands beyond the sea; And this is the freight of his "Rosa Lee,"-- Better than gold to the eager boy. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. [Illustration] RICH AND POOR. HERE is a young girl taking a walk on a cold day. She is strong and well. Her dress is very thick. She has a fur cape, and a muff, and good stout shoes. See how fine she looks. She does not seem to mind the biting frost. [Illustration] But see this poor old woman tottering along. She wraps her thin cloak around her, but it does not keep out the keen air. She is very cold. [Illustration] I hope that the rich young girl will give some aid to the poor old woman. A. B. C. [Illustration] THE SNOW-FAIRIES. THE moon was dim when we went to bed, And the stars were covered over, When the wee white fairies came o'erhead, And, whirling down the wind, they sped The trees and ground to cover. They danced all night o'er field and rill To the pipe the breeze was blowing: When the sun came peeping up the hill To see what made the world so still, They whispered, "Let's be going!" GEORGE COOPER. RED CORAL BEADS. "DID I ever tell you how I lost my red coral beads, and where they were found?" I said this to my boys, Roy and Fred, one frosty night, when we were all gathered around the bright open fire. [Illustration] "No!" said Fred decidedly. "That is a new story. Does it tell about the time when you were a little girl? and about the farmhouse and the sitting-room with the big fireplace, and the bellows, and the queer hour-glass, and the old-fashioned iron snuffers in a red tray?" "Yes," I answered, "it is about every thing you like to hear so well." Then I told the story as follows:-- "My story begins in the long, low, pleasant farmhouse sitting-room, with its big beam running across the low ceiling. There was also a great fireplace, and a wide stone hearth. There we children cracked our nuts, and there, on winter evenings, a great basket of Rhode-Island Greenings always stood warming in the corner. Of course there was a wide mantel over the fireplace. On it stood two tall silver candlesticks, between them were the hour-glass and the snuffer-tray, and at each end of the shelf was a stiff vase, filled with peacock feathers." [Illustration] "Don't forget the windows," interrupted Roy. "Never fear," I said. "The windows were the loveliest I ever saw,--wide, and deep, and low, and cushioned with red morseen." "And your grandmother always sat at the south window, knitting, and reading out of the Bible or the Pilgrim's Progress," said Fred. [Illustration] "And she had a bag of red-and-white sugar-plums, to give you when you were good," continued Roy. "That is all true," I observed. "What comes next?" "Why, the chrysanthemum-window, of course," said both boys in a chorus. "There were yellow, red, and white ones," continued Roy. "Yes," said I, "and I will tell you of the many other pleasant things in the room that I so dearly love to remember." "There was a chintz lounge, a striped home-made carpet, a big arm-chair for father, and a high-backed rocking-chair for my mother. "But the most attractive place in the whole room was the corner cupboard. It had a carved green door, and was painted inside a bright vermilion-red. On one shelf stood a silver tankard filled with solid silver spoons, and behind it, in stately shining rows, my grandmother's pewter platters. "On the next higher shelf stood a set of pink china, a little stout green pitcher, a dozen wine-glasses, and a great blue punch-bowl, gorgeous with yellow butterflies hovering over great double pink roses. "There were tumblers of jelly on the top shelf, and jars of preserves, and covered glass dishes of honey, and a box made of colored porcupine-quills, in which mother kept her currants, raisins, citron, and candied lemon-peel. "Now comes the story-part. One day my brothers were all out in the woods setting traps. Mother had just run into Mrs. Newman's for a little call, grandma was spending the day in town, and Alice, my sister, was out working among the flowers. "Suddenly I thought, 'How good those raisins in the porcupine box would taste!' I did not pause long to consider, but climbed the red shelves of the closet, took down the blue-and-yellow box, and helped myself. I set it back again hastily, for I heard Alice coming in at the back-door. That very night I missed my red coral beads. [Illustration] "'They are gone for good,' said my grandma, 'for I saw the child playing on the sand-bank before I went away.'--'And she has been on the hay-mow,' chimed in my brothers.--'And all over the pine-grove with me,' said Alice.--'And down to the grist and saw mill with me,' observed father. "I mourned greatly over my loss; for my beads were precious, and I prized them more highly than any thing else I possessed. A few nights after my loss, mother, who had gone up to bed with us as usual, said very gravely, 'Susan, I have found your beads; and where do you think they were?' "I could not tell, of course. 'They were in the porcupine-box,' continued mother; 'and now how came they there?' I told her all about it. My little sin had found me out. "'Your necklace was a silent witness,' said my mother. I wanted to ask what a 'silent witness' was, but was too much ashamed. The next day I was sent to the store for more raisins and citron. Alice went with me. "As we left the store, I heard Mr. Dallas, the merchant, say to his clerk, 'Mrs. Chapin is a good customer. She bought two pounds of raisins and a pound of citron only last week, and to-day as much more. I guess they are expecting company. Shouldn't at all wonder if John's folks were coming.' "My uncle John did come, and brought his pretty new wife, aunt Dorothy. Mother made lovely frosted pound-cake with plums in it, and mince-pies filled with fruit; but what I remember best of all is that she made for me a little plain cake, and left out all the raisins and currants." "I think it was real mean for your mother to do so," said Fred, excited, and almost tearful. "I think it was just right," I added. "It taught me a lesson I never forgot." Since telling this story to my boys, I have observed that the lump-sugar that I keep in the blue china punch-bowl lasts much longer than it has for months before. And this is the moral of my story, I suppose. SARAH THAXTER THAYER. [Illustration] [Illustration] HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS. HIS Royal Highness is out of town. The blinds are closed, and the shades are down, And silence reigns in the house where he Was wont to frolic with merry glee. Lonely and drear as a desert-place Is the home that misses his merry face; And even the skies appear to frown When His Royal Highness is out of town. His Royal Highness will give command As if he fancied he owned the land, And all his vassals his laws fulfil As if delighted to do his will. So sweet and winning his royal sway His slightest wishes they all obey; With smiling faces on errands go When His Royal Highness says thus or so. You'd hardly think that the rosy chap Sitting up there in his mother's lap, Sweet and smiling, dimpled and fat, Was very much of an autocrat; Yet never a king on his throne could be More determined to rule than he, And a merry hubbub he's sure to make When His Royal Highness is wide awake. Some days he's merry; some days he's sad; And none are troubled when he is glad; Sometimes he's cross, and they're sure to say "His Royal Highness is sick to-day." They strive to humor his every mood, And now the noises are all subdued; On tip-toe lightly his vassals creep, For His Royal Highness is fast asleep. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. [Illustration] [Illustration: music] NURSERY SONG. Words by GEO. COOPER. Music by HATTIE R. GILMOR. 1. Where do all the daisies go! I know, I know! Underneath the snow they creep, Nod their little heads and sleep; In the spring-time out they peep; ... That is where they go. Yes! That is where they go. 2. Where do all the birdies go? I know, I know! Far away from winter snow, To the fair, warm South they go, There they stay till daisies blow; That is where they go. 3. Where do all the babies go? I know, I know! In the glancing firelight warm, Safely sheltered from all harm, Soft they lie on mother's arm; That is where they go. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. Page 35, repeated word "to" removed. Original read (mamma planned to to have some) Page 62, the format of the first word of the poem was changed from regular text to match the format of the first words of the rest of the text. 
40754	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 3. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Telling a Story 65 Turtles 71 Feeding the Swans in Winter 72 Two Friends 74 The Swallows' Nest 76 Drawing-Lesson 81 The Faithful Sentinel 86 Bruce and Old Sheepy 88 Elfrida's Present 92 "Parley-voo" 93 IN VERSE. PAGE To the Snowdrop 69 Rather Bashful 72 Bird, Lamb, Baby 75 The Gentleman in Gray 78 The Little Scholars 80 The Three Dolls 82 "Right of Way" 91 Winter (_with music_) 96 [Illustration: VOL. XXIX.--NO. 3.] TELLING A STORY. DREAR and cold is the winter outside; but within there is a bright fire on the hearth. Jane and Susie, and Charles and John, and their elder sister Ann, are all seated comfortably in front of it. And now the children call on sister Ann to tell them a story; and this is what she tells them:-- "When I was a girl, and wanted to hear a story, and the grown-up people didn't feel like telling me one, they would say,-- "'I'll tell you a story about Jack O'Nory; And now my story's begun. I'll tell you another about Jack and his brother; And now my story's done.' "Now, every time this was said to me, I would think that I really should hear the story about Jack O'Nory, or the other one about Jack and his brother. But it was always the same; just as I thought the story was coming, I would hear, instead, 'And _now_ my story's done.' "One day, when I begged for one of the stories, my aunt told me that I couldn't hear about Jack O'Nory or his brother, because Mother Goose never told the stories about them; that she just began, and then thought better of it. After that I didn't ask any more; but I said to myself, 'If ever I get big, I'll find out those stories.' And so, sure enough, I did. And I am going to tell one of them now,--the one about Jack O'Nory himself. "'It is a story that all came of his having a great liking for buns. Jack lived in the next house to Mother Goose, and every morning, if she peeped between the curtains, she was sure to see Jack waiting on the pavement for the bun-man. You see the bun-man went around very early, so that people could have their buns for breakfast. "'But one morning Jack slept too late, and, when he ran out, the bun-man had already gone by and was almost out of sight. Jack ran after him, but could not catch him. [Illustration] "'It didn't seem to Jack a bit nice, not to have any bun with his milk that morning; and so all day Jack kept saying to himself, "That bun-man won't get by the house to-morrow morning without my knowing it, I guess!" And this was the last thing he thought of as he took off his shoes and stockings at night before the fire. [Illustration] "'But all his thinking did not seem to be of much use; for, before he had slept half as long as he wanted to, he heard the jingle of the bun-man's bell. Up he jumped, pulled on his clothes as fast as he could, and had got on all except one shoe, when the bell rang below the window. Down he ran, but the bun-man wasn't there. "'Jack forgot that he had on only one shoe, and started to run after the man. He was soon only half a square behind him; but just then the man turned a corner, and was out of sight. Jack turned the corner too; but the man had walked fast and was just turning another corner. "'Poor Jack began to think he was not going to get his bun; but he still ran on, and turned the next corner and the next, for the bun-man seemed to be always turning corners. Jack got very hot, and was just beginning to cry, when, as he was turning the ninth corner after the man, he saw him go into a house. [Illustration] "'"Ah!" thought Jack, "that's the place where they make the buns. I'll hurry in after him, and then I'll surely get my bun, and he'll tell me the way home besides." "'So in went Jack. But the man was not to be seen. There was nothing to be seen except buns, all in great piles like walls, and all smoking hot. Jack was very warm already, you know, and the steam from so many hot buns made him warmer still; but he tried not to mind it, and walked on, looking all the time for the bun-man. "'He could hear his bell every little while; but the more he tried to go where the bell was, the more he could not find it, Jack by this time, had gone through so many rooms, that he did not know how to get out: so he went down some stairs that he saw ahead of him, and found himself in the place where the buns were baked. "'There were plenty of men here, all in baker's caps; but instead of making buns, they were pouring out milk for two rows of little boys, who stood, each with a bib under his chin and a bun in his hand. The strangest part of it was that the boys did not seem to be a bit hot, while poor Jack was almost melting. Jack thought that if he could only drink some milk, he should feel better. [Illustration] "'But just as he was about to take his place with the rest of the boys, they disappeared, and instead of pouring out milk, the men were shovelling buns out of ovens on all sides of the room. Now, Jack had heard his mamma tell about the great oven that buns were baked in, and he had always wanted to see one: so he ran up to the door to look in. "'The heat drove him back, and he turned quickly to run, just as one of the bakers was putting his shovel in for more buns. The baker did not notice him, and, the first thing Jack knew, the baker's elbow drove him bump against the oven door. My! how he screamed! [Illustration] "'Then, all of a sudden, there was no oven to be seen, only a fire; and his mother was coming in at the door,--not the bun-man's door, but his own nursery door,--saying, "Why, Jack, not undressed yet! I sent you to bed a half-hour ago!" "'But she stopped suddenly, and picked Jack up, hugging and kissing him, and calling his father to go for the doctor. Poor Jack! what with the hurt on his head, and his mother's crying, and the thought of the strange bake-shop, he wondered whether he was Jack O'Nory at all. "'While he was wondering the doctor came, and his mother began to tell him about Jack's hurt. "You see, doctor," she said, "my little boy went to sleep as he was sitting very near the fire, and fell over and cut his head against the hot andiron." "'Then Jack knew that the bun-man, the bake-shop, and the oven, were all a dream. He told his mamma the dream, and she promised him three buns every day till his head was well. Then she tucked him up in his bed, and told him not to dream of the bun-man again.' "So this is the story of Jack O'Nory. Some day 'I'll tell you another about Jack and his brother, and _now_ my story is done!'" MRS. HENRIETTA R. ELIOT. [Illustration] TO THE SNOW-DROP. EMBLEM of purity, gracefully lifting Petals of beauty 'mid wintry snows drifting; Brave little snow-drop, so fair and so hardy, First flower to welcome the spring chill and tardy,-- Frost cannot wither thee, cold cannot frighten, Patiently tarrying till skies may brighten; Snow-piercer, cloud-gazer, wind-scorner, eye-cheerer, Bring to my heart thy dear message yet nearer. When age or sorrow is darkly impending, Snows of adversity thickly descending, Then, springing out of them, checked by no blasting, Let there bloom thoughts of the life everlasting. Coming, like snow-drops, amid our endurance, Bringing to each weary heart the assurance, To joy's frozen waste spring draws nigher and nigher, And death is the way to life higher and higher. EPES SARGENT. [Illustration] TURTLES. ALMOST every one thinks of turtles as exceedingly slow and stupid. Perhaps they may be rather slow, though you know who won the race in the fable of the turtle and the hare. As for their stupidity, I doubt whether they are so very stupid, for I once had one that seemed to me very bright. When I put him on the floor or ground, he would stay quite still, and draw in his head and legs, until I turned away, or busied myself with something else; then he would make off as fast as his little legs would carry him. I once lost one in that way: so, now that I know their tricks, I am more careful. But certainly that turtle must have had some sense to be able to tell when my back was turned, or even when I was not looking. Their habits are quite peculiar. In summer they stay in the water most of the time, coming out only now and then to sun themselves on some log or branch. In the winter they bury themselves in the mud, or remain in a torpid state. When spring comes, they lay their eggs. They live chiefly on bugs; but I have heard of one living a whole year without any thing to eat. They are very patient, and I have seen one try for hours to get over a wall that one would think he could never get over; and yet he would succeed. I have a turtle now that will have a funny story to tell his friends, if he ever reaches his native home again. This is it: I once took him to school with me, and left him in a box, with the cover half open, on a table in the dressing-room. In about an hour I heard a suppressed laugh from one of the girls, and, looking up, I saw Mr. Turtle calmly walking into school. He wanted to learn something as well as the rest of us. LITTLE CHICK. RATHER BASHFUL! UNDER this great sunbonnet Is hid a pretty face, Belonging to a little girl Whose name, they say, is Grace. She is a merry little girl, As good as good can be; But she is rather bashful, As any one may see. W. FEEDING THE SWANS IN WINTER. IT is a cold day in February. The icicles hang from the trees. The pond is partly frozen over. Mary and her dog Pug have come down to take a look at the swans. The swans are often fed by girls and boys in the summer; but in winter they have few visitors: so they are glad to see Mary, and waddle up on the ice to meet her. She feeds them with something that looks to me like a banana, and they eat it greedily. Pug looks on fiercely, as though he did not quite approve of their doings, and had half a mind to interfere. [Illustration] Take care, Pug: you had better keep in the background. A blow from a swan's wing would not be good fun to a small dog. Let the swans eat their luncheon in peace. IDA FAY. TWO FRIENDS. JANE and Ann were good friends, but one morning they had a quarrel. They soon made it up. Jane put her arms round Ann's neck, and said, "I am sorry." Ann gave her a kiss, and they were friends again. [Illustration] Here you see them taking a walk. They have on good warm coats, for it is a very cold day. Just see how lovingly they clasp each other. They are having a nice little chat. I wonder what they are saying. [Illustration] A. B. C. [Illustration: BIRD, LAMB, BABY.] THERE was a wee bird that would not sleep, Though twilight was falling hushed and deep, And what did its mother do? She sang it the song it loved the best, She folded it softly in the nest, And then, ere that mother knew, Her birdie had gone to sleep. [Illustration] There was a wee lamb that still would play, Though others were resting, after day, And what did its mother do? She called it so gently to her side, She soothed it with loving care and pride, And then, ere that mother knew, Her lambkin had gone to sleep. There was a wee babe that would not rest, Though crimson and purple crowned the west, And what did its mother do? She made this wee song of lamb and bird, She sang it so softly, every word, And then, ere that mother knew, Her darling had gone to sleep. GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] THE SWALLOWS' NEST. CHARLEY came from school one Friday afternoon. He was going home with his grandfather, at whose house he was to spend the next day. It was the month of May; and the drive of ten miles among the green trees and fields was very delightful. There were no playmates for Charley at grandpa's; but with a calf at the barn, several broods of chickens, and four kittens, he found enough to occupy his mind. He was up very early in the morning, and it was after ten o'clock when he came into the kitchen rather hungry. [Illustration] "Look under the cloth on the table, Charley," called his grandma from the sitting-room. "You'll find a little cake I baked for you. Don't you see it?" she asked, coming into the kitchen. "There, that one." "Oh!" said Charley, "I thought that was a loaf." Then, taking the cake in his hand, he sat on a rock at the foot of a tree a little distance from the house, and began to eat with great relish. Not far from him, and a little way from the other buildings, was the corn-barn, and at one end of its roof was a bird-house, which had been taken by two little birds for their home. Charley saw one bird come out and fly away. While she was gone, her mate kept watch at a short distance to see that no harm came to the eggs that were within. Charley noticed, that, in flying, these birds had different motions from the sparrows and robins which lived about his own home in the city, and, when he went nearer, he saw that they were swallows. As he watched them pass in and out of their house, he observed that there was something inside that opened and shut like a door. It was pressed back when the birds went in, and sprang into place again as soon as they were inside. Charley could not make out what it was, and ran to the house to ask about it. "Grandma," he said, "is there a real door to the swallows' house?" "They make one for themselves," she answered: "there is no door to the box. You know their house stands where it is exposed to all the winds, and, on some days since they came, they must have felt the cold very much. But I saw one come flying home one day with a turkey's feather in his beak, and they worked away at it very busily until they had placed it as you see. It keeps out the wind, and makes the house much more comfortable." Charley went back to look at the door again, and wished he could be small enough, for a few minutes, to go inside the bird-house, and see just how it was fastened. But he could not have his wish, and the swallows kept their secret. SUSAN CHENERY. THE GENTLEMAN IN GRAY. HUSH, little May! Snuggle here by my side: Do you see in that corner a door open wide? That's the door of a house: if you watch it a minute, The shy little owner will come and sit in it. See! there he comes; in a gray velvet hat, With his shining black eyes looking this way and that, And his velvet-shod feet: if you stir but a lash, They'll twinkle and vanish as quick as a flash. What do you fancy he does in the dark, When the fire has gone down to the very last spark, When the girls and the boys are in bed and asleep, And there's never a cat on the carpet to creep? Why, out of his doorway he walks at his ease, And brings his relations and friends, if he please, He picks up the crumbs of your candy and cake: From the tiniest fragments a feast he can make. He swings on the tassels, he climbs up the shelf; He peeps in the mirror and winks at himself; He drops from the table, and lands with a thump; He slides down the sofa, and squeaks at the bump. There, now he grows bolder; he's out on the floor; He's eating an apple-seed there by the door; He's under the table; he's--where did you say? Oh, here he is! there he is! shoo! get away! EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE LITTLE SCHOLARS. AT your books! A goodly sight! Learn to cipher, read, and write; What you do, do always well; Let your aim be to excel. If you fail, why, try again; Mend your pencil or your pen, Straighten and perfect the line; Make the fine mark still more fine; Make the curve a little better; Let no flaw be in the letter; So by trying you will gain Till perfection you attain. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 3.] THE THREE DOLLS. ROSY. "OH, let me see your dolly!" KATE. (_Holding up a handsome doll._) "Take care! you must not touch; For she was bought in Paris, And oh, she cost so much! Her dress is richest satin, 'Tis trimmed with nicest lace. I do not dare to kiss her, For fear 'twould spoil her face. Such dainty little slippers I'm sure you never saw! We keep her wrapped in paper Within the bureau-drawer. Just see her shining necklace! I think 'tis truly gold. Oh, mine's a splendid dolly, But she's too fine to hold!" ROSY. "And do you have one, Lizzie?" [Illustration] LIZZIE. (_Bringing slowly out an old doll which she has been holding in her hand behind her._) "Oh, mine's a perfect fright! I tried to keep her hidden She's such a sorry sight. If you had been here Christmas, I know you would have said That she was very lovely, With cheeks like roses red, And hair that shone like sunbeams, And pretty, tasteful gown; But I have been too heedless Where I have laid her down. I'd start up in a hurry, And drop her here or there. Her head--aunt Sally crushed it: I left it in a chair. Bad Jip, our naughty puppy, Has dragged her all about. She lost one arm; the sawdust Has from her form come out. Her head is cracking open, Her clothes are soiled and old, Yet this poor battered dolly Is all I have to hold. And I can have no other, My mother says to me, Until I learn more careful And orderly to be." [Illustration] JENNY. "Well, you may take mine, Rosy, And play with her: I know You will be very gentle, Because I love her so. She's but a common dolly, She has a simple dress; But then to me she's pretty, I love her none the less. I have one place to keep her,-- The closet's lowest shelf: With mother's help I'm learning To make her clothes myself. I kiss her and caress her, And, when the daylight flies, I tenderly undress her, And sing her lullabies. Kate's doll is fine to look at, All decked with lace and gold; But mine's the dearest dolly In all this world to hold." MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] THE FAITHFUL SENTINEL. WHEN there is war, the safety of an army may depend on the quickness and courage of one sentinel. If he sleeps at his post, he is shot. The sentinel I am to tell you about never fell asleep on duty, never ran away from an enemy, carried no musket, and wore no uniform. It was more than a hundred years ago that this trusted guard did duty; and when he died, not a drum was heard, and no soldiers fired a volley over his grave. You cannot find his name on the roll of enlisted men; and yet no soldier was ever more faithful. There was war with the Indians at the time of which I write, and a family of settlers lived in what is now the State of Maine, on the bank of the River Androscoggin. One day the children of the family went down by the river to pick berries. With the little party of boys and girls went the family dog. He was trained to follow the trail of Indians, and to give warning of their approach. The watchful dog took his place, like a sentinel, near the children, while they ran about from bush to bush, eating more berries than went into the pail. Suddenly the dog gave a low growl, and looked angrily toward a heap of brush at the edge of the woods. The children knew what that meant, and, without waiting to see what the danger was, they ran at once towards the block-house. The faithful dog did not run, but stood on guard to meet the Indian whom he had seen coming from the thicket. It was not far to the house; and the children were soon in a place of safety, while the Indian skulked back to the woods. [Illustration] Several years after, when the war was all over, this very same Indian came that way, and talked with the children. They treated him kindly, and he became their good friend. But he often told them of the danger they all were in, that afternoon, when the good dog gave them such timely warning. The dog lived to a good old age, and was loved and petted by the family as long as he lived; and to this day the descendants of Enoch and Esther, Martha and Samuel, the children saved by the dog, tell the story that I have related, and speak gratefully of the faithful sentinel. GEORGE T. PACKARD. BRUCE AND OLD SHEEPY. MANY years ago, I spent a few weeks with some friends who lived upon a large milk-farm in the State of New York. They made a great many pounds of butter every day, and packed it in firkins for market. So much churning could not be done by hand, and, as working by steam was not common then, they were obliged to employ dogs, and sometimes sheep. In the basement of the farm-house was a huge churn, the handle of which was attached to a large barrel made of slats, in such a way, that, when the barrel revolved, the churn was worked. When the dairy-maid was ready to churn, she would lock Bruce, their great dog, into this barrel, and say to him, "Go on, Bruce." If he went on, at every step he turned the barrel. The faster the barrel turned, the faster the churn-handle moved up and down, and the sooner the butter came. Bruce did not like this kind of work; and who of us would? He often tried to shirk it by running away; but when John, the farmer's son, perceived this trick, he took care to secure the dog over night. The farmer and his son were very good to their animals: so, in order that Bruce might rest, they selected a sheep to perform a part of the labor. This sheep, though quite young, was never called by any other name than "Old Sheepy." The dog and the sheep took turns in the churning thus: Bruce worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; Old Sheepy worked the other three days of the six. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, Old Sheepy could never be found without much hunting. The other three mornings she would leisurely wander near the house, nibbling the grass near the doorstep. So John was obliged to drive her into an enclosure, and there confine her for the night, previous to her churning, as it took too much time to find her in the morning. [Illustration] One Monday evening, Bruce, having done his day's work, was lying on a rug in the sitting-room, where the farmer's children and myself were having a quiet game of "Come, d'ye come?" At eight o'clock, Priscilla and John, as if with one thought, started up from the game with the words, "Has any one shut up Old Sheepy?" No one knew. So off John ran to get the animal, but soon returned, not able to find her. "No matter," said Priscilla, "Bruce has had an easy time to-day. We'll put him on to-morrow; for we never had more cream ready than now." Bruce pricked up his ears, as if to say, "Catch me churning Old Sheepy's butter!" [Illustration] When bed-time came, Priscilla said, "I will not let old Bruce out to-night. I will put him in the wash-room." Priscilla didn't quite know Bruce, if she thought he was simple enough to be caught napping after hearing that. He got out, no one knew how; and there was nothing to to be done but to wait patiently till morning. Bruce had no idea of allowing Old Sheepy to get clear of her task. At midnight a terrible barking and bleating and growling and scampering, was heard some little distance from the house. John went out to see what the noise was about. He found that Bruce had spied Old Sheepy in her hiding-place, had routed her out, and driven her into the enclosure; but, as he could not bar the gate, he stood guard against the opening, and was barking loudly to awaken the household. As soon as John appeared upon the scene, Bruce returned to his rug as if nothing had happened. When Old Sheepy was marched into the barrel the next morning, you ought to have seen Bruce strutting about the basement! If Old Sheepy slackened her pace at all, Bruce would growl; if she didn't mind that, he would bark, and would not stop until he had succeeded in calling the dairy-maid to threaten Old Sheepy with the whip. Priscilla and John thought these little acts of the dog very wise; but I think a sheep that could tell the days of the week, as this one was able to do, and knew enough to run away the night before her turn came, was just as wise as the dog. The family were loud in their praise of Bruce, however, and, as a reward for his shrewdness, talked of relieving him from further work as soon as they could succeed in training another sheep. I left the farm-house before this took place: so I cannot say how Bruce bore his laurels. But, if I had had my way, I would have rewarded Old Sheepy too. AUNT ANNE. [Illustration] "RIGHT OF WAY." "BAA, baa! there's no road this way." "Pretty sheep, do let me pass, I say; It's too late to go back again to-day: Nice little sheep, please to go away!" [Illustration] "Baa, baa! we won't let you by: It's no use for you to begin to cry. You can't come this road, it's no use to try; So never mind asking the reason why." ELFRIDA'S PRESENT. ELFRIDA is a little German girl who lives in Bonn. She has a brother in New York. He sent her, not long ago, a bound copy of "The Nursery." She was greatly pleased. She spent much time looking at the pictures. Then she said, "Oh, how I wish I could read the stories!" "You have been saving up your money for some time," said her mother. "For what have you been saving it?" "To buy one of those beautiful dolls that can walk without being touched: I do so long to have one!" said the little girl. "But why do you ask, mamma?" "It was only a passing thought," said mamma. "But I want to know your passing thought," said Elfrida. "Well, dear, I thought that one-quarter of the money you will have to pay for a doll would buy you a nice English-German dictionary, by help of which you could learn to read those stories in 'The Nursery.'" "Let me buy it at once, mamma!" cried Elfrida. "Dolls are nice; but I would rather have a dictionary. May I not go to the bookstore, and buy the book now?" "Yes, dear: your choice is a wise one. You may go." Elfrida ran up stairs, put on her cape and bonnet, ran out to the bookstore, and bought the book. It was hard at first to find out the meaning of some of the words. But the stories were simple, and some of the words were so like the same words in German, that she did not have to look them out. One day she came running home from school, and said, "O mamma! a little American girl named Clara now comes to our school. She says she will teach me to read." The little American girl kept her promise. First she would give Elfrida a lesson in English, and then Elfrida would give her a lesson in German. And so they both grew to be nice little scholars. Elfrida would talk to Clara in English, and Clara would answer her in German. Soon they could each talk both languages quite well. IDA FAY. [Illustration] "PARLEY-VOO." "PARLEY-VOO" was the nickname of a little boy four years old, who was born in Paris. He did not come home until after he had learned to talk, and then he spoke French. So, when he went out to play with the other boys, they laughed at him, and called him "Parley-voo." His aunt laughed at him too, sometimes. She was rather a queer aunt, and not at all like the aunts we read of in story-books. But his father was just the best father that anybody ever heard of. They lived in Sunland, a little town not many miles from Boston; and every morning Parley-voo would hurry down to give his father a kiss before he went away to his business in the city. Then, when the train went by, he would stand at the window, and wave his little white handkerchief, and then his father would wave back at him, as if to say, "Good-by, once more, my dear little Parley-voo, good-by!" But one morning he was so very sleepy, that he could not open his eyes when his nurse told him it was time to get up. He called the nurse a _bonne_, as they do in Paris. He pushed her away, and went to sleep again, and the first thing he heard was the train going by with a "choo, choo, choo," and his father was gone without a kiss. Then Parley-voo cried, and said it was his _bonne's_ fault. He went to the window, and there he stood crying. He could not eat the nice breakfast that his nurse brought him, and would not let her dress him. So she went away, and shut the door, and left him to dress himself. In his hurry he put on one red stocking and one blue one. His little kilt suit hung so high up in the closet, that he could not reach it: so he drew on an old faded dress a good deal too short, and it made him look just like a girl. In this rig he went down stairs, and his aunt laughed so that she almost cried when she saw him. That made him feel worse than ever, and he grew worse than ever. I am sorry to tell it; but he flew at her, and kicked her. His mother could not stop him, and his aunt had to run away. But before long Parley-voo began to be sorry; for he was not a bad child, only thoughtless and wilful. And when his mother whispered to him to go and tell his aunt how sorry he was, the little red and blue legs flew across the room, and up the stairs to find his aunt. She sat in her room at her small table, and was taking a cup of tea. She did not look up when she heard him coming, and he hardly dared to go in. But he had a brave little heart; and calling out, "Aunty, I'm sorry," he ran up to her, and clasping her neck with his little loving arms, "I am very sorry, aunty," he said again. And they made it all up. [Illustration] His aunt told him that she thought it would be a good plan to write to his papa, and tell him how it happened that his little boy was too late to kiss him good-by. Then she took out of her desk a sheet of paper; and Parley-voo, with his aunt's help, printed this letter:-- _Dear Papa_,--I did not see you, and I cried. Did you wave to me? I said it was the _bonne's_ fault, and I dressed myself. Aunt Tib laughed. I kicked her. I'm sorry. I sha'n't do it any more. Mamma sends love and three kisses. So do I. Aunt Tib sends her love too. Your loving little PARLEY-VOO. After this, Parley-voo and his aunt Tib were the best of friends. It was a long time before he was too late again to say good-by to his father, or had any trouble with his _bonne_. ELIZABETH A. DAVIS. [Illustration] [Illustration: Music] WINTER. Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1 'Tis snowing fast, hurrah! hurrah! Come o'er the hills away; Away we'll run for healthy fun, And in the snowdrifts play. Let me but pull my mittens on, I'll make the snowballs fly; If you look out the window, Nell, You'll see them whizzing by. 2 Papa thinks I'm not old enough Just now to learn to skate; And mother says another year Will not be long to wait. But famous forts I mean to build, And on the ice I'll slide; How swiftly o'er the glassy crust I shall securely glide. 3 Oh, glad am I the frost has come! What merry rides we'll take! We soon shall hear the jingling bells Their thrilling music make. I know that lovely summer brings Its many fruits and joys; But then old frosty winter gives Rare fun to lively boys. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
40755	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 4. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Lucy 97 The Savoyard 100 A Bear's Story 102 Take Care 108 Letter from China 109 Drawing-Lesson 113 The Bird who has no Nest 114 A Shrine 115 Susie's Dancing-Lesson 117 The Deserted House 122 Dame Trott and her Son 124 Bossy's Fright 125 IN VERSE. PAGE A Merry Go-round 99 Secrets 105 Going to School 106 Kings and Queens 110 Good-Night 116 Five Little Sparrows 119 Dobbin's Complaint 121 Tommy Tucker 123 A Bluebird's Song 127 The Bird's Return (_with music_) 128 [Illustration: VOL. XXIX.--NO. 4.] LUCY. LUCY is three years old. She is one of the happiest little girls that I know, and one of the sweetest too. That is saying a good deal; for I know a great many very charming little girls. You would not suppose that such a little tot could be left to herself a great while. But often, when she is tired of running about, her mother seats her in the great arm-chair, and there, with her doll in her arms, she sits and amuses herself for hours. Jip the dog is very fond of Lucy, and very jealous of the doll. If he comes in and sees Lucy and her doll in the arm-chair, he begins to whine. Then Lucy says in her baby-way (for she cannot yet talk plain), "Come here, Jip!" Jip jumps up into the chair. Lucy puts her arm round him and pats him fondly. Jip looks up in her face, as much as to say, "Don't you love me, Lucy? Am I not as good as the doll? Why don't you pat me?" Lucy knows what he means just as well as if he said it in words. "Yes, Jip, you good little dog, I do love you," she says, "and Dolly loves you too. You will take good care of us; won't you, Jip?" And Jip seems to know what Lucy says; for he answers by another loving look, "Yes, Lucy, I will take care of you. Nobody shall harm you while I am here. I will be your watch-dog. But don't forget to pet me as well as your doll. I like to be petted." Then Lucy pats him, and says, "Good little Jip, I will never forget you!" That makes him happy; and so they are both happy together. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] [Illustration] A MERRY GO-ROUND. WHAT a merry go-round! Not a ghost of a sound As the snowflakes dance and spin: Won't the wind play the flute, Now the birds are all mute, And the crickets have stopped their din? The brook would be glad To tinkle like mad, If the snowflakes would only wait Till the season is June, And its voice is in tune For their service, early and late. Then the brown bee would hum, And the frogs beat the drum, And robin would lead the band: Such a merry go-round, To such a sweet sound, Was ne'er known in snowflake-land. MARY N. PRESCOTT. THE SAVOYARD. THIS boy, as you may see by his looks, is not one of our American boys. He is a native of Savoy, and is dressed in the costume of the peasants of that country. Savoy is in the eastern part of France, just south of the Lake of Geneva. You will easily find it on the map. It is a fertile country, but there are many poor people there who live chiefly upon chestnuts and potatoes. Though fond of their birthplace, many of them leave it during the winters, and go to Italy, Spain, and other parts of France in search of work. Carl, the boy in the picture, is one of this class. His parents are too poor to support him, and he is sent out to seek his own living; but he is not a beggar. He earns something by raising guinea-pigs, which he sells to boys and girls for pets. He carries them, as you see, in a box slung from his neck. But they are so tame that he takes them out and lets them run up on his shoulders. [Illustration] The guinea-pig, when full-grown, is not much bigger than a large rat. In shape it is a good deal like a fat pig. When hungry it grunts like a pig. In color it is white, spotted with orange and black. It is a native of Brazil. [Illustration] Guinea-pigs serve very well for pets. Some children are very fond of them. But old folks like me prefer pets of another sort. UNCLE SAM. A BEAR'S STORY. I WAS born in the wild woods of Michigan, and my home was in a large hollow tree which stood near the Muskegon River. There I lived with my mother and sister. I was a careless young cub, and one day, when at play on the river-side, I went too near the steep bank, fell over it, and went down splash into the water. It was very deep, and there was a strong current. I had never been taught to swim. I was in such a fright that I could not even cry for help. The water was choking me, and I was nearly drowned, when a kind log came floating by to my rescue. It seemed like a friend sent from home. I scrambled to the top of it, bade good-by to my sister, who stood crying on the bank, and went drifting down the river. Before long two queer-looking objects came toward me, paddling along in a sort of hollow log. Seeing plainly that they were not bears, I felt much afraid of them. My mother had often talked to me about some fierce creatures called "men," and had told me always to keep out of their way. I felt sure that these were men; but how could I get out of their way when I was adrift on a log? They came right down upon me, and there I sat, whining and crying and trembling. "What were these dreadful men made for?" thought I. "Why can they not leave us poor bears in peace?" [Illustration] I fully expected to be killed. But, instead of killing me, one of the men took me in his arms, and held me till we came to the shore. Then I wanted to go back to my mother, and I tried to get away. But he held me all the tighter, and after a while he tied my feet together. I could do nothing but cry, and at last I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke I found myself in this town, called "Big Rapids," and here I have been ever since. It seemed to me very strange at first not to be in the woods, but in the midst of queer-looking white objects called "houses." I started to take a walk, hoping to fall in with some bear of my acquaintance; but a hard thing fastened to my neck held me back. It is what men call a "chain," as I have since learned, and it compels me to stay in one place all the time. [Illustration] I am no longer a cub, but am a full-grown bear. This kind of life does not suit me very well, but I have got used to it. One can get used to almost any thing. I have even got used to the society of men and women. Their cubs (called boys and girls) often play with me, and sometimes they tease me. Once, when a boy was teasing me, I gave him a scare which will be apt to teach him better manners. I will tell you how it was. The boy held out an apple, and, just as I was about to take it, he pulled it away. This mean trick he played three times. He tried it once more, and then I gave such a spring that my chain broke. The boy dropped his apple, and ran. You ought to have seen that boy run! He didn't dare even to look back. But, if he had looked back, he would have seen me munching his apple with great relish. I didn't want to hurt a cub like him; but some bears that I know wouldn't have been so for-_bear_-ing. BRUIN. [Illustration] SECRETS. "WHAT do you think?" "I'm sure I don't know!" "Don't tell anybody!" "Oh, no! oh, no!" E. N. G. GOING TO SCHOOL. [Illustration] TRUDGE, trudge, along in the snow, That keenly creaks, it is frozen so: What does he care if the wind does blow?-- Sturdy lad, with his face aglow, He likes the sound of his ringing heel, And loves to feel, as he tramps along, He is conquering something: it makes him strong,-- Robert, the miller's boy. What does he conquer? Wind and frost. Hands in mittens, and tippet crossed Over his ears, and backward tossed Like a crimson banner that leads a host, Well indeed may the lad feel bold To battle the cold, and fight his way Early to school, and every day,-- Robert, the miller's boy. He'll sing and whistle, he'll run and shout, To keep him warm; but he'll never pout: If the frost creeps in, he whips it out, With his two hands thrashing his shoulders stout; While on he goes, and the keen snow rings To the song he sings, for his sturdy feet The changing time of that music beat,-- Robert, the miller's boy. You need not think to find him low When the busy classes stand in row; You need not think to find him slow When play-time comes, and the trampled snow Makes a path for his "lightning" sled: The boy at the head is the conquering lad Who makes his way if the road _is_ bad,-- Robert, the miller's boy. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. [Illustration] TAKE CARE. YOUNG Tom mounts his old horse and takes a ride. He sits up like a bold dragoon. The horse is not a gay one. He will not shy. He will not run away. But he has one fault: he may take it into his head to roll. Tom must take care. [Illustration] Young Bob climbs a rope hand over hand. He holds on tight, and climbs up quite high. He is a bold boy. It is a good plan to climb. But take care, or you may fall. Do not let go with one hand till you get hold with the other. [Illustration] A. B. C. [Illustration] LETTER FROM CHINA. NOT long ago I read in "The Nursery" a story about "Emperor Frank," and how he ruled a whole family. I know a family that is ruled by two emperors instead of one. They live in Pekin in far-off North China. There are four boys and three girls. The two youngest boys, Dwight and Louis, are twins. They are the emperors. Their reign began nearly three years ago. Master Ted, the next elder brother, who was then emperor, had to give way to them, and very sweetly he did it. It was hard for him to see his dear old Chinese nurse transfer her love and care to any one else; and even now, when he hears her call one of the emperors her "little pet," he says to her, "But you know you have a big pet too." Thus far the twin-emperors have had none but loyal subjects; but, as they grow out of their babyhood, there are signs of rebellion. The three sisters rebel because Emperors Dwight and Louis will not let them practise their music-lessons in peace. Ted says, "Do find me a place where I can pound nails alone;" for the emperors will insist upon helping him. The emperors have already learned to walk, though they talk only in a language of their own. When they begin to talk plainly in the language of their subjects, I fear that their reign will come to an end. The picture shows you how ten-year-old brother Ned takes his three little brothers to ride on his donkey. TUNG CHO, NORTH CHINA. THE EMPERORS' MAMMA. KINGS AND QUEENS. TOMMY. UPON the lilac-bush I heard The earliest robin sing; I wished, what never will come true, That I could be a king; For, if I only were a king, I know what I would do: I'd have plum-cake, instead of bread, To eat the whole year through; Great heaps of oranges would be Upon my palace-floors, And fountains full of lemonade Spout up beside its doors. FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL. Oh, shame upon you, Tommy Brown! You're such a greedy thing! We're glad you are not over us: You should not be our king. JESSIE. And, if I were a queen, I'd wear A new dress every day; No princess in a fairy-tale Would have such fine array; With golden lace and glittering gems My robes my maids would deck, And diamonds large as pigeons' eggs Would hang about my neck. FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL. And, oh, how proud and vain you'd be! How fond of being seen! We're glad you are not over us: You should not be our queen. KARL. And, if I were a king, I'd have In every thing my way; My servants would stand waiting round, My wishes to obey; And I would do just what I pleased, And say just what I chose, And not a soul in all the land Would dare my will oppose. FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL. And you would be the worst of all: What troubles you would bring! We want no tyrant over us; You should not be our king. LILIAN. And, if I really were a queen, I would put on my crown, And through the country everywhere Go walking up and down; And all the old folks, sick, and poor, I would have warmed and fed, And every houseless little child Should home with me be led; And I would love them all, and try To do the best I could To make the sorry people glad, The naughty people good. FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL. And you would have the happiest reign That ever yet was seen; And, if we had a queen at all, Then you should be our queen. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 4.] THE BIRD WHO HAS NO NEST. THIS is the cuckoo. She and her mate have no home of their own; but that does not seem to trouble them. They peep here and there among the leaves, until they find the nest of some other bird,--a lark, perhaps, or a thrush, or a yellow-hammer; and, if the owner of the nest is away, Mrs. Cuckoo leaves within it a small egg. [Illustration] There are some birds that can take care of themselves almost as soon as they are born; but Mrs. Cuckoo never leaves her eggs in their nests. Oh, no! she chooses a nest in which the young birds are well cared for by their mothers, and fed with food on which the young cuckoos thrive best. Why she is too idle to build her own nest, no one knows. Some people say it is because she stays so short a time in the same country, that her young ones would not get strong enough to fly away with her, if she waited to build her nest. Others think it is because she is such a great eater, that she cannot spend time to find food for her children. But the kind foster-mothers, the larks and the thrushes, care for the egg that the cuckoo leaves in their houses, although, if any other bird leaves one, they will take no care of it at all, but roll it out upon the ground. The Scotch word for cuckoo, _gowk_, means, also, a foolish person. But I think they ought rather to have named it a wicked person; for the young cuckoo is so ungrateful and selfish, that he often gets one of the other little birds on his back, and then, climbing to the top of the nest, throws it over the edge. These are the English cuckoos of which I have been telling you. I am glad to say that their American cousins take care of their own children. SOPHIE E. EASTMAN. [Illustration] A SHRINE. IN countries where the Roman-Catholic religion prevails, a shrine signifies a box or case containing an image of the Virgin Mary, or some relics regarded as sacred. This box is attached to a stone pillar or other fixed monument, and thus marks a place at which the pious Catholics kneel to offer up their prayers. In Italy and Spain shrines are very common, not only in the churches, but at the roadsides. The picture shows us one with a little girl holding a bunch of flowers in front of the sacred image which she sees in it. In this country they are to be seen only in churches; but we often speak of any hallowed place as a shrine. IDA FAY. [Illustration: GOOD-NIGHT.] LOOK at my night-cap so funny, And see how I've tied up my curls! Dolly and I are both going To bed now, like wise little girls. She sleeps on my pillow, the darling; Not once does she wake in the night; And, when the first sunbeam is peeping, We both get up, rosy and bright. How quiet she is, and how patient, As she waits till the breakfast-bell rings! She never is greedy or fussy, Never pouts, never breaks my nice things. [Illustration] And now shake your hand, little dolly, For "good-night" to the folks, and "by-by!" Ah! she's tired with playing, poor Dolly, And so, my own mother, am I. W. G. SUSIE'S DANCING-LESSON. WHEN Susie is fretful and peevish,--which, I am glad to say, is not often,--there is nobody who can put her in good humor so quickly as her grown-up sister Ann. She knows just how to deal with the little girl. Thus Ann will say, "What is the matter, Susie? Are you hungry? No. Are you sleepy? Not a bit of it. Do you want me to tell you a story? No. Are you tired? No. I have it: you want a good dose of exercise. That is the very thing you need. Come here now, and I'll give you a dancing-lesson." [Illustration] She takes Susie's hands, and whirls her out on the floor before she has time to say a word. Then Ann begins to sing,-- "Here we go up, up, up, And here we go down, down, down-y; Here we go this way and that, And here we go round, round, round-y," dancing all the time, and whisking Susie about the room in such a lively way, that the child has to laugh in spite of herself. Susie soon gets in great glee, and always wants to have another dance. "What!" says Ann. "Haven't you had dancing enough? Well, then, how would you like a fancy dance? Mind your steps now. Do as you see me do. Keep time with the music. "Up and down, fast and slow, Hop and skip, and away we go; Round and round, and jump Jim Crow: Oh, won't we dance the polka!" So the little girl is danced about until she has to stop to take breath; and by that time she is so full of fun, that there is no room for a frown on her pretty face. Jane Oliver. FIVE LITTLE SPARROWS. FIVE little sparrows sitting in a row Under a bench, in the darkness and the snow, Homeless and cold in the lonesome city square: What are the little birdies doing there? Huddled up close in a wretched little heap, Uttering only a soft and plaintive "cheep," Crowding together to keep each other warm,-- Poor little birdies hiding from the storm! [Illustration] Up in the tree-boughs, high above their heads, Are their pretty houses with straw and feather-beds: Why do the birdies leave their shelter warm To cuddle on a snow-bank, and shiver in the storm? But, in the morning when the sun came out, Then we could see how the trouble came about: Several saucy squirrels, the very day before, Had moved into their houses, and turned them out of door! ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. DOBBIN'S COMPLAINT. "MY master, my master! why does he stay So long at the tavern across the way? I've waited and watched an hour and more, And there he stands at the tavern-door. "I've stamped my foot, and champed my bit; And this musty post, I've gnawed at it; I've pawed the ground, I've shaken my mane, And neighed and snorted again and again. "I'm tired and dusty and hungry too; I want my dinner! I'm getting blue! Its ten long miles we have yet to go, And that my master must surely know. "'Tis time for us to be on our way; I want my oats and my clover-hay; I want a roll on the smooth barn-floor. Ah! here comes master, I'll say no more!" HELEN M. WHITNEY [Illustration] [Illustration] THE DESERTED HOUSE. THIS house has no roof, no chimney, no windows, no front-door, no back-door. Yet it was once the home of a happy family; and, if you went near it, you would hear their sweet low voices from morning till night. Such was this little house when I visited it one fine day last summer. To-day I called again. All was still. Not a voice did I hear. The roofless house was filled with snow. The walls looked dark and sad. The leaves that once cast lovely shadows about them were gone. As I stood looking at the empty house, Ethel, who is very young but very wise, exclaimed, "The family have gone south for the winter, but are sure to come back in the spring. There will be gay times here pretty soon." Just then a sharp gust of wind came, and the old house shook as if about to fall. Ethel stood ready to catch it. What, a child catch a falling house, as if it were a baseball! What if the timbers should strike her? Ah! but this house was a very light building. Snow and all, it was not much heavier than a handful of roses. Now you know what I mean. Vine Street runs from the floor to the top of the piazza. The swallow homestead is just at the head of that street. The timbers are sticks and straw. The roof is the sky. And, as to the happy little family of Mr. and Mrs. Swallow, if you come here in the month of May, I will show them to you in their home. GEORGE T. PACKARD. [Illustration] TOMMY TUCKER. THIS is Tommy Tucker, Whose mouth was in a pucker, Crying for his supper, A little while ago. But, now that Tommy Tucker Has had a hearty supper, He looks as bright and happy As any boy I know. W. G. DAME TROTT AND HER SON. [Illustration] IN this little house lives good Dame Trott, who keeps eggs and milk for sale. She has two cows and a flock of hens. Her son John helps her to take care of them. He is a very good boy. [Illustration] John is just ten years old. He goes to school. When the school is done for the day, he goes out to the field to drive home the cows. Here you may see him on a fence at the end of the lane. He wears a queer sort of frock. D. E. F. [Illustration] BOSSY'S FRIGHT. OLD Bossy had been on the farm many years. She was a very fine cow in her prime; but as she grew old she learned some bad tricks. Although gentle and kind in the stable, she would push down fences, and open every gate on the farm. She would get into the cornfields, make herself at home in the wheat and oats, and do a great deal of mischief. Some check had to be put upon her. So one day she went to the pasture with her head tied down to her foot by a strong rope. In about three hours a man came running up to the house, to tell us that old Bossy had fallen over a log, and was lying on her back. Now, if a cow gets down on her back, in this way, in a place where she cannot turn over, she is in great danger. It is called being "cast." This man said, "Come quickly, for old Bossy is cast." Every one ran to the pasture, and by much pulling and lifting got the cow up. She looked very happy to be on her feet once more; but as soon as the rope was cut she was at her old tricks again. The very next day she was found quietly eating down a neighbor's corn. Something must be done. We did not like to tie her head down again: so we concluded to put a board over her eyes. The board was brought, and fastened with cords to her horns. She stopped chewing her cud at once and stood still. The men left her in the lane that led to the pasture, and went to their work. She did not move. I don't think she even whisked her tail to drive away the flies. When the men came home to dinner, they were surprised to see her still standing in the very place where they left her. They patted her kindly, took the board off, and saw on her forehead a spot as large as a man's hand, where the hair had turned grayish-white. There was not a bit of white on her forehead before the board was put on. The poor thing had begun to turn gray from sheer fright. We all felt sorry for her; and the board was never again tied to her horns. After a time she began to chew her cud, and seemed all right; and she went on pushing down the fences, and opening the gates, just as often as before. This is a true story. ROYALSTON, WIS. MRS. LUCY EASTMAN ERMINE. A BLUEBIRD'S SONG. [Illustration] THERE'S a glad merry voice, children, calling to you, A gay burst of song from a wee bit of blue, Poised daintily there on the maple-twig now, Like a bright little blossom upon the bare bough,-- "Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee, We're coming, you see: I'm building my nest in the old apple-tree. "To you, little children, this message I bring, The birds, every one, will return with the spring. What care I if cold winds are blowing around! The flowers are already awake under ground. Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee: If snowflakes I see, I'll dream they are blooms shaken off from the tree. "Hark! the shy little brooklet is humming a song As it breaks loose from winter, and dances along. How happy we'll be through the blithe summer hours,-- The children, the sunbeams, the birds, and the flowers! Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee: How busy we'll be, My sweet mate and I, in the old apple-tree!" RUTH REVERE. [Illustration: Music] THE BIRD'S RETURN. Words by GEO. COOPER. Music by D. B. MOODY. 1 "Where have you been, little birdie, Where have you been so long?" "Warbling in glee, Far o'er the sea, And learning for you a new song. My sweet, Learning for you a new song." 2 "Why did you go, little birdie, Why did you go from me?" "Winter was here, Leafless and drear, And so I flew over the sea. My sweet, And so I flew over the sea." 3 "What did you see, little birdie, What did you see each day?" "Sunshine and flowers, Blossoms and bowers, And pretty white lambkins at play. My sweet, Pretty white lambkins at play." 4 "Who kept you safe, little birdie; Who kept you safe from harm?" "The Father of all, Of great and of small: He sheltered me under his arm. My sweet, Under his dear, loving arm." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. Page 106, the final line of the first stanza of "Going to School" was indented to follow the pattern of the remaining stanzas. 
40756	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 5. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Bold Soldier-Boys 129 Papa Robin 132 Carlo and the Ducks 135 Picking Oranges 139 Mary and Jenny 144 Drawing-Lesson 145 Piggy's Spoon 146 Bouncer 148 Harry and John 154 "Inches" 155 IN VERSE. PAGE The Army of Geese that Came over the Lea 131 The Naughty Cat 136 The May-Queen 141 Sing, Pretty Birds 143 The Traveller 147 The Mouse-Trap 151 One Cat and Two Pigs 152 Small Beginning 157 Jenny Wren 159 Daddy Frog (_with music_) 160 [Illustration: VOL. XXIX.--NO. 5.] THE BOLD SOLDIER-BOYS. "FORWARD, my brave boys!" shouted Colonel Bob, rising in his stirrups, and waving his sword. "You see the enemy before you. Charge!" There stood the enemy in stern defiance,--four chairs, one table, and a sofa,--there they stood, with a plastered wall in their rear, and calmly awaited the attack. The fiery steed of Colonel Bob reared and plunged, as if eager to dash upon the foe. The roll of the drum made a fearful sound. The standard-bearer waved his flag. The army came rushing on. Snap the dog barked furiously. But above all the din was heard the shout of Colonel Bob, "Forward, my brave boys!" Not a picture started from its frame. Not a chair moved. But all of a sudden the door opened, and a face looked in. It was Colonel Bob's papa. "What's all this noise about, Robert?" said he. "This is not the place for such games. Go out of doors if you want to play soldier. I can't have such a drumming and shouting in the house." This was rather a damper on Colonel Bob's military zeal; but what came next was still worse. "Do any of you boys know where to-day's 'Advertiser' is?" asked papa. Colonel Bob came down from his high horse, threw aside his plume, took off his chapeau, and handed it to his papa. There was the "Advertiser" of that very day, folded up as a soldier-cap. "Well, that's pretty business," said his papa, laughing. "Please give me a chance to read the papers before you use them in this way." And he went out and shut the door. Colonel Bob stood leaning on his horse as if in deep thought. At last he said, "Boys, this movement has failed. We must change our base. Follow me." And he led the army out into the back garden. UNCLE SAM. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GEESE THAT CAME OVER THE LEA. WE talked and we laughed As we went to the sea, When an army of geese Came over the lea, With a cack, cack, cackle, And a pat, pat, patter; And, oh, what a fright We were in, all three! Which were the greater geese,-- Just we three, Or the army of geese That came over the lea? E. N. G. [Illustration] PAPA ROBIN. ONE summer morning Elizabeth sat on the doorstep, reading. But she looked up often to see the birds fly about, or to watch the butterflies go sailing past. By and by she heard a shrill chirping. "Poor little bird," she thought, "where can it be? Is it hurt?" She went out into the yard, and looked about her. There, under a tree, was a baby-bird that had fallen out of its nest. Elizabeth took it up gently. As it lay in her hand, it looked like a soft ball. It chirped as loud as it could, and fluttered. "Poor birdie," said Elizabeth, "I will try and take you home." And she looked up into the tree. She could see the nest the fledgling had tumbled out of; but she was not tall enough to reach it: so she stood on a knot in the trunk of the tree, and put the nestling in its home. She saw the father and the mother-bird in the tree, and said to herself that they would take care of the little one. Then she went back to her reading. Pretty soon she heard the chirping again. This time she knew where to look, and there was the baby-bird on the ground, crying and fluttering as before. [Illustration] "Papa and mamma Robin ought to take care of you, birdling," she said. But she stepped on the knotted tree-trunk, and put back the bird a second time. Then she sat down on the doorstep, and watched to see what the parent-birds would do. They flew here and there about the nest, and sang a few notes that Elizabeth knew must be bird-talk. She wondered if they were trying to find a better place for their baby. But as she was thinking how much care they were taking of it, out tumbled the little one a third time. "You stupid old robin!" she cried. "Do you expect some one to be putting back your birdie for you all day? Why don't you keep it in the nest?" She picked up the birdie, and was about to put it back a third time, when, as she held it, a strange thing happened; for down flew the robin, and gave her a sharp peck on the forehead. Elizabeth stood still. She didn't know what to make of this. But soon she began to laugh; and then she put the baby-bird gently on the ground, and went away. She at last understood what papa Robin meant to say to her by his peck. This is it: "Don't interfere when I'm teaching my child to fly. You are very big, and perhaps you know a great deal; but you don't seem to know that it's not right to keep birds in the nest all summer. They would never find out what their wings are for." FRANCES C. SPARHAWK. [Illustration] [Illustration] CARLO AND THE DUCKS. "STOP, Carlo! Come back, sir! Be still!" cried Jane, trying to hold the little dog by a string tied to his collar. But Carlo was in chase of two ducklings, and did not mind Jane's call. Of course the ducklings took to the water. Carlo ran after them to the water's edge, but there he stopped. What stopped him? Jane was tugging pretty hard at the string. That was one thing that held him back; but that was not all. Carlo was not fond of the water; but he would not have stopped for that. I will tell you what stopped him. While the ducklings were swimming away for dear life, the old mother-duck came sailing boldly up, with her great yellow beak, and faced Master Carlo. She looked like a sloop-of-war all ready for action. Carlo was a brave dog; but he was afraid of her, for all that. So he stood still and barked. Madam Duck did not mind his noise in the least. She quacked at him fiercely. This is what she meant to say: "Look here, my young friend, you are a dog, and I am a duck. You are at home on the land, but I am at home on the water. Bark as much as you please, but, if you know what is good for your health, keep out of this pond, and let my ducklings alone." "Do you hear that, Carlo?" said Jane. "Now don't stop to answer, but come with me like a good dog, and we will have a run in the woods." And then Carlo gave up his chase of the ducks, and went quietly where Jane led him. JANE OLIVER. THE NAUGHTY CAT. LITTLE JACK. 'TIS such a naughty, naughty cat! Old Tab, that's owned by aunty Gray: She growls, and spits, and shows her claws, As sharp as needles in her paws; [Illustration] And, if I try with her to play, She always seems so full of spite, She's sure to scratch me, or to bite. My hands,--they were a frightful sight When I came home last Saturday; I'm sure that she would be no loss, If she were killed, she is so cross; Now, when I see her, "Scat, scat, scat!" I mean to say, "you naughty cat!" LITTLE JANE. What, call my poor old Tabby cross! I'm sure she's very good with _me_; For, when _I_ go to aunty Gray's, She always close beside me stays. If I sit down, she climbs my knee, And rubs her head against my cheek, And acts as though she'd like to speak, And say she wants my friend to be. I'd rather have her for my own Than all the cats I've ever known: Black, yellow, Maltese, large and small, Old Tab's the nicest of them all. JAMES. Yes, Tabby _is_ a knowing cat. When you have been at aunty Gray's, She's proved you both, and learned your ways: She finds that Jack would never fail To try and swing her by the tail, While Jane will softly stroke her fur; So she will answer by a purr, To show Jane's gentle touch she likes, But Jack, with her sharp claws, she strikes. My mother says we ought to treat With love each living thing we meet, And even pussy-cats can tell Who are the ones that use them well. MARIAN DOUGLAS. PICKING ORANGES. WILLY and Ben are two little boys who live in the old city of Saint Augustine. They do not have sleigh-rides and coasts; for Saint Augustine is way down South, in Florida, where snow never falls. But, while the boys and girls in the North are wearing mittens and tippets and thick coats when they go out to play, Willy and Ben are running about bare-headed in the orange-groves, or plucking roses from the garden. All around the house are orange-trees, and in among the glossy green leaves hang the great yellow juicy oranges. The fruit is ripe early in December, and ready to be picked. Miles, the colored man, takes his big clippers and goes up the high step-ladder which he has placed near the tree. He cuts each orange from the branch, taking care not to get hurt by the long, sharp thorns. Willy stands at the foot of the ladder, ready to catch the oranges as Miles tosses them down. Sometimes they pick five or six baskets in an afternoon. Miles says Willy is a "bery good catch." He sometimes tires of catching them; but he never tires of eating them. I looked into the packing-room this morning, and there lay seventeen hundred yellow balls. Papa lets both his little boys help wrap the oranges. Each orange is wrapped in a piece of tissue-paper that is cut just the right size. Willy always says as he begins, "Now let's see who'll beat!" Do you know what he means? Ben cannot wrap oranges as fast as Willy; but, as they are wrapped, he hands them to papa to pack in boxes. He can read the word "Boston" that papa writes in black letters on the outside of the boxes. [Illustration] Of course papa pays his workers, and they take their money all to mamma to keep for them. They have so much whispering to do about it, that I think they are saving it to buy holiday gifts. JIMMIE. [Illustration] THE MAY-QUEEN. "WHEN I was little," said grandma Gray, "We used to welcome the month of May With a song and a dance on the village green, Choosing and crowning our May-day queen. We used to choose of the prettiest girls, The one who had the sunniest curls, The one who had the merriest eyes, As clear and bright as the May-day skies. "We made her throne of the daisies white, And of yellow buttercups, golden bright, And we twined gay blossoms about the hair Of our dear little queen so sweet and fair." So grandma said, and the children heard, And a loving thought in each heart was stirred; And they whispered together, and laughed in glee, "Dear grandmamma shall our May-queen be!" [Illustration] Then they brought the chair with the cushioned seat, And the cushioned footstool for grandma's feet, And led her merrily to the throne, And crowned her queen of their hearts alone. They twined the daisies and buttercups bright In the queen's soft hair so silvery white, And better than jewels or necklace rare, Were the clasping arms of those children fair. And the bees and butterflies hovered around; And the sunbeams danced all over the ground; And the birds sang merrily in the trees; And the breath of summer was in the breeze; And the delicate hue of the azure skies Seemed to lend new light to the loving eyes Of happy, dear old grandmamma Gray, Crowned by the children their "Queen of May." MARY D. BRINE. SING, PRETTY BIRDS. SING, pretty birds, and build your nests, The fields are green, the skies are clear; Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, The world is glad to have you here. Among the orchards and the groves, While summer days are fair and long, You brighten every tree and bush, You fill the air with loving song. At early dawn your notes are heard In happy greeting to the day, Your twilight voices softly tell When sunshine hours have passed away. Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, The fields are green, the skies are clear; Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, The world is glad to have you here. M. E. N. HATHAWAY. [Illustration] MARY AND JENNY. MARY strikes the shuttle-cock a hard blow with the battle-door. Up it goes into the air, and down it falls into the grass. There it is; but the next thing to be done is to find it. Who will pick it up? [Illustration] Jenny stands with her hands behind her. She has a roguish look. What has she in her hands? Is it an apple? No. Is it an orange? No. Is it a ball? No. Guess again. Ah! I know what it is. It is the shuttle-cock. [Illustration] G. H. I. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 5.] PIGGY'S SPOON. PIGGY had a little house close by the barn. There were two rooms in his house. In one room he had his bed; in the other he had a trough. On one side of his house there was a door that opened into a pen. The pen was in the orchard where the sweet apples grew. Sometimes in summer the apples would fall down from the trees into the pen; then piggy would pick them up and eat them. Sometimes they would strike him on his back when they fell; but he did not mind that; he was always glad to get them. He had his bed of warm straw to sleep in at night, and every day he had as much as he wanted to eat. He had all a pig could wish for: so he was contented. One morning farmer Jackson brought a pailful of milk for piggy's breakfast. He poured the milk into the trough, and piggy made haste to come and eat it. While he was eating, something hard and cold came into his mouth. He bit it, but found that it was not good: so he left it. He ate up all the milk. When it was gone, he saw a bright silver spoon in the bottom of the trough. "Oh!" said piggy, "I see how it is. They would like to have me eat with a spoon; but they would never make me fat in that way. I should be hungry all the time. Now I can eat fast and grow fast, and I like my own way best." So piggy turned up his nose at the spoon. Then he went out into the pen, and began to root in the dirt to find bits of apple. "Fine work I should make using a spoon," said piggy, and he laughed whenever he thought of it. At night farmer Jackson came to bring his supper. He saw the spoon in the trough, took it out and carried it into the house. When his wife saw it, she said somebody had been very careless, and dropped the spoon into piggy's pail. She could not find out who had done it, though she asked everybody. Then she thought that perhaps she had done it herself. She was glad to get her spoon back again, and piggy was glad to have it taken from the trough. He had left the print of his teeth on it: so it was afterwards called "Piggy's spoon." MARY E. N. HATHAWAY. [Illustration] THE TRAVELLER. SOMETIMES he travels in a boat; (A bench turned upside down,) Sometimes his mother's rocking-chair Takes him from town to town. [Illustration] For journeying, by sea or land, He always has a plan, He'll be a famous traveller When he grows to be a man. W. G. BOUNCER. "GRANDMA, grandma, may we have it? may we have it?" cried three excited little voices, as three little boys came running into the room. "Have what?" said grandma smiling, as she looked up from her book. "The measles?" "Why, grandma, of course it isn't the measles," said Ned, the eldest. "It is a dog,--a real puppy. Mrs. James told Arthur she would give it to him, if you were willing." Grandma thought of her nice flower-beds and her well-kept driveway. She did not want to have a dog running about in them. But then she saw the three wistful faces waiting for her answer, and so she said "Yes." [Illustration] Mrs. James had promised that she would bring it to Arthur by Saturday. All the boys were in haste for the day to come, and Arthur said, "Now, mamma, there will be three days more and then 'dog-day.'" Saturday came at last. Arthur sat by the front-door watching. About four o'clock in the afternoon, he came to me and said, very sadly, "Do you really think she will come to-day, mamma?"--"Yes," said I. He took his seat on the steps, and in a few minutes I heard a joyful cry: "Here's my dog! here's my dog!" The other boys joined in the shout. Was there ever such joy! Bouncer,--for that was the puppy's name,--was a fine water-spaniel. He grew very fast, and proved very kind and playful. The three boys became very fond of him. The first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night, they would all rush out of doors for a romp with Bouncer. He was always ready for a frolic. Nothing pleased him so much as a dash into the lake. Then he was in his glory. He would spring into the water after any thing that the boys would throw. Once he saved a man's hat that had blown overboard; and if the man had gone over with his hat, I have no doubt that Bouncer would have saved him too. But, as the man was safe on shore all the time, Bouncer had no chance to prove himself a hero. That wasn't Bouncer's fault, you know. M. C. W. [Illustration] THE MOUSE-TRAP. [Illustration] THE cheese smelt tempting in its little house: "I'll get it, never fear!" cried Master Mouse. [Illustration] Caught in the trap, with all their might and main, His parents try to get him out again. [Illustration] Alas! alas! exertions well applied Bring but a swift collapse undignified. [Illustration] A happy thought: "We'll roll the box about, And thus, perchance, get valiant Brownie out!" [Illustration] Still happier thought: a wall its aid extends; And Brownie, thankful for such clever friends, [Illustration] Darts out in triumph, bearing high the cheese, Then shares the well-won spoil, and feasts at ease. [Illustration] ONE CAT AND TWO PIGS. A POOR little kitty turned out by its mother, Without any sister, without any brother, Was very unhappy, Was very unhappy; Oh, very unhappy indeed! She couldn't find any companions to stay with; She couldn't find any companions to play with; And so she was lonely, Oh! ever so lonely; Oh, yes! she was lonely indeed. One morning she noticed two little pigs running Along by the house; they were pretty and cunning, And it made little kitty Feel bad--what a pity!-- A very great pity indeed. She made their acquaintance, and then in clear weather The three funny playmates would frolic together, And kitty was happy, No doubt she was happy; Oh, yes! very happy indeed. The piggies would drink up the milk that was given To kitty, who oft from the basin was driven; For they were quite greedy, Yes, rather too greedy; Oh, yes! very greedy indeed. [Illustration] And, when they had corn, how the piggies would chew it! While kitty looked on, wondering how they could do it: 'Twas queer that she couldn't, Quite strange that she couldn't; She'd tried--but she couldn't indeed! At night, when the piggies in slumber were dozing, Miss Kitty curled up on their backs was reposing, And all were quite happy, Remarkably happy; Oh, yes! very happy indeed. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. HARRY AND JOHN. [Illustration] HARRY waves his flag to stop a train of cars. He has seen a man do it at the railroad station. But the train rushes by, and does not mind him in the least. This makes him look sad. [Illustration] John stands and looks on. He is dressed in a new sailor-suit. He feels so grand that he does not care whether the train stops or not. There is a very broad grin on his face. We should see it if we could make him turn round and look at us. J. K. L. "INCHES." HIS real name was Miles; but one of his papa's friends said that such a little chap was too small to be called Miles, and it would be better to begin with "Inches" and go up gradually: so we nicknamed him "Inches." His papa and mamma were Americans; but their little boy was born in Assam, and until he was four years old he had never seen any other country. Now, you will want to know where Assam is. I will tell you. It is a kingdom in India, lying west of China, and south of the great Himalaya Mountains. Some peaks of these mountains can be seen on a clear day from the house where Inches lived. One morning early, our little friend woke, and called out in the Assamese language (for he could not speak English), "Tezzan, take me." Tezzan his "bearer"--so a man-nurse is called in Assam--came quickly, and dressed his little charge. Then, after giving him a slice of dry toast and a nice plantain for his breakfast, he took the little boy by the hand, and started out with him for their regular morning-walk. They went down along the bank of the Brahmaputra River, and saw many sights that would look very strange to Americans. A little below the house, Inches called on Tezzan to stop, and let him watch some elephants that were swimming across the river. He called the elephant a _hatee_, giving the "a" in the word the same sound we give it when we say father. All they could see of the elephants was the tops of their heads, and occasionally their trunks when they threw them out of the water for a fresh breath of air. The drivers stood on the necks of the elephants, with only a rope, tied round the great creatures' necks, to hold on by. By and by they came struggling up the bank, one after another,--eight of them,--and stood panting and dripping to rest a little. Scarcely had they set their feet on dry land when a little ferry-boat came steaming along, and just as she got close to the bank she blew a long, loud whistle. [Illustration] The elephants were frightened, and ran snorting and trumpeting right up the road where Inches and his bearer were standing. Inches was very much frightened, and ran too. But no harm was done, and after a little while Inches had a good laugh, when he thought how the elephants ran away from the little bustling steamer. After this was all over and the elephants were slowly jogging along, Inches and his bearer started on again. They met many people; but very few of them were white. There were only fifteen white children to be found for many miles: so they, of course, knew each other well. Down the road, further on, they came to a sweetmeat-vender's shop. His candies and sweets were put on flat bamboo or cane plates, and all arranged outside the shop itself, on a platform made of bamboo. Inches wished Tezzan to buy some sweets for him; but they had brought no _pice_, so could not. (Pice are small copper coins used in India, worth about three-fourths of one cent each.) The little boy was on the point of crying, when he heard his mamma calling; and, sure enough, there she was, and papa, too, waiting for him in the pony-carriage. He ran quickly, and climbed into his mamma's lap, and was soon home again. M. R. B. SMALL BEGINNING. [Illustration] WHEN the first little crocus peeped out of the ground, And slyly looked round, Not a flower was awake, not a bit of new green Was anywhere seen; And it seemed, with a shiver the little one said, "Oh, I am afraid, The trees are so naked, the earth is so black! Please let me go back! You have called me too early, my dear Mother Spring, I am such a wee thing!" [Illustration] Then a bluebird whistled, "Oh, no! my dear, It is good you are here; For now we are sure that spring is near." Then a sober old robin came bustling by With the sleep in his eye; "Ah, me! how stupid I was to wait; And now I am late! The bluebird has piped, and the crocus has come; And you know by the hum The hot little bee is beating his drum." Then sweet Mother Spring, with a sunshine kiss, Said something like this: "Thanks, brave little crocus, so slender and small, For heeding my call While orchards were leafless, and snow-drifts staid In the all-day shade: You are telling us sweetly that soonest begun The soonest is done; That little by little makes up the great, And early obeying is better than late." GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. JENNY WREN. [Illustration] JENNY WREN'S a lady, Very quiet she: That's her pretty mansion In the hollow tree. Peep into her parlor, Carpeted with down; There you'll see her sitting In her modest gown. Jenny Wren is busy, Summer days are near, And she has a houseful: Listen, and you'll hear. Little mouths are open From the hour she wakes, And to feed her darlings All her time it takes. Jenny Wren is moving: Breezes hurry by; Purple leaves are falling; Chilly grows the sky. Long before the snowflakes Through the orchard roam, Should you call on Jenny, Nobody's at home. GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration: Music] DADDY FROG. Words by GEO. COOPER. Music by T. CRAMPTON. 1 Old Daddy Frog lives in a bog, And his coat is bottle-green; Yellow his vest; handsomely drest, His pretty shape is seen. Puffing with pride, there at his side His dame is sure to be. Smiling, he says, "No one could raise A finer family;" Chorus. Singing "Cou, cou, cou, Ker-chunk!" 2 Old Daddy Frog leaps on a log, In a spry and jaunty way; Calling his boys-- Oh, what a noise! He joins them in their play. Hipperty-hop! Under they pop, And Daddy Frog, says he, "Isn't it fine? How they will shine, This polished family." 3 Old Daddy Frog lives in the bog Till the summer days are done; Little frogs grow, Dressed like a beau Now is each model son; Daddy Frog's eyes Wink with surprise, Quite filled with delight is he; Dame at his side Chuckles with pride, "There's no such family!" * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
40757	----	transcribed by June Troyer. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXIX.--No. 6. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON. UNIVERSITY PRESS.] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Careless Nurse 161 Master Baby 165 Two Small Boys 166 A Saucy Visitor 168 How Georgie Fed his Fawn 171 Drawing-Lesson 177 A Picnic in a Strange Garden 178 Two Small Girls 182 The Careful Nurse 183 Ralph's Great-Grandmother and her History 185 IN VERSE. PAGE Feeding the Fowls 163 A Polite Dandelion 164 Kitty didn't mean to 167 The Rose 173 Margie's Trial 180 Why the Chick came out 184 June 188 [Illustration] [Illustration: VOL. XXIX.--NO. 6.] THE CARELESS NURSE. THE rights of man do not give me much concern; neither do I trouble myself much about the rights of woman. My mission is to look after the rights of children. I never forget this wherever I may be. Some people may think that the rights of children are safe enough in the care of the fathers and mothers. Are they indeed! How many children are sent out, day after day, in charge of nurses? Who protects the children against careless and cruel nurses? Anxious mother, answer me that. Many cases of gross neglect have come under my eye. I will mention one case that took place last summer at the seaside. I was out in my yacht at the time. Scanning the shore with my spy-glass, this is what I saw:-- A good-looking young woman was pushing a baby-carriage before her. In the carriage was a little child. The young woman seemed to be singing, and all went well until a young man came up and walked by her side. From his dress I should say that he was a sailor. Perhaps he had just landed from a man-of-war. His trousers had the man-of-war cut. The young man and the young woman talked and laughed together as they went along. They seemed to be very good friends. But what became of the infant in the carriage? Poor child! She fell off the seat. Her head hung over the side of the carriage, just in front of the wheel, and there she lay shrieking for help. I could not hear her shrieks, for I was a mile away; but the sight was enough for me. I seized my trumpet. "Shipmate, ahoy!" I shouted to the sailor-chap. No answer. It was plain that the sailor-chap did not care in the slightest degree for that poor suffering child. Nobody offered to help her. "Steer for the shore!" I said to my helmsman. "Bear down to the rescue!" We landed as soon as we could, but not without some delay, and when we reached the place it was too late. Nurse, carriage, sailor-chap, and all were gone. What was the fate of that poor infant is a mystery to me to this day. But I tell the story as a warning to all mothers against trusting their children to a careless nurse. JACK TAR. [Illustration] FEEDING THE FOWLS. PECKING away, and looking so knowing, Feathers and tails in the breezes blowing, "Cluck, cluck, cluck!" come the hens to be fed, And Edith is scattering crumbs of bread. The peacock comes also, strutting so grandly, His long tail behind him trailing so blandly, Doesn't he look as proud as a king, With his crown, and his tail, and his brilliant wing! S. T. U. [Illustration] A POLITE DANDELION. By GEORGE COOPER. "OH, what shall I do, Dandelion? My white satin gown will be spoiled: The rain has begun; I've nowhere to run; And my bonnet and all will be soiled." "Don't be in a flutter, Miss Miller, And where are you going so fast? My sunshade of gold Above you I'll hold Till this very hard shower has passed." [Illustration] MASTER BABY. MASTER BABY has been playing in the park all the morning. He has been chasing a butterfly. He did not catch the butterfly. But he has come home with two rosy cheeks and a good appetite. Now he must have his dinner. Tie his bib around his neck. Seat him at the table. Give him some soup. Now cut him up some meat and potato, and let him feed himself. He is a little awkward; but a hungry boy will soon learn how to handle a fork. Let him alone for that. It will not take long to teach him how to use a knife too. Boys need a good deal of food to make them strong and hearty. Give them plenty of fresh air. Let the sun shine on them. Then they will be sure to eat with a relish. J. K. L. TWO SMALL BOYS. THIS is our Sam. He is the boy who goes to sea in a bowl. He throws out a line, and catches a fish. What does the fish look like? Where would Sam be if the bowl should tip over? Would he get wet? [Illustration] This is Billy with his whip. He thinks he would like to drive a coach. But where will he get his team? He will find it, I dare say, without going out of the room. [Illustration] An arm-chair will do for a coach, and a pair of boots will make a fine span of horses. M. N. O. [Illustration] KITTY DIDN'T MEAN TO. JOANNA scolds my kitty every day: I'm filled with grief. Just now to Mary Ann I heard her say, "That cat's a thief!" Poor kit! you did not wish for milk to-day, But wanted meat. You took a little bit from off the tray, And, with your feet, A glass of water, standing in the way, You tumbled down; And just for this you had to bear, all day, Joanna's frown. I think that Miss Joanna must be seen to; For, kitty, I am sure you didn't mean to. AMANDA SHAW ELSEFFER. A SAUCY VISITOR. ONCE upon a time a mother-sparrow and her three children lived in a great big maple-tree, which stood before a great big house, which had a broad piazza in front of it. The mother-bird often used to talk to her children about the people who lived in the house, and their pets. "See, Polly Dolly Adeline," she said to her oldest child one day, "see those lazy yellow canaries down there on the piazza. They have every thing they want. See how they are coddled while we are left to shift for ourselves." "Boo-hoo!" said Polly Dolly. "I don't think it is a bit fair." "I don't either," said the youngest of all. He was a pert little fellow. His name was Flop. He was so called, because, when he first began to fly, he would flop over on one side. But he could fly well enough now, and so he said boldly, "I mean to go down to one of those cages, and eat some of that nice seed myself. I'll let young Canary know that I am as good as he." At these words Mrs. Sparrow was so frightened that she fell off the branch; but she soon flew back, and said, "Flop, you naughty boy, don't you go! you may get killed." "Cats, you know, Flop!" said Polly Dolly Adeline. "Cats with green eyes!" "Pooh!" said Flop. "Who cares? I'm not afraid." [Illustration] Flop flew gaily down to the piazza railing. Here he stopped, and looked around; while his mother and sisters watched him in fear and trembling. Nobody was on the piazza: so Flop flew straight to one of the cages. "How do you do, my young friend?" he said, saucily helping himself to the seed that had been scattered. "I've come to take dinner with you." Mr. Canary did not like this at all. "You've not been invited," he squeaked out, ruffling up his feathers, and flying at Flop with all his might. But the bars were between them; and Flop went on eating his dinner as calmly as possible. Then the canary became so angry that he danced back and forth on his perch, and screamed. Flop made another very polite bow. "Oh, how good that hemp-seed tastes!" said he. "The rape-seed, too, is very nice,--nice as the fattest canker-worm I ever ate." So he went on eating, looking up now and then to wink at his angry host. When he had eaten all he could find, he made his best bow and said saucily, "Thank you, sir, thank you. Don't urge me to stay longer now. I'll come again some other day," and he flew back to his anxious mother and sisters. B. W. [Illustration] [Illustration] HOW GEORGIE FED HIS FAWN. GEORGIE stood at the kitchen-door with a piece of bread in his hand to feed his pet fawn. There was the fawn chained to a post in the grass-plat. Between them was a long gravel walk. How was Georgie to get the bread to the fawn? Easily enough, one would think,--by carrying it straight to the fawn. But Georgie didn't find this such an easy thing to do. He met with difficulties. In the first place there was Rover, the big brown pup. Georgie had not taken three steps, when Rover spied the bread, and, thinking it was for him, began jumping after it. Georgie thought he would have to run back to the house; but, seeing a stick on the ground, he picked it up, and shook it at Rover. Rover was afraid of the stick, and ran meekly away. Nothing else happened to trouble Georgie until he had gone halfway up the walk. Then he met another difficulty. Two big turkey-gobblers, looking very red about the head, and with feathers all ruffled up, rushed towards him for the bread, crying, "Gobble, gobble!" in a frightful manner. Georgie hesitated. Dare he go past them? "Gobble, gobble!" screeched the turkeys. Down went the bread on the ground, and back to the house, as fast as his legs could carry him, ran Georgie. His mother saw two big tears in the little fellow's eyes and felt sorry for him. She cut another piece of bread, turned his apron up over it so the turkeys could not see it, and told him to run bravely past them. He hoped they were still eating the other piece, and would not notice him; but they had swallowed every crumb and ran toward him for more. He screwed up his courage, and tried to run by them. Alas! he stumbled and fell. Away rolled the bread, and, before he could get it again, the gobblers had it and were quarrelling noisily, each trying to pull it away from the other one. [Illustration] This second loss was more than little Georgie could bear. He went crying into the house. Then his sister Jennie said she would go with him, and keep off the turkeys. She took some bread in one hand, and held Georgie's hand with the other, and this time the turkeys were passed safely. Georgie fed the pretty fawn, who took the bread from his hand, and capered about with delight, for he likes to have Georgie pet him, and pines for his company. Georgie is going to ask the gardener to buy two chains and fasten the two old gobblers in some other part of the yard. Then he can visit the fawn often. AUNT SADIE. [Illustration] THE ROSE. ANNIE. THE sweetest and the brightest days Of all the happy year! The green leaves dance, the gay birds sing, The merry June is here! We will of roses weave her crown, The fairest that unclose; Each one of different form and hue, Yet each a perfect rose. BESSIE. (_With a red rose._) And this one will outshine them all; Amid the garden's rare And splendid flowers, it raised its head, The brightest blossom there. All decked with dew like gems, its robe Of royal crimson glows-- The matchless queen of summer-time, The beautiful red rose! [Illustration] CHARLOTTE. (_With a white rose._) But this to me is lovelier far, So pure and sweet it seems; Among the green leaves on the bough Like fallen snow it gleams. Its breath gives perfume to the wind, As over it it blows; 'Tis stainless as an angel's wings, The fragrant, fair white rose. DELIA. (_With a yellow rose._) And this, to greet the early morn, In yellow mantle shone, Bright as is China's emperor Upon his dazzling throne. It opens wide its golden leaves, Its gleaming heart it shows,-- A sunshine-loving, cheery thing, The winsome yellow rose! EVA. (_With a brier rose._) Among the brambles and the brake Beside the dusty way; This dainty little blossom sheds Its sweetness all the day. It makes the rough hill pastures fair; Amid the rocks it grows; It clambers o'er the gray stone wall,-- The simple brier rose! [Illustration] FRANCES. (_With a blush rose._) This blushes like a morning cloud. GERTRUDE. (_With a moss rose._) And this is veiled in moss. HELENA. (_With a cluster of climbing roses._) This, with the honeysuckle-vines, My lattice twines across. ANNIE. (_To whom all the roses are given._) And which one is the fairest flower I'm sure cannot be told: We'll twine them all in one long wreath, The white and red and gold. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXIX.--NO. 6.] A PICNIC IN A STRANGE GARDEN. IF I should ask you children to tell me what a garden is, I think you would all say, "A place where trees, flowers, and grass grow." That would be a good answer. But the garden where this picnic took place is of a very different kind. Instead of bright leaves and flowers, there are hundreds of rocks of many sizes and shapes. Its name is the "Garden of the Gods," and it lies at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, in Colorado. The color of most of the rocks is red; but some are silvery gray, and some nearly white. Seen together they make a fine contrast. Many have strange shapes, and look like nuns and priests, animals, birds, and fishes turned into stone. On one high rock may be seen the image of a man and a bear; on another, the outline of a lion's head, and part of its body, so perfect in shape, that it seems as though some one must have drawn it. Some of the rocks are very high. One reaches up three hundred and thirty feet. Near the top of it is a hole, which looks from the ground to be about the size of a dinner-plate, but is really large enough for a horse and buggy to pass through. A few trees manage to live high up on the rocks, and the prickly cactus grows in the soil around them. To this garden went, one bright summer day, a wagon-load of people--six happy little girls and boys, with their mothers and fathers--on a picnic. The children were dressed in big shade hats, and clothes that they might tear and tumble all they wished. Such fun as they had! The older ones climbed the smaller rocks, and made speeches to the little ones on the ground below. Then they all played "hide-and-seek," and never were there such grand hiding-places. At noon they had lunch. Their table was a large flat rock. Mountain air and play give good appetites. How they did enjoy eating the nice things, chatting and laughing all the while! [Illustration] After lunch away they ran in search of "specimens," by which they meant pretty stones. They chipped pieces off the rocks with hammers, playing they were miners finding gold and silver. They filled their baskets, and pretended to have made great fortunes. They kept up the sport until five o'clock, when their mammas said it was time to start for home, and counted the children to see if all were there. Only five could be found. There should have been six. Who was missing? It was four-year-old Willie. "Willie, Willie!" shouted every one, and from the great red rock came a faint reply. Then began "hide-and-seek" in earnest, and soon they spied the little fellow sitting on the side of the rock full five yards up. "Why, Willie!" called his mamma. "What are you doing up there?" "Going to climb through the little hole, mamma; but I'm tired." His uncle climbed after him, and soon brought him down. Six tired little children went early to bed that night, and dreamed of stony men and women, lions and bears. AUNT SADIE. MARGIE'S TRIAL. MY beautiful Evelina, Come listen to me, my dear; I want to tell you a secret That nobody else must hear: We're going away to the country,-- Mamma and baby and I, And grandmamma doesn't like dollies, Now please, my darling, don't cry. Oh, don't you remember last winter She called you an image, my pet! Just think, like those ugly old idols: I'm sure I shall never forget. She's the loveliest grandma, my precious; But some things are not to be borne: I'm sure that my heart would be broken If she should treat you with scorn. [Illustration] I'll put on your very best bonnet, Your pretty pink shoes on your feet; And you shall sit up by the window, And look at the folks in the street. Oh, dear! but I never can leave you A whole summer long on the shelf; If you are an "image," my baby, I'll just be a heathen myself. EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. TWO SMALL GIRLS. ANN is not yet five years old. But she knows how to read, and is very fond of her book. She does not care to sit down, but reads her book as she walks. This is not a good plan. It hurts the eyes. [Illustration] Grace, who is nine years old, often has a book in her hand. But she does not read and walk at the same time. She sits down on the floor. It would be quite as well for her to take a chair and sit up straight. [Illustration] P. Q. R. [Illustration] THE CAREFUL NURSE. THIS is little Grace taking Dolly out for an airing. It is a bright June day. The birds are singing. The flowers are in bloom. It is so warm that Grace goes without a hat. Dolly is snugly seated in her carriage; and Snip the dog, who barks, but never bites, has a place in it too. He is one of the breed known as the _toy_ dog. He does not bark unless you squeeze him. He is never cross. Grace rolls them down the broad path through the garden. She gives Dolly a nice ride, and then takes her home, and puts her to sleep in her little bed. She never lets Dolly miss her nap. Grace is a careful nurse. JANE OLIVER. WHY THE CHICK CAME OUT. BENNY BRIGHT-EYES, climbing over Heaps of crisp and fragrant clover, Spies the dearest, cutest thing, Hiding under Biddy's wing. What sees Benny next? A wonder! Rudely pushed quite out from under Biddy's breast, an egg comes sliding, In its shell a chicken hiding. "Ah!" says Benny as he gazes, And his merry blue eyes raises, "I know why his house he's spoiled: He's afraid of being boiled." M. J. TAYLOR. [Illustration] RALPH'S GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. MISS EASTMAN, the pretty drawing-teacher at the academy, boards in our family. Some time ago she chanced to take up an old, faded daguerrotype-likeness of my grandmother. She proposed copying it; and a lovely picture in crayon, of Ralph's great-grandmother, is the result. My grandmother was ninety years old when the likeness was taken; yet she appears in it erect and vigorous, sitting in her high-backed chair, with her knitting-work in her hand. She wears a snug cap, and a plain Quaker kerchief folded smoothly over her black silk dress. Naturally we have talked much about her; and my boys, Ralph and Fred, who have a happy faculty for drawing me out, have well-nigh exhausted all my memories of their great-grandmother. "Can't you think of something else about her?" Fred pleaded, a few nights ago when, tired of his books and games, he had seated himself comfortably before the fire. "Yes," I replied, "I have been thinking of another story as I sit here knitting. It is about going to Southampton on a canal-boat." "Oh, that's splendid, I know!" said both boys in a breath. "Hurry up, and count your stitches quick, mamma." I paused a moment to knit to the seam-needle, and then began:-- "My father and mother lived in Westfield, on the banks of the New-Haven and Northampton Canal. My grandmother lived in Southampton, the town next north of ours. She, too, lived near the canal. We children used to think that the trip we often took from our house to hers was like a journey through fairy-land. "The first time I ever went out from under my mother's wing was with my grandmother, who took me from home with her one bright June day. I was a little sober on parting with my mother; but the negro cook, on board the boat a fat, jolly-looking woman, took me under her special care. "I went down in her cabin, and she gave me cookies and great puffy doughnuts, and a pink stick of candy, and I watched her while she cleaned the lamps." "Is that all?" said Ralph, as I paused a moment to secure a dropped stitch in the red stocking. "Oh, no indeed!" I say as I go on,-- "By and by my grandmother's family were all scattered. My grandfather died, and left her sad and lonely; but she still lived in the old homestead. "I can see her room now. There were four windows in it,--two looking east, towards Mounts Tom and Holyoke, and two south, over a lovely old-fashioned garden filled with tulips, hollyhocks, southernwood, thyme, cinnamon-roses, spice-pinks, lavender, white-lilies, and violets. "There was an open Franklin stove in the room; and a little, chubby black teapot always stood on its top. One sunny south window was filled with flowers. Grandmother always carried a bunch of flowers to church with her, and she had a black velvet bag, in which she carried sugar-plums, to give to us drowsy children on Sunday afternoon, when the minister preached one of his long sermons." [Illustration] "Just one story more," said Ralph, as I again paused to observe what progress I was making in my knitting. "Will you promise not to ask for another one to-night?" "We promise certain sure," said Fred. "Only tell a long one for the last." "Very well," said I. "Once my grandmother made a party for a circle of cousins. We counted nine cousins in all when we took our seats at the supper-table." "What did you have for supper?" observed Fred. "We had nice seed-cookies cut into hearts, diamonds, leaves, and rounds; frosted cup-cakes powdered with pink sugar sand; little sweet biscuits, currant-tarts, dried beef, plum preserves, honey in a great glass dish, and jelly from a blue mug. We poured milk from a great green pitcher into pink china cups, and used grandma's tiny silver tea-spoons for our preserves." "Wasn't that splendid!" said Ralph. "I wish some one would invite me to such a supper." "In the evening we drew up before the open fire, and each had a great plateful of nuts, raisins, figs, and candy. Then grandma told us all about when she was a little girl,--what funny dresses she wore, what strange houses people lived in, and how they were furnished; and she remembered a little about the Revolutionary war, and the dark day, and Gen. Washington, and the Indians. "When grandma grew very old, she came to live with my mother. My uncle in Florida used to send her oranges and other nice fruit; and my pretty aunt Eleanor in New York gave her all her caps and fine muslin neckerchiefs. All her sons and daughters were very thoughtful for her happiness. "By and by she fell asleep, and there was a funeral at our house one lovely day in early autumn. It did not seem sad or gloomy. We returned from the quiet country graveyard in the twilight of the beautiful day, and gathered in grandma's pleasant room, and talked with tears and smiles of her long and useful life." "What a good grandmother!" said Ralph, almost tearfully. "I wish I could have seen her just once." We have had the picture framed, and it hangs in my boys' room now; and often in the early morning, as I linger on the stairs, I hear them tell in a very familiar way all they have learned of Ralph's great-grandmother. SARAH THAXTER THAYER. [Illustration] JUNE. MY sister May Has gone away With April and his showers. I come apace To take her place. Accept my gift of flowers! [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the January issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the January issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
42156	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 1. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Hide and Seek 193 Flowers for Mamma 195 Outwitted 197 Zip Coon 199 The Fuss in the Poultry-Yard 201 Our Charley 206 Drawing-Lesson 209 More about "Parley-voo" 210 The old Pump 214 Winter on Lake Constance 215 Swan-upping 216 The Man in the Moon 219 The Boy and the Cat 220 IN VERSE. Hammock Song 196 Rosie and the Pigs 198 What's up 203 Minding Mother 204 Peet-Weet 207 Baby's Ride 212 Baby-Brother 222 Under Green Leaves (_with music_) 224 [Illustration] [Illustration: HIDE AND SEEK. VOL. XXX.--NO. 1.] HIDE-AND-SEEK. WHERE is Charley? Where can the boy have gone? Just now he was here by my side. Now he is out of my sight. I will call him. 'Charley, Charley, my boy! where are you?' "No answer. Hark! I hear a noise up in that tree. Can that be Charley? Oh, no! It is a bird. 'Little bird, have you seen a small boy with curly hair? Tell me where to look for him.' "The bird will not tell me. I must ask the squirrel. 'Squirrel, have you seen a boy with rosy cheeks?' Away goes the squirrel into a hole without saying a word. "Ah! there goes a butterfly. I will ask him. 'Butterfly, have you seen a boy, with black eyes, rosy cheeks, and curly hair?' The butterfly lights on a bush. Now he flies again. Now he is off without making any reply. "Dear me! what shall I do? Is my little boy lost in the woods? Must I go home without him? Oh, how can I live without my boy!" Out pops a laughing face from the bushes. "Here I am, mamma!" says Charley. "Don't cry. Here I am close by you." "Why, so you are. Come out here, you little rogue, and tell me where you have been all this time." "I have been right behind this tree, and I heard every word you said," says Charley. "What a joke that was! Why, Charley, you must have kept still for as much as three minutes. I never knew you to do that before." IDA FAY. [Illustration] FLOWERS FOR MAMMA. OUR readers will remember a picture of this same little girl as she was taking her doll to ride. While Dolly was taking her nap, Grace ran into the garden again. She flitted about among the flowers, as busy as a bee, for a few minutes. Then she came running into the house. The picture shows what she brought back to her mamma. JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] HAMMOCK SONG. HEIGH-HO, to and fro! How the merry breezes blow! Blue skies, blue eyes, Baby, bees, and butterflies, Daisies growing everywhere, Breath of roses in the air! Dollie Dimple, swing away, Baby darling, at your play. MARY D. BRINE. OUTWITTED. ONE fine summer day a very hungry fox sallied out in search of his dinner. After a while his eye rested on a young rooster, which he thought would make a very good meal: so he lay down under a wall and hid himself in the high grass, intending to wait until the rooster got near enough, and then to spring on him, and carry him off. Suddenly, however, the rooster saw him and flew, in a great fright, to the top of the wall. The fox could not get him there, and he knew it: so he came out from his hiding-place, and addressed the rooster thus: "Dear me!" he cried, "how handsomely you are dressed! I came to invite your magnificence to a grand christening feast. The duck and the goose have promised to come, and the turkey, though slightly ill, will try to come also. [Illustration] "You see that only those of rank are bidden to this feast, and we beg you to adorn it with your splendid talent for music. We are to have the most delicate little cock-chafers served up on toast, a delicious salad of earthworms, in fact all manner of good things. Will you not return then with me to my house?" "Oh ho!" said the rooster, "how kind you are! What fine stories you tell! Still I think it safest to decline your kind invitation. I am sorry not to go to that splendid feast; but I cannot leave my wife, for she is sitting on seven new eggs. Good-by! I hope you will relish those earthworms. Don't come too near me, or I will crow for the dogs. Good-by!" LEONORA, from the German. [Illustration] ROSIE AND THE PIGS. ROSIE was breakfasting out on the grass When two pigs, on a walking tour, happened to pass. One pig, with rude manners, came boldly in front, And first gave a stare, and then gave a grunt, As much as to say, "What is that you have got? Just give us a taste, my dear, out of your pot!" T. [Illustration] ZIP COON. DID you ever see a raccoon? I am going to tell you about one that was sent from the South as a present to a lady whose name was Isabella. He was called Zip Coon, and a very wise coon he was. Zip had a long, low body, covered with stiff yellowish hair. His nose was pointed, and his eyes were bright as buttons. His paws were regular little hands, and he used them just like hands. He was very tame. He would climb up on Isabella's chair, and scramble to her shoulder. Then he would comb her hair with his fingers, pick at her ear-rings, and feel of her collar and pin and buttons. Isabella's mother was quite ill, but sometimes was able to sit in her chair and eat her dinner from a tray on her lap. She liked to have Zip in her room; but, if left alone with her, Zip would jump up in the chair behind her, and try to crowd her off. He would reach around, too, under her arm, and steal things from her tray. Once the cook in the kitchen heard a brisk rattling of tin pans in the pantry. She opened the door, and there, on a shelf, was Zip. There were two pans standing side by side. One had Indian-meal in it, and the other nice sweet milk. In front of the pans stood Zippy. He had scooped the meal from one pan into the milk in the other pan, and was stirring up a pudding with all his might. He looked over his shoulder when he heard the cook coming up behind him, and worked away all the faster, as if to get the pudding done before he was snatched up, and put out of the pantry. Zip was very neat and clean. He loved to have a bowl of water and piece of soap set down for his own use. He would take the soap in his hands, dip it into the water, and rub it between his palms; then he would reach all around his body, and wash himself. It was very funny to see him reach way around, and wash his back. One day, Isabella, not feeling well, was lying on her bed. Zippy was playing around her in his usual way. Pretty soon he ran under the bed, and was busy a long while reaching up, and pulling and picking at the slats over his head. By and by he crawled out; and what do you think he had between his teeth? A pretty little red coral ear-ring that Isabella had lost several weeks before. Zip's bright eyes had spied it as he was playing around under the bed. So you see Zip Coon did some good that time. When Zip grew older, he became so cross and snappish, that he had to be chained up in the woodshed in front of his little house. On the door of his house was printed in red letters, "Zip Coon: he bites." HELEN MARR. [Illustration] THE FUSS IN THE POULTRY-YARD. THERE is no sign of a fuss to be seen in the picture. Little Ellen is feeding a quiet old hen, and two or three younger ones are slowly coming up to see what is going on. All is calm and serene. But if we could look round a corner, and take a view of the other side of the barnyard, we should see something quite exciting. The trouble was made by three hens of foreign breed. They felt so proud because they had big tufts on their heads, that they looked down on the native barn-yard fowls. One old white hen they never cease to pick upon. Now, the old white hen, although plain, was very smart. If there was a good fat worm to be found anywhere, she was sure to scratch it up. This was what caused the fuss. Old Whitey scratched up a worm. Three tufted hens at once tried to take it away from her. There was a chase all around the barnyard. Old Whitey, with the worm in her mouth, kept the lead. Out she dashed through an opening in the fence. Down she went, down the hill back of the barn. The three tufted hens, like three highwaymen, were close upon her. Well, what was the end of it? They didn't get the worm; I can tell you that. But there was a fight, and I can't say that poor Whitey got off without being badly pecked. UNCLE CHARLES. [Illustration] WHAT'S UP? [Illustration] [Illustration] WHY does Miss Prim; So stylish and slim, Hold up her head so high? What does she see? A bird in the tree? Or is it a star in the sky? And here is young Jane In bonnet so plain: And why is she looking up too? Do they seek at high noon For the man in the moon? Now, really, I wish that I knew? V. W. [Illustration] MINDING MOTHER. "OROOK, orook, orook!" It is the half-grown turkeys going, In the hot sunshine, through the fields; Their black feet trampling down the mowing. Across the clover rosy red, Through the tall brake-leaves in the hollow, The old hen-turkey, calling, goes; And close behind the others follow. "Old birds know best," the young ones say, "And we let mother choose the way." The dancing oats, all tasselled green, Are full of grasshoppers and crickets; The raspberry-bushes, red with fruit, Grow round the rocks in thorny thickets; The partridge-plants beside the wall Lift up their clustered purple berries; And from the wind-stirred branches fall Upon the grass the small wild cherries: Just where they are the old hen knows, And all her noisy brood she shows. Why feast all day?--the trodden oats Will scarce be worth the mowing;-- "'Tis time," the old bird says, "at last We home again were going." Back through the clover-bloom she strides, Down through the braky hollow: She flies up on the fence to roost, And all the others follow. "We always have," the young ones say, "When mother leads, a pleasant day." MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] OUR CHARLEY. CHARLEY was our horse, and a more gentle and kind horse never drew a carriage. He would carry four boys on his back, and walk off from the watering-trough to the barn as carefully as if he knew that small boys could not hold on very well. He seemed to feel that the boys were in his charge. What I am going to tell happened one spring day. It was warm and beautiful out, and the doors and windows of the house were left open for the fresh air to circulate freely. Charley was turned into the front-yard to nibble the green grass for a while. It must have seemed good to him after eating straw and hay all winter. He ate and ate until he had eaten all he wanted, and probably felt as boys and girls sometimes do when they have room for nothing more, except pie, or pudding, or whatever the dessert may be. In the house dinner was over, and the table was waiting for Katy to come from the kitchen to clear it off. The family had gone into the sitting-room, and were busy talking about a ramble in the woods for flowers, which had been promised us children for that afternoon. All at once we heard the tramp of heavy feet passing through the hall into the dining-room. "Run, Willy," said mother, "and see what is making such a noise." Willy ran out, and came back laughing so he could hardly speak. "It's old Charley," said he. "He's in the dining-room." We all rushed to the door, and, sure enough, there stood Charley by the table, eating what he could find on the platters and children's plates. Oh, how we all laughed to see him standing there, as sober as if it were his own stall and manger! We were willing that Charley should have what we had left; but it seemed hardly right that a horse should be in the house; besides, we feared that he might push the dishes off. So Willy took him by the mane, and led him out of the house. He went off chewing what he had in his mouth, and nodding his head, as much as to say, "That pie-crust and salt are pretty good. If you please, I'll call again." N. T. B. [Illustration] PEET-WEET.[A] SIR PEET-WEET and his little wife Live, yonder by the water's edge, A merry life, a busy life, A life of love, and not of strife, Close nestled in the sandy sedge, Where the great hungry billows gnaw: A fairy creature is Sir Peet; Such slender legs you never saw, Not larger than a barley-straw; Yet wind and wave are not so fleet. While madam sits upon her eggs,-- Four spotted eggs, a pair for each,-- He loves to match his nimble legs Against the breaker as it drags The sand-drift up and down the beach. So fast behind the wave he trips, You hardly see his little feet; Below him, in the wet sand, slips His picture, and their toes touch tips, And their pink bills in kissing meet. To see them chasing, you would say The giant Ocean and his pet Were let out for a holiday, Playing at "tag" as children play, And laughing at the fun they get. 'Tis more than fun; the big bluff sea To his small friend brings savory meat: Peet dines, and hurries, full of glee, To set his faithful lady free, That she may run and dance and eat. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [A] Peet-weet is the common name of the spotted Sandpiper, derived from its note. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXX.--NO. 1.] MORE ABOUT "PARLEY-VOO." HOW a little boy came to be called by such a queer nickname as "Parley-voo" was told in the March number of "The Nursery." This is a story about the same boy. "Where's Parley-voo?" asked aunt Tib one afternoon. "I haven't seen him for a long time." "Where can he be?" said mamma, looking concerned. "Where _can_ he be?" echoed the French nurse, throwing down her sewing, and going in search of him. "Where can he be? _Le méchant!_" (She meant "The naughty little boy.") Then she ran down the walk, calling out, "Parley-voo, Parley-voo, Parley-voo!" But not a sound came back. She went down the lane to the house of the tailoress, where Parley-voo had sometimes been known to go. "Have you seen our little boy to-day?" she asked anxiously of the tailoress, who sat at the window, making a vest. The tailoress looked up over her glasses, and laughed. "Why, yes: he's here," said she; "and I don't know what his mother will say when she sees him." The nurse went up to the window, and looked in. There sat Parley-voo on a little wooden cricket, and ever so much of his bright, pretty hair--as much as he could get at--lay on the floor beside him. When Parley-voo saw the nurse, he ran into a corner, and hid his face. The poor nurse was so amazed, that she could hardly speak. How came the child in such a plight? The tailoress told the story as follows. She had gone out to pick some peas in the garden, leaving her husband, a blind man, in the room with Parley-voo. He heard the little boy about the room, and, fearing that he might be in some mischief, told him that he "must not meddle." But pretty soon the blind man heard the sound of shears going across the table. Parley-voo was certainly doing something with the shears. "Little boy, you must not meddle," said the blind man again. The noise stopped. "Ah! the boy does not dare to disobey me," thought the blind man. [Illustration] All of a sudden the noise began again; but it was a very different noise. It was not on the table. The shears went together every little while with a sharp click. The blind man felt very uneasy. "I do wish," he thought, "my wife would come in and see what the little chap is up to." To console himself, the blind man opened his snuff-box and took a pinch of snuff. What do you think the little chap did? He slyly put in his finger and thumb, and took a pinch too. And then how he did sneeze! The tailoress heard him sneeze, and came in. She saw at once what had been going on. Parley-voo had been cutting his hair. "Oh, my!" exclaimed mamma, when the nurse brought him home. "Dear, dear!" cried aunt Tib, "what a looking child!" Then the _bonne_ told where she found him, and they looked at his hair, and talked so much about it, that Parley-voo wished he could sink through the floor out of sight. And he thought to himself that he would never again touch any thing he had been told not to. The nurse took him up to the nursery, and dressed him all fresh and nice before his father came home. But the pretty yellow hair was two or three months growing out. ELIZABETH A. DAVIS. BABY'S RIDE. CLEAR the way all, move the playthings aside, Baby is having a glorious ride: See! from the hall he comes galloping in, Dimpled hands folded beneath papa's chin. Golden curls flying, fat cheeks all aglow, Three pearly teeth peeping out in a row: Hark! how he crows, and laughs out in his glee! Never was baby more happy than he. [Illustration] Now he goes trotting along to the town, Far away, far away, up hill and down; Back to mamma then as quick as he can, There's a good ride for papa's little man! RUTH REVERE. THE OLD PUMP. THIS is the pump that stands in the field near our house. The well is very deep, and the water is pure and cold. There is a trough at which the cows and horses often come to drink. [Illustration] Bridget goes to the pump two or three times a day to get a pail of water. It is quite a task to bring it so far. But Bridget's arms are quite strong. She takes all the care of the hens and cows and pigs. [Illustration] T. S. R. [Illustration] WINTER ON LAKE CONSTANCE. THE Lake of Constance, which lies between Switzerland and Germany, is seldom frozen over. The last time it was frozen was in December, 1879. Before that, it had not been frozen over since 1829. People came from far and near to see it and to skate on it. The lake was black with skaters who were gliding over its surface. Men, women, and children alike shared the fun. There had not been such skating before for fifty years, and it is no wonder that they made the most of it while it lasted. In January a warm wind blew for two days: the huge masses of snow melted, and the little brooks were once more set running down the mountain-sides. But winter was soon back again with redoubled severity, bringing fresh snow and severer frost, and thus keeping the lake frozen. On Candlemas Day (the second day of February) there was a grand festival on the ice. The peasants came from far and near. There were thousands of them there. In the evening there was a grand illumination, and after that there were fireworks, and then a dance on the ice. In summer the water of Lake Constance is of a dark green color. The River Rhine enters it at the western end, and flows out at the eastern end. The lake is about forty-four miles long and nine miles wide. The view of the frozen lake from the mountains is said to have been very fine. As you looked down on its smooth glittering surface, the skaters moving over it appeared like mere specks, while the houses in the village were like doll-houses. LEONORA, from the German. SWAN-UPPING. HERE we have a picture that tells its own story. It reminds me of some swans in my native island, England, and of a curious custom called "swan-upping." Some miles from London, on one of the most beautiful parts of the River Thames, a great number of swans are kept, which are owned by the Dyers' and Vintners' Companies. The owners value them so highly, and take such care of them, that they have about as nice a time as any birds could wish to have. I fancy that these Thames swans hold their heads higher, and feel prouder, than any other swans in England. [Illustration] They build their nests in the osier-beds, by the side of the river, but out of the reach of the water. These nests are compact, handsome structures, formed of osiers, or reeds. Every pair of swans has its own walk, or district, within which no other swans are permitted to build. Every pair has a keeper appointed to take the entire charge of them. The keeper receives a small sum for every cygnet that is reared; and it is his duty to see that the nest is not disturbed. Sometimes he helps these lordly birds by building the foundation of the nest for them. Once a year, in August, the swans are counted and marked. This is called "swan-upping," and a good time it used to be. In gayly decorated barges, with flags flying, and music playing, the city authorities came up the river to take up the swans and mark them. [Illustration] The "upping" began on the first Monday after St. Peter's Day. But, before the swans could be taken up, they had to be caught. This was no easy matter; for the swans are strong; and often they would lead the uppers a hard chase among the crooks of the river. The mark of the Vintners' Company is two nicks: hence came the well-known sign on so many inns in England, "The Swan with Two Necks," a corruption from "two nicks." These "Thames swans" are very beautiful birds, and well worth a trip up the river to see: so I hope, that, if ever the little readers of "The Nursery" take a trip to England, they will visit Hurley in Bucks, and there they will find "The Swans with Two Nicks." B. P. THE MAN IN THE MOON. I KNOW two children,--a little girl named Helen, and a little boy named Lewis. Sometimes in the evening, after tea, they come to me, and say, "Papa, will you be the man in the moon and take us all a-sailing?" Then I get into the rocking-chair, take Helen on one knee and Lewis on the other, and as they lean on my breast, with their eyes shut, I rock and talk to them thus:-- "Here we are up in the sky on the moon. Oh, how high we are! Below us see the clouds blown about like feathers. Here we are safe and sound in the moon. Look down, and see the trees on the earth. There's where the birds are going to bed. Do you see that streak that looks like a silver ribbon? That is a river flowing to the sea. Now we are over the ocean. You can see our moonlight like great plates of silver all over it. See! there comes a ship all white. It looks as if it had its nightdress on. "Here we are over a town. How beautiful the streets look with gas-lamps burning! And see all the pretty things in the shop-windows. I know what Helen is looking at. It is the big doll dressed in silk and satin. I know what Lewis is looking at. He is looking at the ginger-bread. "Oh! now we are just over a little white house. I can see through the window a man with two children in his lap. Oh, dear! he's going to do something dreadful with them." "What's that?" asks Helen. "Put them to bed," I say. But Lewis says nothing. He is fast asleep. HIERONIMUS. THE BOY AND THE CAT. SEE this small boy on the kitchen-table. How did he ever get up there with such little short legs? And what is he looking at? [Illustration] He is looking out of the window. He sees a cat on the sill outside. It is an old strange cat. The little boy is fond of kittens; but he does not like cats. He is not polite to the strange cat. "What do you want here?" he says. "Why do you stare at me so? Do you want to eat me? I'm not a mouse. Go away!" The cat answers with one word, "Mew!" "What do you say?" asks the boy. "Are you cold? Do you want to come in? Do you want some milk?" And all that the cat says is, "Mew!" "Go away!" says the boy again. "My mother does not like strange cats. I do not like strange cats. If you are hungry, go and catch a rat. You can't come in here." [Illustration] The cat does not budge an inch. But still she answers with a pitiful "Mew!" Cats cannot talk; but they can think. This cat looks in at the window and sees the boy. This is what she thinks. "That boy looks like a boy that I knew when I was a kitten. I was a pet then. Now I am a cat without any home. Nobody cares for me. I go from house to house; but nobody takes me in. I wonder if I can't make that little boy take pity on me. I will try. "Ah! he treats me like everybody else. He tells me to go away. Pretty soon he will say, 'Scat!' and throw water on me. No: he will not do that. He is so much like the little boy who used to pet me when I was a kitten, that I will not run away from him. I will beg to be let in." So the cat sat still and said, "Mew!" [Illustration] And the cat did not make a mistake. The little boy did take pity on her at last. He toddled off to his mother as fast as his legs would carry him, and got a pan of milk, which he set on the floor. His mother opened the window for him, and the strange cat came in. How eagerly she lapped up the milk! She was really a very nice cat. The little boy soon began to make a pet of her. And the cat was happy, and the boy was happy; and I don't know which was the happier of the two. UNCLE SAM. BABY-BROTHER. THIS is my baby-brother, Just one year old to-day: He cannot talk, he cannot walk; But he can laugh and play! [Illustration] Step out now, baby-brother, And use your feet so small; Oh, never fear! while I am here, You shall not have a fall. W. G. UNDER GREEN LEAVES. Words by IDA FAY. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. The birdies are merrily singing; And Minnie is merrily swinging; And Minnie is merrily swinging; Safe from the forest tree, . . . Hangs the swing you may see; And the breeze a sweet odor is bringing, Under green leaves so free. 2 Hold tight to the ropes, little lady, || All round us is pleasant and shady; || And now we will not go, Where the sun scorches so, But will stay in the grove, little lady, Where the cool streamlets flow. 3 You sit the swing well I am thinking, || Your eyes, as you rise, never blinking; || You're brave, you little girl, But your hair's out of curl; Very soon at the glass you'll be prinking; Smoothing each glossy curl. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
42157	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 2. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Young Fisherman 225 A slight Mistake 227 Two Games 231 More about "Zip Coon" 232 Sam and his Goats 234 Mary's Squirrel 240 Drawing-Lesson 241 The Chimney-sweep 244 Billy and Bruiser 246 "If I were only a King" 248 Use before Beauty 249 Ten Minutes with Johnny 251 A Cat Story 252 Tom's Apple 254 IN VERSE. The Hen-Yard Door 228 Toy-Land 238 A Turtle Show 242 Two Little Maidens 247 Summer Rambles 250 See-Saw (_with music_) 256 [Illustration] THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. WHEN Charley was eight years old, his father gave him, for a birthday present, a nice fishing-line. The little boy was greatly pleased. He had fished often in a tub of water with a pin-hook; but now, for the first time, he had a real fishing-line and pole, and was able to go a-fishing in earnest. The very first pleasant day, he got leave from his father to go to the pond and try his luck. "Be sure to bring home a good mess of fish, Charley," said his father. "Oh, yes! papa," said Charley, and with his fishing-pole on his shoulder out he went. What fun it was! First he dug some worms for bait; then he baited his hook nicely; then he took his stand on a little platform, made on purpose for the use of fishermen, and threw out his hook. There he stood, in the shade of the old willow-tree, and waited for the fish to bite. As he looked down into the calm, clear water, he saw a boy, just about his own size, looking up at him. He had no other company. He kept close watch of the pretty painted cork, expecting every moment to see it go under water. But for a long, long time it floated almost without motion. Charley's patience began to give out. "I don't believe there are any fish here," thought he. Just then the cork dipped a little on one side. Then it stopped. Then it dipped again. "Hurrah!" said Charley, and he pulled up the line with a jerk. Was there a fish on it? Not a bit of one. But the bait was all gone. "Never mind!" said Charley, "I'll catch him next time." He baited the hook, and threw it out again. The sport was getting exciting. Pretty soon the cork bobbed under, as before. "Now I have him!" said Charley. He pulled up once more, and this time with such a jerk that he tossed the hook right over his head, and it caught in the weeds behind him. But there was no fish on it. "The third time never fails," said Charley, as he threw out his line again. He waited now until the cork was pulled clear under water; then he lifted it out, without too much haste, and, sure enough, he had caught a fish. How long do you suppose it had taken him to do it? Pretty nearly all the forenoon. No matter! he had one fish to carry home, and he had had a real good time besides. Charley has caught many a mess of fish since then; but I doubt if he has ever enjoyed the sport more than he did in catching that one fish. UNCLE SAM. [Illustration] A SLIGHT MISTAKE. A DONKEY walking with a lion, fancied himself a lion also, and pretended not to know his own brother. [Illustration] THE HEN-YARD DOOR. WHEN careless Tommy fed the fowls, He did not shut the door; Out came the rooster and the hens; Out came the pullets four; Out came old Speckle-wings, with six Bewitching little Bantam chicks. At once the hens began to cluck, The cock began to crow, And here and there, and everywhere, They seemed possessed to go; They pecked the turnips; in a patch Of spinach they began to scratch: And when to drive them in we tried They straightway to our neighbors hied. [Illustration] Upon our right, a new-made lawn Was just with grass-seed sown; Upon our left, a garden-plot With pinks and lilies shone. In rushed our right-hand neighbor's son, With flaming face, and said, "'Shut up your hens,' my father says, Or he will shoot them dead." Our left-hand neighbor wrote a note,-- "I all the spring have toiled To rear the lovely flowers I find Your roving fowls have spoiled." To get them home, the livelong day We tried, till evening gathered gray: Then back to roost returned the cock, But some were missing from his flock. Four hens were with him; where were two? Perhaps our right-hand neighbor knew! Back came the pullets, having fed On dainty pinks, and roses red; Back came old Speckle; of her six The cat had caught three little chicks. We shut the door, and made it fast; We all were glad the day was past: We'd lost our hens, and lost our friends; Our neighbors smile no more; And all because our careless Tom Forgot to shut the door! MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] TWO GAMES. [Illustration] HERE is a boy, full ten years old, playing with a peg-top. What a sight! He might find some better game, I should think. Why is he not out of doors playing baseball? He is big enough to use his arms and legs? [Illustration] This girl could teach him a much better game than peg-top. She is out on the lawn, all ready to play croquet. She will have fun and fresh air at the same time. Those are two things that all girls and boys need. C. B. A. MORE ABOUT "ZIP COON." "ZIP COON: he bites!" This is what I told you was printed in large red letters on the door of Zip's house, after he had grown so cross and snappish that he had to be chained up in the wood-shed. A big countryman came one day with a load of potatoes. Zippy was inside his house, pretending to take a nap. The man saw the printed letters on the little door, and said to himself, "Zip Coon! where is he? I'd like to see him." So he stooped down, and thrust his hand into the house. You know you can never catch a coon asleep any more than you can a weasel. Zippy's bright little eyes were wide open: so, when the countryman's big hand came bouncing in at the door, Zip, quick as lightning, seized it in his teeth, and gave it a terribly hard bite. "Goodness, gracious sakes!" cried the man, pulling out his bleeding hand. "What surprisin' chaps them coons be!" He hadn't seen Zippy; but he felt enough of him: so he hurried down cellar with his potatoes, and when he came back had the empty bag wound about his smarting hand. Zip Coon was very fond of raw eggs. He would take one up in both his hands, and pound it down hard on the wood-house floor. This would crack the shell. Then he would turn the egg around, hold it to his mouth, and suck the inside out, just as you would suck an orange. After he had sucked the shell clean, he would put one little hand inside, scrape the empty shell, and then lick his fingers so as to eat every bit of the egg-meat. One day, Isabella's sister Ellen gave Zippy a nice, large, fresh egg. He was very glad to get it, you may be sure, and ate it as I have told you. Then he wanted another, just as you sometimes want another orange. So he took hold of Ellen's hand with one of his hands, and with the other felt way up her sleeve and peeped up with his sharp eyes. When he found no egg in the sleeve he was angry. He looked up in Ellen's face in a very wicked way, then stooped down and buried his teeth in her wrist. Then he turned and ran into the house, clanking his chain after him. [Illustration] Zippy was not always so wicked as this, even after he had to be chained up; but he was very mischievous. Once, the servants in the kitchen heard a terrible racket in the wood-house. They went out there and found Zippy on a high shelf where the blacking-brushes were kept. He was throwing the blacking-boxes and brushes down, as fast as he could, and there they lay scattered about the floor. His chain was so long, that he had climbed up on the shelf and was having a good time. But, after a while, Zip Coon became so fierce that Isabella didn't know what to do with him. She was afraid he would do something terrible to somebody: so she gave him to a man who carried him way off where Isabella and her sisters never saw him any more. And this is all I have to tell you about Zip Coon. HELEN MARR. SAM AND HIS GOATS. SAM was a boy about five years old. He lived in the country, and had a nice little black-and-tan dog, Jack, to play with him. Sam wanted a goat. He thought that if he could only have a goat, he would be perfectly happy. One day, when Sam was playing in the yard, his papa came driving home from town, with something tied in the bottom of the wagon. When he saw Sam, he stopped the horse and called, "Sam, come here, I have something for you." Sam ran there as fast as he could, and--what do you think?--papa lifted two little goats out of the wagon, and put them down on the ground. One goat was black and one was white. Sam was so glad he did not know what to to do. He just jumped up and down with delight. Then the dog Jack came running out to see the goats too; but he did not like them much. He barked at them as hard as he could; but the goats did not mind him at all. Pretty soon mamma came to see what Sam had. When she saw the goats, she said, "Why, papa, what will become of us if we have two goats on the place?" But she was glad because Sam was glad; and Sam gave his papa about a hundred kisses to thank him for the goats. For some weeks, the goats ran about the yard, and ate the grass; and Sam gave them water to drink, out of his little pail, and salt to eat, out of his hand. He liked to feel their soft tongues on his hand as they ate the salt. The goats would jump and run and play, and Sam thought it was fine fun to run and play with them. Jack would run too, and bark all the time. [Illustration] But by and by Sam began to get tired of his goats, and his mamma was more tired of them than Sam was. They ate the tops off of her nice rose-bushes; they ran over her flower-beds; and one day, when the door was open, one of them ran into the parlor and jumped up on the best sofa. Mamma said this would never do: so the next day papa found a man who said he would give Sam fifty cents for the white goat. As Sam wanted to buy a drum, he was glad to sell the goat; and with fifty cents in his pocket he felt very rich. Then the other goat was put in the orchard, and he liked it there very much. He liked to have Sam come and play with him. As soon as he saw Sam coming, he would run to meet him, and push him with his head, in play, and try to jump on him. The goat grew very fast,--much faster than Sam did; so that soon he was quite a big goat, while Sam was still a very small boy. He got to be so much stronger that Sam, that Sam was a little afraid of him. [Illustration] One day, when they were playing, the goat hit Sam with his head, and knocked him down. Sam was scared. He got up, fast as he could, and tried to run to the gate; but the goat ran after him, and Sam had to climb into a tree. It was a nice apple-tree. Sam had often sat up there before, and liked it; but, now that he was forced to sit there, he did not like it at all. The goat staid at the foot of the tree, and, when Sam tried to come down, he would shake his head at him, as if to say, "Come down if you dare." Sam did not dare. "Oh, dear!" said he, "what shall I do?" There were some green apples on the tree; and Sam thought, that, if he threw them at the goat, he could drive him away: so he began to pick the apples, and throw them at the goat. [Illustration] The first one hit the goat right on his head; but it did not hurt him at all. He just went to where the apple lay, and ate it up; and every time that Sam threw an apple at him the goat would eat it, and then look at Sam, as if to say, "That is good. Give me some more." At last Sam said, "Oh, you bad, bad goat! I wish you would go away. If you don't go away, I'm afraid I shall cry." Then he thought of Jack, and called, "Here, Jack! Here, Jack!" Jack came running up to see what Sam wanted. Sam said, "At him, Jack! At him, Jack!" Jack ran at the goat, and barked at him and tried to bite him; but the goat kept turning his head to Jack, so that Jack could not get a chance to bite him. At last the goat got tired of hearing Jack bark, and thought he would give him one hard knock, and drive him away. So he took a step or two back, and then ran forward, as hard as he could, to hit Jack. But, when his head got to where Jack had been, Jack was not there: he had jumped away. The goat was going so fast, that he could not stop himself, but tumbled over his head, and came down on his back with his legs sticking up in the air. Sam laughed so hard that he almost fell out of the tree, and Jack was so glad, that he jumped and barked, and tried to bite the goat's legs. At last the goat got up and walked over to the other side of the orchard as far as he could go. Then Sam jumped down out of the tree, and ran to tell his mamma all about it. MARY DEY. TOY-LAND. AND how do you get to Toy-land? To all little people the joy-land. Just follow your nose, And go on tip-toes: It's only a minute to Toy-land. And oh! but it's gay in Toy-land,-- This bright, merry girl-and-boy-land; And woolly dogs white That never will bite You'll meet on the highways in Toy-land. Society's fine in Toy-land; The dollies all think it a joy-land; And folks in the ark Stay out after dark; And tin soldiers regulate Toy-land. There's fun all the year in Toy-land: To sorrow 'twas ever a coy-land; And steamboats are run, And steam-cars, for fun: They're wound up with keys down in Toy-land. Bold jumping-jacks thrive in Toy-land; Fine castles adorn this joy-land; And bright are the dreams, And sunny the beams, That gladden the faces in Toy-land. How long do we live in Toy-land?-- This bright, merry girl-and-boy-land; A few days, at best, We stay as a guest, Then good-by forever to Toy-land! GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] [Illustration] MARY'S SQUIRREL. I WANT to tell you about the little squirrel we have. His name is Frisky. He came from New Jersey, and was quite tame when we got him. We thought it would be better to let him out in the fresh air among the trees; so we let him out. I was away at aunt Lizzie's; but I came home early. Just as Henry and I were going to bed,--Henry is my brother,--the cook called me, and, of course, Henry came after me to see what was the matter. I could not understand what it was at first; but pretty soon I saw it was Frisky up in one of the trees on our place. Frisky never bites: so it was not much trouble to catch him. All the servants were there; but they could not catch him, because he did not know them: so I made them stand back, and held out a peanut to him. He came down and ate it; then he trusted me, and came down and ate another. As soon as I got him within reach, I seized him and gave him to William, the gardener, who, while I held the door open, popped him into his cage. I am eight years old, and my name is MARY WINSOR. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXX.--NO. 2.] A TURTLE SHOW. DOWN in the pond, where willows grow Along the shore in a golden row, Is a single rock with its mossy ridge, And a log as mossy, resting there Half in the water, and half in the air, From shore to islet a beautiful bridge; And the lily-pads on either side Might tempt the little green frogs to ride; And the lily-blooms, so purely made, Do tempt the little white feet to wade. What do you think I saw one day In the month of June, as I passed that way? Five little turtles, all in a row, On the top of the log,--a funny show,-- For they carried their houses on their backs, And tucked their toes out through the cracks Under the eaves! while their heads and tails Played hide-and-seek behind the scales. They had golden dots on every shell; And they stood so still, and "dressed" so well, You might think they were called up to spell; And a "master" turtle, big and brown, On the top of the rock sat looking down In a learned way, as you might say To "put out words,"--and perhaps 'twas so, Though I heard no word,--but this, I know, The five little heads looked so very wise With their little bead eyes, they must have heard If ever the master pronounced a word. [Illustration] In school or not, it was getting hot; And by and by, as the sun rose high, With the June-like drowsiness it sheds, They could not keep from going to sleep; And what do you think they did with their heads? Swallowed them! Oh, then, laugh, if you will; But true it is, still: Into their necks, as a sailor would slide His spy-glass into its leathern hide, They slid their five little heads away From the sight of man and the light of day. While I stood watching them, still as a mouse, Pleased at their comical way to keep house, I heard a terrible splash and croak, As a great bull-frog leapt up on the log, In a way to frighten such simple folk. Five little turtles, quick as a wink, Into the water slip and sink; And one big turtle, just as quick, Off from the log goes down like a brick. Ah, well! my turtles are not like boys, They can live in the pond, and they do hate noise! GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP. LITTLE Mary in the picture is afraid of Jacob, the chimney-sweep. He does look black and ugly; but he is a good boy, for all that, and Mary ought not to be afraid of him. His parents died when he was very small, and he was bound out to a master, who taught him how to clean chimneys. Jacob did not like the work at first, and was afraid to go up the chimney; but now that he has got used to it, he likes it quite well. He sometimes sings a merry song while he is at work. [Illustration] Mary's mother has sent for him to come and clean out her chimney; for it is choked up with soot, and she cannot make her fire burn. LEONORA, from the German. [Illustration] BILLY AND BRUISER. BILLY is a small boy: Bruiser is a big dog. They are great friends. Billy gets on Bruiser's back, and treats him as if he were a horse. Bruiser takes this as a good joke. He likes to have Billy play with him in this way. But it would not be safe for anybody else to do it. Bruiser is a grand watch-dog. One day the old dog gave a fierce growl to keep off a butterfly. He thought the butterfly was going to attack Billy. Billy had a good laugh at this; for, small as he is, he thinks he is a match for a butterfly. UNCLE CHARLES. TWO LITTLE MAIDENS. THIS little maiden is out for a walk, A fair little maiden is she; And I really believe she is having a talk With a bird flying down from a tree. She asks him to tell of his home in the woods; He sings of the summer so gay; While a very tall maiden sits by on the grass, And hears every word that they say. F. E. D. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] "IF I WERE ONLY A KING." ONE fine, warm, summer day, four children were playing together in the garden. "Oh!" said one of them, "if I were only a king, I would live in a beautiful castle that should reach up to the clouds." "And I," said another, "would wear nothing but gold and silver clothes." "If I were one," cried a little boy, "I would do nothing but eat cake and pudding all day long." "And I," said a little girl, blushing, "would give money to all the poor children I saw, so that they might buy food and clothes." Which of these children do you think would have made the best ruler? LEONORA, from the German. USE BEFORE BEAUTY. THE hens and turkeys were scratching for their breakfast in front of the barn-door; while the dog lay lazily looking on. The proud peacock stood on the fence near by, and spread his tail out, that the morning sun might shine on it, and make it still more beautiful. [Illustration] "Ah!" said the peacock to one of the hens, "do you not wish that you were as handsome as I am? Then you would never have to scratch for your food, but would be fed and taken care of and admired." "I wish nothing of the kind," said the hen. "There is something which men prize more than beauty, and that is usefulness. If I were as fine and gay as you are, men would miss the eggs I lay." "That is just my view of the case," said a goose. "If I were not a goose, I should like to be a hen. I would not be a lazy peacock." "She is quite right," said the dog. "You are very beautiful to look at, Master Peacock, but that is all you are good for. Take comfort in your fine feathers, but don't boast." LEONORA, from the German. SUMMER RAMBLES. BRING the children to the fields, Where the sheep are straying; With the birds and butterflies Let them now be playing,-- In the hollow on the hill, All the green lawn over, Through the yellow buttercups, Down among the clover. With the sunshine in their hearts, In their cheeks the roses, Let them breathe the balmy air, Let them gather posies. In the merry month of June, Summer's fairest weather, Let the children and the flowers Bud and bloom together. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration] TEN MINUTES WITH JOHNNY. "DO grandpa's cows chew gum, like Mr. Connor's cows, mamma?" asked Johnny, a few days ago, as he stood emptying his pockets of hay-seed on the dining-room carpet, after a visit to the barn. "Cuds you mean, don't you, dear?" asked mamma. "No, gum. Mr. Connor says it's gum; and they're his cows: so he knows." "No, grandpa's cows chew cuds, like all good grass-eating cows. Perhaps Mr. Connor's cows do not eat grass or hay." "Yes, they do," said Johnny. "I've seen 'em." "Well, then," said mamma, "they must chew cuds." "What are cuds, mamma?" "Why, after the cow has chewed the fresh green grass or the dry hay in her mouth, she sends it down into a large stomach, to be soaked; then she sends it into another stomach, to be rolled into balls; then up it goes into her mouth again, to be chewed over; and each little ball is a cud." "Doesn't she have any other stomach for it to go into then, mamma?" "Yes, two more. Do you have four stomachs, like a cow?" "No, of course I don't. I don't chew cuds." "Well, you may get a brush and dust-pan, and brush up that hay-seed from the carpet; then come with me, and I'll show you a picture of a giant kangaroo with her baby in a fur bag." "Oh! where does she live, mamma?" "Brush up that hay-seed, then I'll tell you all about her," said mamma. With this promise in view, Johnny hastened to brush up the litter he had made, talking to himself the while, somewhat after this wise,-- "Chew away, old cow! You'll have to keep your big teeth going all night to keep all those stomachs at work. One stomach, two stomachs, three-e-e, four-r-r. All ready, mamma!" MRS. G. I. HOPKINS. A CAT STORY. DID you ever see a cat laugh? Look at the cat in the picture, and see if she is not laughing. It is plain to me that she is. What is she laughing at? Why, that is plain enough too. She is amused at the talk of those two little girls about her kittens. There are four kittens,--just two for each; but little Jenny wants to take them all up in her arms, though she can hardly hold more than one. This is what pleases the old cat. Now I am going to tell you a cat story. Once, when I taught school in the country, I boarded at farmer Clark's house, where there were sixteen cats,--Yes, sixteen cats! There was a big yellow cat, and a big gray cat, and a big black-and-white cat, and lots of little kittens. The big gray cat was named Gussy. She was the grandmother of them all. She lived in the house. The rest staid around the barn. Farmer Clark was a good man, and did not believe in killing any thing that was not dangerous to life or property. So no little kittens were drowned, if he knew it. Mrs. Clark taught me how to make butter; and I was told to feed the skimmed milk to the cats. There were two large dish-pans that I used for this purpose. They were shallow and leaky; but precious little time there was for the milk to leak. [Illustration] As soon as I appeared at the door, and called, "Tom, Tom!" the cats came tumbling, pell-mell, mewing, and rubbing against me. It was a sight to see. First, there would be a thick row of cats around the pans,--so thick that only sixteen tails and thirty-two hind-legs could be seen. The next minute the heads would go lower, and the fore-paws would go up on the edge of the pans. Then a kitten would jump in. Then they would all fight, and push, and spit, and snarl to get to the lower side of the pan, where the milk was the deepest. And then it was all gone. And the pans would be licked clean. And then sixteen tongues licked sixteen jaws, and thirty-two eyes appealed for more. But it was no use to beg. Then sixty-four legs trotted off, and only old Gussy went into the house; while the others went to the barn. There were no rats or mice around those premises, I tell you. I often wonder how many cats there are at farmer Clark's now. And sometimes I dream about them. This is a true story. AUNT FAN. TOM'S APPLE. "BAH! ugh! oh!" cried little Tom. "There's a worm in my red apple, mamma." "Is he a pretty worm?" asked his mamma, looking up from her sewing. "Pretty, mamma! Who ever heard of a worm being pretty? No, no! he's a horrid crawling thing. I sha'n't eat any more of the apple. I couldn't, now I've seen him in it." "Let me see him," said mamma: so Tommy brought the apple to his mother. "Why, yes, he's a beauty," said she. "Just look at that little red cap he wears, and see how soft and white his skin is. If nobody had picked that apple, he would have spun a little rope from out his body, and let himself down from the high tree, down, down, to the earth. "Then he would have crawled into a little hole in the ground. When he had covered himself all over with a gray sheet, he would sleep, sleep, sleep. But by and by he would awaken. "He would come out of the tight shroud, and find that he had airy, gauzy wings with which he could fly: so he would go flitting and fluttering up into the warm sunshine to find an apple-blossom." "What would he want of an apple-blossom?" asked Tommy, much interested now in his apple-worm. "Oh, to lay an egg in," said mamma. "And, when the apple-blossoms grew, the egg would be softly wrapped within its pink heart. And when the blossom turned into an apple there would be a tiny baby-worm to feed upon the white pulp. Then some day, perhaps, some other little boy would exclaim, 'Bah! ugh! oh!' about him, as my little boy did just now about the mamma-worm." "Oh!" said Tom thoughtfully. "I'm glad nobody will have that chance: here goes." And he tossed the apple, worm and all, out of the window. MRS. G. I. HOPKINS. [Illustration] SEE-SAW. Words by GEORGE COOPER. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. See-saw! high and low, That's the way we love to go. With a bound, Up we fly, From the ground To the sky; From the ground To the sky. All aboard for Fun-land, oh! See-saw! high and low. 2. See-saw! birdies play On the tree-tops, just this way; And the bees Rock the rose, When they please With their toes! And the winds the wavelets blow, See-saw! high and low. 3. See-saw! oh, what sport! Wish the days were not so short! Girls and boys, Everywhere, Rosy joys, Earth so fair! Gayer playmates do you know? See-saw! high and low. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
42159	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 4. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Edith and the Chickens 291 How the Old Sparrow helped the Young One 293 Home, Sweet Home 294 The little Sailor 297 So Tired 301 Drawing-Lesson 305 The Doll that Fanny Found 306 All True 308 The Strange Man 310 A Knowing Dog 311 The Starling 313 Daisies and Clover 314 Helping Mother 316 IN VERSE. Popping Corn 290 In School and Out 296 The Crickets' Sociable 299 Lessons 302 On the Way to Slumberland 309 Mother's Caller 312 Curly-Head and Inquisitive Ned 315 The Squirrel 318 Roly-Poly (_with music_) 320 [Illustration] [Illustration: POPPING CORN. VOL. XXX.--NO. 4.] POPPING CORN. [Illustration] POUR the nice corn Out of the bowl, Into the popper, Over the coal,-- The bright glowing coal. Shake now, for your life, The fine golden grain; Now listen! what strife Goes on there amain! Hear it! Pop, pop! Pop, pop! Pop, pop! Now the popper is full, The shaking must stop. Bring the dish, little Rosie, Come, Jamie and Josie, And out we will pour Our nice puffy store. So crisp and so light, So tender and white! What were beads of gold When put in the hopper, Into flowers unfold,-- O magical popper! CAROLINE DEE. [Illustration] EDITH AND THE CHICKENS. "OH, tie on my hat quick, dear mamma, please," called Edith Gray, running up stairs as fast as her little feet would carry her; "for grandma says I may go with her to see the chickens." Edith was four years old, and had come the day before, for the first time in her life, to stay on a large farm. She had never seen young chickens, except in picture-books: so you can imagine how pleased she was at the thought of seeing real live ones. She was soon in the farmyard, and after feeding the little things with meal and water,--hasty-pudding she called it,--she seemed to long so to pet them, that her kind grandmother said, "Well, dear, hold up your apron, and I will put some of the chickens in; but you must handle them very gently." Edith was delighted, and begged to carry them into the house for mamma to see. Old mother-hen, who was busy scratching for the rest of her brood, did not at first notice what was going on. But, when she saw Edith walking off with some of her darlings, she began to spread her wings, and puff out her feathers, and scold in hen fashion. Then the tall old rooster straightened himself up and looked down at her, as much as to say, "What a goose you are to make such a fuss! The little girl will bring your chicks back all safe." And so she did; and the next day, when she picked them up and petted them again, Mrs. Hen did not say a word, but seemed quite pleased and proud. AUNT SUSAN. [Illustration] [Illustration] HOW THE OLD SPARROW HELPED THE YOUNG ONE. AN unfledged sparrow, not strong enough to fly far, had fallen into the area of a city basement. The poor little bird was wasting its strength in vain attempts to get out of its prison, while its mother looked down in alarm, and tried her best to cheer and aid her child. At last the old bird flew away. "Can it be," I thought, "that she is going to desert her little one?" No indeed! She had only hit upon a new plan. Back she soon came with a stout straw in her beak. Perching on an iron bar which crossed the area about a foot below the level of the street, she passed one end of the straw to the little captive below. The nestling took the offered straw in its beak and clung to it, while the mother, holding fast to the other end, flew up to the street. Thus, with some aid from its own wings, the little bird was able to gain a foothold on the iron bar. From this point, one more pull by the old bird helped it to reach the pavement, where it fluttered away with its delighted mother. UNCLE CHARLES. HOME, SWEET HOME. "HOW real jolly it seems to be back in our own parlor again!" said Willie Morton, making a flying leap over an ottoman as he spoke. With his elder brother he had been away at school for a year, while his mother and sisters were travelling abroad. This was the first evening that they were all together again. "Come, sister Annie," Willie continued, "sing 'Home, sweet home!' Charlie can play it on the flute." So Annie took her place at the piano; their mother seated herself to listen, with little Amy on her lap; and Charlie produced his flute. They were soon singing the old familiar song with all their hearts, Willie's voice loudest of all. When this song was ended, he proposed singing "The star-spangled banner," "because," as he said to his sister, "you ought to rejoice to be under the old flag again." [Illustration] The singing over, the excited boy roused up his little sister, who had almost fallen asleep in her mother's lap, and whirled her round in what he called a waltz, till his mother said it was quite time to dance off to bed. The last sound heard as he ran up stairs was, "Hurrah! there's no place like home!" IDA FAY. IN SCHOOL AND OUT. SCHOOL-TIME is coming again; "So much the better!" says Jane, And off, with her satchel and slate, She starts, for she scorns to be late. [Illustration] [Illustration] But ragged and barefooted Meg Does nothing but wander and beg. Oh, why does she not go to school? Poor child! She's by no means a fool. X. Y. Z. [Illustration] THE LITTLE SAILOR. I HAD just finished reading the last number of "The Nursery" to my little six-year-old boy. "Read it all over again, mamma," he said. "Why don't the 'Nurseries' come oftener, so you could read me a new story every minute?" What a silly question, wasn't it? But I didn't tell him it was silly. I sang the frog-song over again with a good many croaks and kerchugs to make it lively; then we all made ready--the two aunts, papa, my little boy, and myself--to go out sailing in the harbor. Did any of your "Nursery" readers ever take a sail in Captain Burdette's sail-boat "Fearless" on the smooth water at Nantucket? Well, if you did, didn't you have a jolly time? And, if you didn't, do try it some day when the wind blows just enough to fill the white sail. We had a merry party, and our little boy was so full of play, that he dragged the boat-broom in the wake of the boat. Then he tried to stand on the forward-deck, and hold on by the mast. But the wind shifted a little, and the sail turned about so suddenly, that it came near pushing him into the water. So papa ordered him into the stern, where the ladies were, and gave him permission to take hold of the tiller, and help steer the boat. He helped turn her toward the jetty which the government is building to make the water deeper, so that large ships may sail safely into the harbor. Just as we made the turn, we saw another boat coming towards us. The tide was driving it swiftly along, and it bobbed up and down on the sparkling ripples. A little chap was standing on the bow, drying his wet bare legs in the sunshine. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely, and paid no attention to our party. He had a dark mantle thrown over his white vest, and was straight and slim like a naval cadet. By and by he gave his tail a little shake, lifted his two wings, and took himself off the water-soaked stick he had used for a sail-boat. Then he went screaming with his mates high up in the air. I dare say you know by this time that I am talking about a sea-gull,--one of those birds which fly in such numbers about the seacoasts. My little boy wished he could fly like a gull, but thought it wouldn't be wise to be always hungry for a fish-dinner, as those who study their habits say sea-gulls always are. MRS. G. I. HOPKINS. [Illustration] THE CRICKETS' SOCIABLE. [Illustration] EACH cricket was invited, 'twas after twelve at night; The fire was burning brightly, and not a puss in sight, When out popped twenty couples, all chirping loud and clear: The moon peeped in the window, as if it paused to hear. The band stood on a table,--a fiddle and a harp; The former was a trifle flat, the latter rather sharp: But, oh the jolly dancing, the capers queer and gay! Why, pigeon-wings were nothing, and double-shuffles, play. The belles reclined in corners, and chatted to the beaux, Who looked so neat and graceful, each turning out his toes; And all the daddy-crickets were happy as could be, Their little baby-crickets they dandled on their knee. A Daddy Longlegs handed a lady out to dance,-- 'Twas said he was a baron,--quite modest was her glance; He kissed her hand politely, his style they all admired; He bowed to her sedately; she courtesied and retired. A dozen tiny crickets then tried a minuet, And many other dances whose names you would forget. The fiddler scraped up louder, a mouse peeped out to see; But laughed his head off nearly to mark such jollity! The supper, oh, that supper! From brimming cups of dew They sipped, and luscious goodies were spread out,--not a few. They handed round in slices a dainty Christmas cake That very much resembled a tiny snowy flake. They didn't stop till morning; they heard a rooster crow, And then the merry fiddler put away his bow; And twenty jolly couples with weary legs retire As Bridget pops in lively to make the kitchen-fire. GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] [Illustration] SO TIRED! NELLY was a bright, happy little girl. Her home was in the country; and in summer, as soon as the birds began to sing, her eyes were wide open, and she was ready to jump and play and sing too. Then, as soon as she was nicely bathed and dressed, and her curly hair tied with a pretty ribbon, away she would go out of doors, to gather flowers, or feed the chickens, or play with the kitten. After breakfast she would go into the field where the hay was making, and help with her own little rake to toss and spread it. But at eleven o'clock her mother would call her in, put on her cool night-dress, and lay her in her crib for a nap, and by that time the little girl was usually tired enough to be glad to go to sleep. But one day she was having such a nice time with some little cousins who had come to play with her, that, when her mother called her in for her nap, she said, "Oh, please, mamma, don't make me go to sleep to-day; I'm not a bit sleepy. See how wide open my eyes are!" Her mother laughed and said, "Well, darling, we'll try it this once, but I'm afraid you will be tired before night." "Oh, no! mamma, I shall not be tired, I know, because I am having such a good time." So she played on merrily until her dinner at one o'clock, and, as soon as that was over, she was off again for another frolic. By and by she came in, looking very weary, and said, "I don't want to play out any more, mamma: I think it's time for my supper." Now it was not yet five o'clock, and her usual supper hour was half-past six. But her mamma at once put some nice bread and butter on the table and her mug of milk, and left her to eat it, while she went to speak to a friend. When she came back soon after, Miss Nelly had pushed back her plate, upset her mug, laid down her apron, dropped her head on her chubby arm, and gone fast asleep. The next day when mamma called her for her nap, she ran quickly, saying, "All ready, mamma, because I was so tired yesterday." JANE OLIVER. LESSONS. AUNT LIZZIE. OUT in the sunny garden-plot, Among the blossoms gay, The lilies and the four-o'clocks, What have you learned to-day? ALFRED. [Illustration] Loud humming in a hollyhock, I heard a little bee: He filled his yellow thighs with wax, And this he taught to me: "Short time have I to honey win; Short time have you to study in; Soon life and summer glide away: We must keep busy every day." BESSY. [Illustration] And on a purple candytuft I saw a butterfly: It waved its red-and-yellow wings, And said, "A worm was I: Be cheerful whatso'er befall, And hope to soar when forced to crawl." CHARLEY. [Illustration] Among some morning-glories set There grew the fragrant mignonette: It said to me, "A winning grace A kind heart lends the plainest face: Who would my simple blossom choose Should I my pleasant perfume lose?" DORA. [Illustration] Upon a green sweetbrier bough, A pleasant, shady place, All hung with dew, like gems, I found A web of silver lace; And on it, with its many eyes, I saw a spider watching flies, Who taught me this: "One must beware; The fairest thing may prove a snare." AUNT. Four useful lessons you have learned This happy summer hour, Taught by a bee, a butterfly, A spider, and a flower. MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXX.--NO. 4.] THE DOLL THAT FANNY FOUND. FANNY went to spend her vacation with her grandma, who lived in the country. For a whole week every day was pleasant, and she had a lovely time. She picked berries for grandma to make pies. She drove the cows home from the pasture every night. She rode into the fields in the hay-cart, and came home on the big loads of hay. She fed the chickens, and played with the kittens. But at last there came a rainy day. Fanny heard the rain pattering on the window the first thing when she awoke in the morning. As soon as grandma opened the door to call her, she cried out: "O grandma! see how it rains! What shall I do to-day?" "You can stay in the house with me," said grandma; "I have not seen much of my little girl yet." "Well, you must tell me what to do," said Fanny. "You can go up in the garret and play. There is where your mother and aunt Sarah used to spend a good many rainy days," said grandma. So, after breakfast, Fanny went into the attic. The attic was a very large room, containing old spinning-wheels, chests, boxes, and many other things--such as are always found in attics. "Now for a grand rummage!" said Fanny, and she began to look over the boxes and chests to see what she could find. In some of the boxes there were books and papers. In one of them there were old dresses and bonnets. Fanny pulled the things out of this box, one after another, and as she reached the bottom, she cried, "Oh, what have I found! what have I found!" It was a large old-fashioned rag-baby almost as large as a real baby a few weeks old. Its face and clothes were soiled and faded; its cap was torn and yellow; and it had but one shoe: but the little girl was delighted with it. She had a number of handsome dolls at home; but she had never seen one like this before. "How nice and soft it is to hold!" said Fanny. "I must go right down and show it to grandma, and ask her all about it." [Illustration] She found grandma in the milk-room, churning cream. "See what I have found, grandma," said Fanny, holding the baby up before her. "Now do tell me whose baby this is." "Oh," said grandma, laughing, "I made that doll for your mother when she was a little girl. I remember how pleased she was with it. She named it Sally." "I think old Sally is splendid, and I am going to play with her all the time I am here," said Fanny. All the rest of her vacation, Sally was Fanny's pet and plaything. She made new clothes for her, took her out to walk and ride every day, and put her to bed every night. In the picture you may see Fanny and Sally out in the fields together. M. M. HATHAWAY. ALL TRUE. MRS. F., a lady living not far from Boston, has a bantam hen, who, every spring morning, walks into the house, and lays an egg in a rocking-chair. [Illustration] After laying the egg, Mrs. Bantam jumps up on the window-seat and says "Cut, cut, cut, cut-ah-cut!" A turkey belonging to this same lady, who is very fond of pets, once came off her nest with one poor little fledgeling; a duck appeared, about the same time, with only one duckling; and, strangely enough, a hen was roaming about with one solitary chicken. Mrs. F. thought that the three young ones might as well make one family: so she put the young turkey and the duckling with the hen, and Mistress Biddy took care of them with her own chicken, just as though she were the true mother of them all. Mrs. F. used to take all three up in her lap and feed them. When put down, the turkey and the duckling would stretch their long necks up, looking wistfully at her, as if coaxing her to take them up again. But the chicken did not seem to care about being petted. AUNT SUE. [Illustration] ON THE WAY TO SLUMBER-LAND. DEAR little Lily, in night-gown white, Her precious old dolly holding tight, Looks back, as she goes, to say "Papa, good-night!" S. O. C. THE STRANGE MAN. THIS little girl thinks she sees a strange man in the cornfield. He is very tall, and has long black hair. She clasps her hands in wonder. She goes up to the man; but he does not even bow to her. [Illustration] [Illustration] Why, it is only a scarecrow! If the little girl had been a crow, I think she could not have been more scared. But she will have a good laugh now to make up for it. A pole with a hat on it can't deceive such bright eyes as hers. S. O. J. A KNOWING DOG. ETHEL is never tired of talking about her dog Flash. One of his accomplishments, she tells me, is his graceful way of setting the table. When it is time for Flash to have his dinner, his master says, "Flash, bring the table-cloth!" Off he runs to the newspaper-rack, gets a paper, and lays it at his master's feet. "Spread it out!" is the next command. [Illustration] Quickly he opens the paper to its full extent, and places it on the floor carefully. He waits patiently for the bones that are to reward his obedience. When they have been put on the clean "table-cloth," he begins his nice feast. Dinner over, Flash picks up the paper cloth, and carries it out of the room for the cook to burn. Ethel says that Flash can tell time; for at just such a minute every day, the dog comes to his master, sits up straight, with his front paws drooping gracefully, and asks, in his dumb way, for something to eat. And when the time comes for his master to go down town to business, Flash is sure to give him a hint; for Flash is very punctual, you see, and does not approve of delay. One day Flash brought an intimate friend, a red setter, and introduced him to his master. Flash stood wagging his tail, while the caller was politely caressed. Then the two dogs trotted off together, and Flash's playmate had a new name to put on his visiting list. GEORGE T. PACKARD. MOTHER'S CALLER. "RAT-TAT-TAT upon the door; pray who can it be? Such a funny lady never did I see. Such a hat upon her head,--far too large a size,-- Such a mass of tangled curls hanging in her eyes! "Do come in, my lady small, here's the rocking-chair: Taking out your family for the morning air? This child fell and hurt her head? that was very sad: Other dolly broke her arm? wasn't it too bad? "What, not going! Stay awhile, it is early yet: Come and see me soon again; now, do not forget. Ah! I've seen that face before, dimples, curls, and all,-- 'Tis my own clear little girl come to make a call." RUTH REVERE. [Illustration] THE STARLING. THIS handsome and sprightly bird is very common in Europe. It is about eight inches long, of a rich black color spotted with buff. When caged young, and tamed, it may be taught to say a few words and to whistle short tunes. [Illustration] A starling owned by a lady in Germany, was in the habit of perching on the cow's head. There he would sit between her horns, busily cleaning his feathers. The cow did not notice him until he began to walk down her broad forehead. Then she felt his sharp claws and shook her head to drive him away; but he only flew back to his former place, and sat there, singing joyously. L. E. H., from the German. DAISIES AND CLOVER. PATTY was taking a stroll in the pasture, plucking daisies as she went along. Suddenly she stopped, and seemed to be intent upon something in the grass. [Illustration] "Do you see a snake, Patty?" said her cousin Paul, coming softly up behind her. "Oh, no!" answered Patty, "I was only trying to find something." "Trying to find something!" said Paul. "What in the world can it be?" "Guess, if you can." "Well," said Paul, "I guess it's a gold dollar." "No such thing." "Then it must be a pearl." "No." "An ear-ring?" "No, I don't wear ear-rings." "A hairpin?" "No indeed! you saucy boy." "Dear me! Then I shall have to give it up. Can't rack my brains any more. The strain is too great." [Illustration] "What a bright boy you are at guessing! You shall have this bunch of daisies as a reward of merit. Are they not pretty? Don't despise them because they are weeds. Now I will tell you what I am looking for. I want very much to find a----" "Stop a minute," said Paul, "I have it." And he stooped down, and plucked a four-leaved clover. "That's the very thing," said Patty. "Good luck to you!" said Paul, handing her the clover with a graceful bow. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration] CURLY-HEAD AND INQUISITIVE NED. "WHAT have you in your basket, Curly-head?" "Though 'tis not polite to ask it, I've some bread." "Where do you go with your basket? Who's in need?" "Though 'tis not polite to ask it, Swans I feed." "Will they eat what's in the basket, All of it?" "Though 'tis not polite to ask it, Every bit." "Where, when empty is your basket, Go you then?" "Though 'tis not polite to ask it, Home again." E. HELPING MOTHER. WHAT is little Susan doing with that big water-bucket? It is a heavy load for her, and she tugs at it with a right good will. If the water does not all leak out before she gets into the kitchen, she will fill the teakettle. She is trying to make herself useful, you see. [Illustration] With that cap on her head, and that long apron, she fancies herself quite grown up, and able to do Bridget's work. She thinks she is helping mother. But, when her mother sees the water spilt about the well, I think she will say that the little girl has only been doing mischief. A. B. C. [Illustration] THE SQUIRREL. ONCE upon a time a squirrel Scampered quickly up a tree; There he sat, and from the branches Chattered gayly unto me. "I am Mr. Brownie Squirrel, And my home is in the ground: There I live; but in this nut-tree Oftener I may be found. "Long before the bright sun rises, Here to gather nuts I roam: They'll be needed in the winter By my little ones at home. "For when shrill the north wind whistles Through these branches black and bare, When the nuts and leaves have vanished, And the snow fills all the air-- "Then, to pay me for my trouble, I'll have plenty and to spare. Safe at home I'll pass the winter, Little for the storm I'll care. [Illustration] "That reminds me I am idle; While I'm talking here to you. Why, dear me! how dark it's growing! And I still have work to do." Throwing then a nutshell at me, Winking with his eyes so bright, Off he scampered through the branches, Where he soon was lost to sight. Grandma heard about the squirrel, Straightway then did grandma make Many little squirrels like it,-- Only hers were made of cake! AUNTY GAY. ROLY-POLY. Words by OLIVE A. WADSWORTH. Music by T. CRAMPTON. [Illustration: Music] 1. Roly-Poly is three years old; Yes, three years old and a trifle over; Roly-Poly is round as a ball, As jolly as larks, and sweet as clover. Roly-Poly has stars for eyes, A heavenly chin with a dimple in it; Peaches for cheeks, the bud of a nose, And a tongue that is never still a minute. 2. Roly-Poly's a business man; He rides to market on Grandpa's cane; He orders breakfast of peppermint drops, Then gallops his pony home again. Roly-Poly rules everything; His father and mother are captives wholly; Sisters must yield to such a king, Who will make all obey him, Roly-Poly. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. 
42158	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 3. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE "Home in Sight" 257 Nellie and Kitty 259 The Prisoner 260 Two Pets 264 The Wounded Lamb 268 Lisa 270 Drawing-Lesson 273 The Pet Fawn 275 The little Flower-Girl 278 Feeding the Ducks 281 Lonely Jack 284 IN VERSE. Contentment 261 The Brook 262 Blueberrying 265 The Soldiers 272 Jenny and Benny 274 How the Sheep found Bo-peep 277 Mabel and the Bust 280 "Tit for Tat" 283 Little Busybody 287 The Morning Sail (_with music_) 288 [Illustration] "HOME IN SIGHT." "COME on deck, all hands, old and young, great and small, sick and well! Here is a sight that will do you good." So said the bluff old captain to his passengers. Up they came, one after another, at the summons. The lady who was so worn down with sea-sickness sat with her head resting languidly on her husband's shoulder. The rest stood in groups, looking out upon the water. The voyage had been a long one, and, though they were not all sea-sick, all were heartily sick of the sea,--all except two little children, a girl and a boy, whose faces were always bright and merry. "What is there to be seen, captain?" said the children's mother, after trying in vain to make out any thing except sea and sky. "Don't you know?" said the old man. "Let me point it out then to this little sailor." So, taking little Willie in his arms while the vessel leaned before the breeze, he pointed with his forefinger, and said, "Do you see that dark-blue cloud right on the edge of the water, just where it meets the sky?" "Yes, I see it," said the bright-eyed youngster. "Well, do you know what it is, my lad? It isn't a cloud at all. That's land. Now do you know what land it is?" "No, sir," said Willie. "Then I'll tell you. It is old Cape Cod.--We are in sight of home, ladies and gentlemen," said the captain addressing his passengers. "We shall make Boston Light to-night, if this wind holds good." This speech brought great applause. Then the captain sang out,-- "Cheer up, my lively lads, spite of wind and weather! Cheer up, my lively lads, and we'll go home together!" "Hold me up," said little Ellen, "and let me see." Then the captain held her up too; and when the children's mother, who had a fine voice, started the song,-- "Home again, home again, From a foreign shore," all the passengers, not even excepting the sick lady, took part in the chorus. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration] NELLIE AND KITTY. SEE little Nellie playing with her kitten. She had waked up early; but nurse was not ready to dress her. She was just going to cry, when the kitten jumped up on the bed, and stood there with such a comical look, that, instead of crying, Nellie could not help laughing. Then she got a string and began to play with kitty; so that when the nurse came in she found them both quite happy. One day, Nellie was playing with her doll, and put it down in her lap. Kitty, who had been watching her all the time, jumped up in Nellie's lap, pushed the doll out, and lay down, looking at her mistress, as if to say,-- "What did you take her up for? I am the only one that has any right here." L. E. H. [Illustration] THE PRISONER. THE old hawk has been caught at last, and has been put in a cage, from which he cannot escape to do any more mischief. The fowls all come from the barnyard to see him. They dare go near him now, for they know he cannot harm them. The sparrow looks saucily at him, saying, "Ah, ha, Sir Hawk! You have scared me many a time with your sharp claws and hooked beak; but now I am a match for you. It was fine fun for you to kill little chickens. Now you see what comes of it." "Yes indeed," cries the turkey, "he killed seven dear little chickens. How glad I am that he is caught at last! I'll give him a piece of my mind now, but he can't have any more chickens." "Ah!" says the hawk, "you talk very bravely; but, if I were let out of this cage, you would not stare at me much longer." The fowls walk slowly away without saying more. But the pert young sparrow bristles up, and dares the hawk to come out and fight him. It is very easy to be brave when there is no danger. LEONORA, from the German. CONTENTMENT. WHEN the roses bloom sweet and red, And the daisy has lifted her shining head; When birds are still in the brooding nest,-- Of all the seasons summer is best. When the golden-rod's torches shine,-- And the purple grapes drop ripe from the vine; When the reddening maples light up the way, There is nothing so good as an autumn day. When the hills are white with snow, And only the frostflowers dare to blow; When sleigh-bells chime from far and near,-- Winter's the best time of all the year. When the wild brooks begin to leap, And out of the earth the mosses creep; When swallows twitter, and robins call,-- Spring is the very best time of all. MARY N. PRESCOTT. [Illustration] THE BROOK. FROM a fountain In a mountain, Drops of water ran, Trickling through the grasses So our brook began. Slow it started; Soon it darted, Cool and clear and free, Rippling over pebbles, Hurrying to the sea. [Illustration] Children straying Came a-playing On its pretty banks: Glad, our little brooklet Sparkled up its thanks. Blossoms floating, Mimic boating, Fishes darting past,-- Swift and strong and happy, Widening very fast, Bubbling, singing, Rushing, ringing, Flecked with shade and sun, Soon our pretty brooklet To the sea has run. ELLEN SOULE CARHART. [Illustration] TWO PETS. [Illustration] ANN has a large black cat, of which she is very fond. See how she clasps it in her arms! She pets it and hugs it from morning till night. I think the cat loves Ann too; for it does not even try to scratch her. [Illustration] But here is a better pet than a cat. It is a dear little babe in its nurse's arms. The nurse is taking it out for a walk. She loves it dearly, and see how lovingly it clings to her! Love wins love, you know. I. H. G. [Illustration] BLUEBERRYING. THE grass is scorching in the sun; 'Tis summer's hottest weather; But Dick and Tom start bravely forth For blueberries together. Their tin pails glitter in the light, The dippers in them rattle, As up the long green lane they go, Among the browsing cattle. Close underneath the pasture fence They find some scattered bushes: "There is some better place beyond," Says Dick, and on he pushes, Through tangled brake, o'er stumbling stones, And up some steep black ledges, Where thick the blueberry-bushes grow Along the rocky edges. "But these are very dry and small," Says Tommy: "I would rather Look round and find some better place, And larger berries gather." Down the sharp rocks, across the brook, And through a bog, they ramble: They find some berries, big and blue, Outpeering from a bramble. "These dreadful running blackberry-vines!" Says Dick: "they are so prickly! I will not stop; some better place We surely shall find quickly." Through the long field they wandering stray, In the hot sunshine going: "Beneath the wood-lot trees," says Tom, "There must be nice ones growing." And so they find them thick and ripe; But, from among them darting, A hissing adder lifts its head, And, suddenly upstarting, The frightened boys drop both their pails, The berries from them spilling. "Let's hurry home," says Tom. Says Dick, "I'm sure that I am willing." So back they come with tattered clothes, Scratched, sunburnt, soiled, and tired; "To go again," says pouting Tom, "I never could be hired." "Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" cries Dick, A doleful little fretter, "We've lost each good place we have had, By looking for a better!" MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] THE WOUNDED LAMB. EARLY one bright morning, three little girls who were spending the summer on their uncle's farm went out to gather wild flowers in the woods not far from the house. Just as they came to the edge of the wood, they heard the faint bleating of a lamb. They listened, keeping very still, but could not make out where the sound came from. Then Mary, the eldest of the three, said, "Let us each go a different way, and hunt till we find the poor little thing." They did so; and in a few minutes, Lulu the youngest called to the others, "I've found it! I've found it! Come, Mollie and Bessie, come quick and help me; for the dear little lamb is hurt, and I'm afraid it will die." You may be sure that they all ran quickly, and it was well that they did; for the lamb had broken its leg, and could not have lived much longer if some one had not taken care of it. They found Lulu trying to help the poor creature; but she could do little except to soothe it. Just then Bessie looked up, and saw the farmer not far off. She called loudly to him. He came at once, took the lamb tenderly in his arms, carried it home, laid it on a soft bed, and gave it some warm milk. Very soon the lamb began to revive, much to the delight of the children; and little Lulu would hardly leave its side all that day. With such kind care the lamb got well fast. It soon became a great pet with all the little girls, though their uncle said, that, as Lulu had found it, she should give it a name, and call it hers. For some time she was quite puzzled to know what to call it; but one day, when Bessie was stroking it, she said, "Why lambie, your fleece is as fine and soft as floss!" [Illustration] "Oh, now I know what to call this pet," said Lulu, "I'll call it Flossy," and it went by that name all summer. The next winter, when their uncle came to see them in the city, the children inquired for their little pet, Flossy. "Flossy is a big sheep now," he said; "but I think she remembers you, for when I go among the flock, she always comes and rubs her nose against me, and looks up, as much as to say, 'Where are those three girls that used to play with me last summer?'" EMILY CARTER LISA. LISA was a little German girl who lived in a village on the seacoast. Her father was a fisherman, and sometimes he would take her with him on pleasant days when he went in his boat. They would start in the morning, and after sailing about, and catching a good load of fish, would come home at noon to the nice dinner which Lisa's elder sister had prepared for them. One day Lisa was alone in the house. Her sister had gone away to spend the day, and her father was out fishing. A heavy storm came up. It rocked the house, and blew the shutters to and fro; but Lisa never heeded it, for she was thinking of her father. After the storm had ceased, she went to the door and looked out. An old fisherman was passing with his son. She asked him about her father. He pointed out the place where he had seen him before the storm, and said, "I fear that your father's boat has been driven upon the rocks, for it is no longer to be seen." Without a moment's delay, Lisa tied on her hat, and hastened down to the shore. She got into a boat, and was pushing off, when an old sailor stopped her, and asked her where she was going. "I am going in search of my father," said she. "I will go with you, my good girl," said the sailor; and he sprang into the boat, and took the oars. They rowed out to the rocks, for the sea had gone down. Poor Lisa's heart sank within her as she gazed upon that angry coast; for the first thing that caught her eyes was a fragment of a boat. Yes, her father's boat had surely been wrecked. "Oh, my dear, dear father!" said Lisa, bursting into tears, "I shall never see him again." [Illustration] But hark! There comes a shout, "Boat ahoy!" Lisa's heart beats wildly, for it is her father's voice. Quick as thought, the sailor pulls to the place where the sound came from. And there Lisa found her father clinging to a rock. What a joyful meeting there was! And how happy Lisa felt to think that she had gone so promptly to the rescue! There were thankful hearts in the fisherman's cottage that night; and Lisa never forgot the good old sailor who had proved such a true friend in time of need. IDA FAY. THE SOLDIERS. FIVE gallant soldiers standing in a row, Five nimble soldiers marching to and fro. First General Spry, Next Colonel Try, Then Major Tall, And Sergeant Dapper, And Corporal Small. Five gallant soldiers all in fine array, Five dashing soldiers meet them on the way. First General Stout, Next Colonel Look-out, Then Major Trim, And Sergeant Taper, And Corporal Slim. Ten gallant soldiers waiting our command, Look, and you will see them,--five upon each hand. GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXX--NO. 3.] JENNY AND BENNY. [Illustration] WAS ever child so lovely! Was ever child so fair! Had ever child such bright blue eyes, Such lips, such golden hair! Say, is there any baby With this one to compare? Oh, yes! there is one other That's just as good as she: It is my baby-brother, Whose picture here you see. N. M. O. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PET FAWN. ONE day, Albert, who lived in a city, received a letter from his papa, who was absent in the country, which I think my little readers will enjoy also, and so I have got Albert's permission to give it to them. This is the letter:-- _My dear little Boy_,--In a lonely place, just at the edge of a wood, where I was detained, week before last, I came across a most delightful little pet. You could not guess in twenty guesses what it was, and so I will tell you at once. It was a fawn about eight months old. I am sure if you could have seen him you would never have given papa a moment's rest till you had him as your own pet; and perhaps I shall have something to say to you about that by and by. Well, this charming little pet was of a light yellowish-brown color, and over his whole body were white spots about the size of a dime. Some boys had surprised him asleep, when he was about a week old, and had carefully taken him home with them. There he had been tended and made much of by the whole family, and so he had grown to have a genuine affection for his captors. He was allowed full freedom to go about the woods as he chose, and never failed to return at night; and when called by name--for the boys had named him Dick--he would come bounding up as if he dearly loved to be petted. It was amusing to see him eat milk. When the saucer was set before him and he commenced to lap the milk, he would beat a tattoo with one of his front feet. He never lapped his saucer of milk without, in this manner, beating the floor with his hoof. Now, my little boy, I do wish that these boys might be induced to sell this fawn. If I could get him, don't you think a little boy that I could name would have a beautiful pet? But we will not expect too much, will we? Your loving PAPA. I want to tell my little readers that Albert has a fawn which he calls his own and pets and caresses. It has a blue ribbon around its neck with a little bell attached, and we all laugh to see it beat a tattoo with its little foot while it laps milk from a saucer. Albert says, "It's ten times more beautiful, and a hundred times dearer than papa wrote about." CHARLES T. JEROME. [Illustration] [Illustration] HOW THE SHEEP FOUND BO-PEEP. LITTLE Bo-peep awoke from her sleep; Her eyes opened wide and wider; For she found herself seated on the grass With an old sheep standing beside her. "Little Bo-peep," said the good old sheep, "How glad I am that we've found you! Here we are--rams and sheep and lambs-- All flocking up around you." "You blessed sheep," said little Bo-peep, "I've been worried to death about you." "We've been searching for you," said the good old sheep: "We wouldn't go home without you." DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL. HELEN GRAHAM was spending the winter with her mother in Nice. This is a charming place in the south of France, on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, and their home there was in a pretty villa. One morning, as Helen was watering and trimming her plants at the open window,--for the air is warm and pleasant in Nice, even in winter,--she heard a soft voice calling just underneath, "_Mademoiselle, achetez mes fleurs, s'il vous plait?_" In English this means, "Please buy my flowers, miss?" Helen looked down, and there stood a little barefooted, dark-eyed girl, a good deal smaller than herself, holding up a bunch of roses and violets. Her face was so sweet and smiling, that Helen could not refuse her: so she said in French, "How much are they, little girl?" "_Dix centimes seulement_" ("only two cents"), she replied. [Illustration] "Come round to the door, and I will buy them," said Helen. The girl ran quickly to the door. When Helen learned from her that her mother was very poor, she gave her more than the price of her flowers; and the little girl's face fairly beamed with delight when she went away. IDA FAY. MABEL AND THE BUST. UPON the floor our little Mabel sits, Gazing, with wonder and delight, Upon a marble bust. She cons it o'er, With visage keen and bright, Till cautiously upon the stone she lays Her dimpled fingers white. [Illustration] A tiny frown drives all the smiles away. She scans the image with a rueful stare, Then turning from it with a quivering lip, The fickle baby wails in deep despair. "What is it that disturbs my little pet?" _She cannot pull his hair!_ W. G. [Illustration] FEEDING THE DUCKS. "SPEAK for it if you want it," said little Johnny, holding out a piece of bread to the old duck. She had just come in with her large family from a swim in the pond. "Quack, quack!" said the duck, waddling up, and opening her great bill. "Don't let the old duck swallow your finger, Johnny!" said Ellen. Johnny dropped the bread. The greedy duck snatched it, and in less than half a minute she opened her great bill again, and quacked for more. Meanwhile grandma had been throwing out meal to the ducklings. But one pert little duckling was not satisfied with that. [Illustration] He lifted up his head, and fluttered his little bits of wings, and opened his mouth, and tried to quack, as much as to say,-- "I don't like meal and water. I want to have what ma has. Give me some too." This made Ellen laugh: it was so like some children that she had seen! UNCLE CHARLES. "TIT FOR TAT." LITTLE Tommy Tompkins sitting on a log Holds a conversation with a consequential frog. "Little Tommy Tompkins," says that frog, says he, "Yesterday I saw you fling a stone at me. "I had my new green coat on: you nearly ruined that! Little Tommy Tompkins, I believe in 'tit for tat.'" "Please, I didn't mean to," cries Tommy in affright, "I know--boo-hoo--'twas wrong. I know it wasn't right." "Little Tommy Tompkins," the dreadful frog replies, "Dry your tears, and stop your noise, and from that log arise. "The sport of being stoned you shall have a chance to see; I hope it will be fun for you; 'twill be jolly fun for me." Then on a sudden Tommy goes tumbling with a splash Down to the muddy water, while froggie makes a dash, And, sitting on the log, oh many a stone throws he, Hitting wretched little Tommy with considerable glee. "Hold on!" cries Tommy, vainly. "You're nothing but a frog!" Comes the answer, as the stones fly faster from the log. Was ever boy so wretched! was ever frog so glad! I really don't know what would have happened to the lad. But by chance a wandering bee stung young Tommy on the nose, And, waking from a fearful dream, up from that log he rose. MARY D. BRINE. LONELY JACK. WHO do you suppose Jack was? Not a boy, nor a dog, nor a horse, nor a parrot. He was a fat little donkey, who lived on a large farm with thirteen other donkeys, all fat too, and they had nothing to do all day long but eat and be happy. Jack thought there never before had been such fortunate creatures as they were, and did not dream of separation from his dear friends. But one day a man came up with a rope, and, before the donkeys knew what he was doing, threw it over poor little Jack's neck, and tried to lead him away. But Jack hadn't the least intention of going. Oh, dear, no! He planted his feet firmly on the ground, while the man pulled, and pulled, and pulled, but could not make him stir a step. At last the man gave up and went away; but he came back the next day with two more men. Then, spite of Jack's firmness, his legs were bound, and he was laid in a wagon, and carried miles and miles away from all his dear companions. His new home was a small farm where there were no friends for him at all. Jack soon grew so lonely, that he even felt anxious to scrape acquaintance with the hens and chickens. But they all rushed wildly away as soon he approached; and one old hen cackled out, "Good gracious, my children, my children! do keep out of the way of that ugly beast." Jack was so grieved that he did not dare to make any more attempts at sociability that day; and, indeed there was no one else he could speak to, except Growler, the big bull-dog. "A fine day, sir," said Jack, carelessly sauntering by the kennel. "Bow-wow-wow!" barked Growler, making a frantic rush for Jack's legs. Now donkeys don't often run; but Jack ran then as fast as he could go, straight across to the other end of the field, and right into a lot of the most delicious nettles. [Illustration] But what pleasure can one find in dainty fare when one is alone? Jack stood looking around till he happened to spy a goat who seemed to be about as sad as himself. "Are you homesick?" asked Jack. "No," said the goat mournfully. "Some other kind of sick?" suggested Jack, glad to find some one who would give him a civil answer. "No," answered the goat; "but my mouth waters to taste those little tender twigs on that tree just out of my reach. If I only had a box," he added, shaking his head, "or something to stand on, I could get them easily." "Jump up on my back, and eat as many as you want," said Jack, ever ready to do a favor. The goat hesitated. "I am afraid I might hurt you," he said. "Nothing ever hurts me," responded Jack. "Jump up." So the goat took courage, made a leap, and landed safely on the donkey's back. Jack stood there patiently while his new friend made a dainty feast. "Is it good?" he asked. "Delicious! Oh, so nice! But"--and the goat broke off in a frightened manner. "Don't you see?" he began again after a moment. "There's the farmer looking at us. Oh, dear me, what will he do?" "Nothing," said Jack. "Go on eating, and let him look if he wants to." "No, no! I had better get down," said the goat. "Don't be afraid," the donkey insisted. "Stay there, and eat as much as you want." The goat was not willing to be thought a coward: so, with one eye still on the farmer, he began to eat again. His master, after staring at the strange couple for a moment, burst into a loud laugh, and went away. "There, I've had enough," the goat said with a sigh of pleasure, as he jumped off Jack's back. "Thank you very much. Let's be friends." Jack was so delighted with this suggestion, that he brayed until the hills re-echoed with the sound of his voice. And from that day to this the donkey and goat have been inseparable friends. We never see one without the other. B. WATSON. LITTLE BUSYBODY. OH, but she is such a dear little mite! Never at rest: even now, as I write, Going out shopping, or making a call, Talking to chairs, rocking dolly so small. Never a leaf on the sunshiny tree, When the wind blows, is as tireless as she. Ask for a kiss, she will quietly say, "Haven't got time: I'm too busy to-day." [Illustration] Are the birds weary when down goes the sun? Or the wee lambkins when homeward they run? Or the bright butterflies folding their wings? Grasshoppers, crickets, and all merry things? Then must this dear busybody of ours Long for her rest with the close of the flowers. Oh the sweet lips that so lovingly say, "Good-night,--so tired,--I've been busy to-day!" GEORGE COOPER. THE MORNING SAIL. Words from "THE YOUTH'S COMPANION." Music by W. G. PUTNEY. [Illustration: Music] 1. Once I got into a boat, Such a pretty, pretty boat! Just as the day was dawning; And I took a little oar, And push'd off from the shore. Oh, very, very early in the morning! Chorus. And every little wave had its nightcap on, Its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on; And every little wave had its nightcap on, So very, very early in the morning. 2 In their caves so still and deep All the fishes were asleep, When a ripple gave them warning. Said the minnow to the skate, "Don't lie abed so late;" Said he, "'Tis very early in the morning." CHO.--For every little wave had its nightcap on, Its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on; For every little wave had its nightcap on, So very, very early in the morning. 3 Said the sturgeon to the eel, "Just imagine how I feel; (Excuse me, my dear, for yawning;) People ought to let us know When sailing they would go, So very, very early in the morning."--CHO. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. Page 279, actual translation of "Dix centimes seulement" is "only ten cents" not "two" as the original states. 
42161	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 6. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE The Bird-Store 353 What Astonished Charley 357 The Christmas Carol 358 How the Sheep were Saved 360 The Two Rats 362 The Roman Pigeon 366 Ready for a Walk 370 Lily and her Kitten 371 Thirsty Billy 373 About Windmills 375 Annie's Gift 376 Flossie's Pet Alligator 378 IN VERSE. Christmas 355 That Girl 356 A Funny Little Boy 365 A Defiance 374 "The Nursery" to its Readers 379 [Illustration] [Illustration: THE BIRD-STORE. VOL. XXX.--NO 6.] THE BIRD-STORE. SUSAN WELSH lived near a large store, where birds, and pet animals of various kinds, were kept for sale. She had often been there to play with the pretty creatures, and many of them had come to know her well. One large gray parrot had learned her name, and would call out, "Good-morning, Susan!" as soon as she appeared. And when she put out her hand, and said, "Shake hands," he would give his claw, and go through the ceremony very well, often saying, "Glad to see you! How do you do?" One day Susan had two little friends visit her,--Willy and Bessie Hill; and, as they had never seen a parrot, she proposed to take them to the bird-store. They were both delighted to go; and Bessie took her doll and her dog Snip with her. In her right hand she carried a cake; and the first thing the parrot said as she went towards him was, "Polly wants a cake." This made the little girl laugh. She laughed still more when the parrot took a piece of cake in his claw, and ate it, bit by bit, as nicely as she could herself. But when Snip barked at the parrot, and the parrot barked too, she thought it was the funniest thing yet, and laughed till the tears came. The parrot was so well pleased with his visitors, and talked so fast, that a boy with oranges to sell, came behind to listen. He was much astonished; for he too had never heard a bird speak before. The children looked a little at the other birds and pets; but none interested them as much as the parrot. Bessie did not want to leave him, and wished she might have him for her own. But when Mr. Smith, his owner, asked if she would like to give him her dog, and take the parrot, she shook her head, and said, "No, no!" She could not think of parting with her old friend Snip, even for the funny parrot. DORA BURNSIDE. [Illustration] CHRISTMAS. DAINTY little stockings Hanging in a row, Blue and gray and scarlet, In the firelight's glow: Curly-pated sleepers Safely tucked in bed; Dreams of wondrous toy-shops Dancing through each head: Mother, stepping lightly, Plans with tender care, How to give each dreamer Just an equal share. Funny little stockings Hanging in a row, Stuffed with sweet surprises, Down from top to toe,-- Skates and balls and trumpets, Dishes, tops, and drums, Books and dolls and candies, Nuts and sugar-plums. Little sleepers waking: Bless me, what a noise! Wish you merry Christmas, Happy girls and boys! RUTH REVERE. [Illustration: A Merry Christmas to you] THAT GIRL. [Illustration] HER hood is of the common sort, Her dress is very plain, Her apron's long, her sleeves are short, Her name is Mary Jane. She goes to school, and on her way, She always likes to meet The muffin-man, who, every day, Comes marching down the street; Though very fond of study, She dearly loves to eat. H. V. G. [Illustration] [Illustration] WHAT ASTONISHED CHARLEY. CHARLEY had been spending the day with his grandmother. When he was starting for home in the afternoon, she gave him a nice red apple, saying, "Take this to your mother from me." With the apple in his hand, Charley was trudging along through the fields, when he met Peter, the son of a farmer who lived near by. Now Peter was a bad boy, with whom Charley had been told to have nothing to do. But, as Peter greeted him very kindly, how could poor Charley help speaking to him? Pretty soon Peter began to ask questions. "What kind of an apple is that?" said he. "I don't know," said Charley. "Let me look at it," said Peter. Charley did not want him to take it, but hadn't quite courage enough to say "No;" and in a moment Peter had the apple in his hand. "I wonder whether it is sweet, or sour," said he. The picture shows what happened next. Peter munched the apple, while the little boy looked on amazed, not knowing what to do or say. "It's for my mother," gasped out Charley as soon as he could speak. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" said the saucy Peter, handing him back the core. "Here, take the sour thing: I don't want it." Poor Charley had to go home and tell this pitiful story. But he learned a lesson from it that he never forgot. IDA FAY. THE CHRISTMAS CAROL. IT is Christmas morning, bright, clear, and cold. A class of little girls have assembled with their teacher in an old country church in England. They are singing joyous carols; and their faces look so sweet and happy, that I am sure they must be singing with their hearts as well as their voices. Even the youngest, though she cannot yet read or sing, sits cuddled against her sister, her small hands folded on her lap, quietly listening. The pleased look on her face tells us that she loves to hear the others sing. I think she will remember some of the sweet words, and will very likely try to sing them when she is at home. Behind the group of children may be seen a table monument. There are many of these in old English churches. The figure on the top, carved in stone, probably resembles some knight or warrior, in memory of whom the monument was placed here long, long ago. [Illustration] After the service, we can fancy the children having a merry time,--such as we hope every child in our own land, as well as in Old England, may have, this very next Christmas, which is so near at hand. JANE OLIVER. HOW THE SHEEP WERE SAVED. MANY years ago a farmer, living in the county of Somerset, England, on rising one morning early in December, found that the weather had grown bitterly cold. Looking out of the window, he saw that it had been snowing fast through the night. Such a storm, indeed, had not been known for a long, long time. The wind was blowing hard, and the snow was still falling steadily. Now, the farmer had a great many sheep, and had not yet housed them for the winter. They were out on the hills in the open air, without any shelter. "My poor sheep!" exclaimed the farmer. "They will be buried in the snow. They will perish with the cold." He dressed as quickly as possible, called all his men, and his good dog Watch, and started out. It was slow work getting through the snow-drifts. Poor Watch was almost buried sometimes. But the men helped him out, and on he ran again, leaping after them like the good faithful dog he was. At last they came to the place where the sheep had been left. Not one could be seen; but in a corner of the field there was a huge pile of snow, about which Watch began to scratch and howl. By this they knew that the sheep were all huddled under the snow. The men set to work with their shovels; but for some time no sound came from the sheep. It was so cold that some of the men got discouraged, and wanted to give up the search, and go home. "Go, if you choose," said the farmer; "but I shall stay and dig till I find my sheep." This made the men feel ashamed, and they picked up their shovels and went to work again. "Wait a bit," said the farmer: "let me listen." He put his ear close to the wall of snow, and heard a faint "Ba-a-ah" through it. Then they knew that one sheep at least was alive. So they dug away briskly and in a few minutes they pulled it out. [Illustration] Watch took charge of it at once, pressing his warm body against the frosty fleece, and licking its face and feet to warm them. So, one after another, the sheep were drawn out of their snow-cave, and then the men drove them home. Some of the small and feeble ones they had to carry in their arms, wrapping their cloaks about the little creatures to protect them from the sharp wind. The snow beat in the faces of the men so that it almost blinded them; and it was very difficult, both for themselves and the poor weak sheep, to make their way through the great drifts. They were glad enough, you may be sure, when they got safely back to the farm. There the sheep were soon put in a comfortable shed, and fed with warm milk to restore their strength. The poor animals would certainly have died, but for the kind care that was taken of them. The farmer thanked his men for staying to help him. His wife gave them a good hot breakfast; and I think they enjoyed it all the more for having saved the poor, helpless sheep from perishing under the snow. ANNA LIVINGSTON. THE TWO RATS. THEY were about the same size, and looked much alike. They were great friends. One was a wise old rat, and the other was a young rat who thought himself wise. The wise old rat we will call Crafty. His home was in Farmer Rural's cellar: that is to say, the front-door of it opened into the cellar; but there was a back-door in the garden, and there were passage-ways under ground, leading to the corn-barn and the drain. Crafty had studied the ways of the human race for many years. In his view man was created for the benefit of rats. He had known men who were almost as sly as rats; but on the whole he looked upon them as inferior beings. Simple, who lived close by, had also a great contempt for men and women. He often boasted that he got his board and lodging all at their expense. But he did not know half as much as he thought he did; and many a time he had been kept from getting into a scrape by his good friend Crafty. One night, about twelve o'clock, Crafty and Simple started out together to see what they could find. Having poked into every corner of Farmer Rural's cellar, without getting any thing better than raw potatoes, they made their way up stairs. [Illustration] Just at the head of the stairs they came upon a sort of wire safe in which there was a most tempting bit of cheese. The door of the safe was open. "Here's a feast," said Simple; and he was about to dart into the safe. "Stop, my young friend," said Crafty, sitting bolt upright on his haunches. "That cheese has been put there on purpose for us." "Well, then, why shouldn't we take it?" said Simple. "Take my advice," said Crafty, "and let the cheese alone. Many a fine young rat has been cut off in the flower of his youth by snatching at the first good thing that happened to be put in his way. That safe is what men call a trap, and it is a very unsafe thing for you to meddle with." A few nights after, the two friends started out once more, and in the middle of the cellar they found a nice barrel of meal. Simple was on the point of jumping right into it; but old Crafty stopped him again. "Don't you know better than that, you greenhorn?" said he. "Never jump into a barrel in that way. Look here." And, crawling on the rim of the barrel, he flapped his long tail into the meal. "Splash, splash!" Right under the meal there was water. "Ho, ho, Farmer Rural!" said Crafty, "that's your game, is it? You can keep this meal for your own eating." But the next time that the two rats went out together, poor Simple did not come off so well. In spite of his friend's advice, he went after some bread-crumbs that were scattered on the top of what seemed to be a harmless wooden box. It was a trap, of course. Simple was caught, and Crafty had to go back to his hole alone. ALFRED SELWYN. [Illustration] [Illustration] A FUNNY LITTLE BOY. A FUNNY little chin, A funny little nose, A funny little grin, Ten funny little toes, Two funny little eyes, And funny little hands: How funnily he tries To give his wee commands. A funny little chat With funny little bees, A funny little cat, And funny toads and trees, A funny little dress, A funny laugh of joy: May Heaven ever bless My funny little boy! A funny little sigh, A funny little head That funnily will try To miss the time for bed, A funny little peep From funny eyes that gleam, A funny little sleep, A funny little dream. GEORGE COOPER. THE ROMAN PIGEON. IN the famous city of Rome I once lived in a house which had been a palace. It had secret closets and trap-doors, and all such queer things. There was one long, dark entry that we called a tube. We were obliged to go through this entry often, as it was the only passage-way between our rooms. It was so narrow that one could touch both side-walls at the same time. I had often, in going through it, felt that I was not alone: the movement of something always startled me. It was not like the motions of a human being, and I was too old to have visits from fairies. A dog would bark; a kitten would mew; a parrot would say "Pardon!" Then what was it? I could not tell. One night, after spending the day in the Catacombs, which are nothing more than cities of the dead, under ground, and after tumbling over my companions, and treading on the heels of the guide, I came home hoping for a quiet, peaceful evening. Finding, however, an invitation to spend that evening with a lady who lived at the other end of the palace, I felt bound to accept it. As I passed along the dark, narrow entry, which seemed like going through the Catacombs again, I heard a patter, patter, patter, on the brick floor. I supported myself by putting my hands out until they touched the sides of the tube, for I was just the least bit frightened. The sound was approaching me; but I dared not turn my back. It echoed from the walls and the high ceiling, and the whole air seemed filled with a weird noise. I tiptoed along, when suddenly my foot came down directly upon a pigeon. Only those who have been wandering about all day in caverns can imagine what it is to feel the flutter of a live pigeon under your very tread, and this, too, in the dark. This pigeon reeled to his left, and I to my right, which, of course, brought us together again. He flapped and fluttered, I panted and screamed. He flew to his right, I to my left, and again we met. If I had known that it was only a pigeon, I should not have been afraid. I am not afraid of a pigeon, I hope! But I did not know what it was, and the whizzing, and the fluttering, and the panting, and the shrieks so resounded from the roof above, that I had a mind to cry out for help. The landlady, who in that country is called _padrona_, knew that all was not quiet in her dwelling: so she shortly appeared at one end of the tube, with a dim candle. This so alarmed the pigeon, that he was more frightened than I. He turned to the other opening just at the moment when two young ladies appeared there with a light. What could the poor thing do!--a woman at one end, two women at the other, and a greater obstacle, which was myself, in the centre. He could not fly far, for his wings had been clipped; but, exerting what wing-power he had, he whizzed over my head into empty space. When I ran away, he seemed to be balancing himself upon nothing. There was no beam under that roof, upon which he could alight; and how he bore his plight I did not wait to see. But the funniest thing about this pigeon was his manner of treating me the next morning, and, indeed, as long as I remained in Rome. I often met him in various parts of the house; and as I approached he would throw back his head, swell his white throat, wink at me,--first with one eye, then with the other,--and then, with a quick prance, get by me. I think pigeons have a language of their own; for his winks said plainly, "Come on, if you want to try that game again! Who's afraid!" But I never moved a muscle as I glided by him. I didn't want him to know that my heart went pit-a-pat when he gave me those side glances. The last morning that I was in Rome, as I stepped into the carriage to go to the cars, a flock of doves appeared to be quietly feeding on the roadside; but my familiar footfall aroused one of them from his occupation, and he stood apart gazing at the scene. When the carriage-door was shut and the driver was mounting his box, the same old patter attracted my attention. I put my head out of the window, and there stood my fowl friend; and as long as he could see me his strut continued, and probably his eyes winked. AUNT ANNE. [Illustration] [Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON. VOL. XXX.--NO. 6.] READY FOR A WALK. [Illustration] PUT a good thick coat on the little girl. Button it well. Tie on her bonnet. Put a scarf over her ears. Now she is all ready. Now she will not mind the cold. Ah! whom does she see coming to meet her? [Illustration] It is her cousin Sue. She is going to walk too. Is not that nice? "Come, little Ann," says Sue, "take hold of my hand and we will have a good time."--"So we will," says Ann. And off they go hand in hand. A. B. C. [Illustration] LILY AND HER KITTEN. "WHERE can Lily be?" said Mrs. West to her sister Helen, as they sat sewing and chatting together. "I have not seen the child this half hour." "When I saw her last," answered Helen, "she was having a great frolic with her kitten in the hall." "Well," said Mrs. West, "I must have a hunt for Miss Lily. She may be getting into mischief." So she opened the door, and called, "Lily, Lily, where are you?" No answer came. Mrs. West looked into the nursery and bedrooms, but saw nothing of the little girl. Then she went down stairs and looked into the parlor and hall. Lily was not there. She opened the front door and called "Lily, Lily!" but still in vain. At last she went into the dining-room, and there, to be sure, was Lily fast asleep in a large chair, with Dinah the kitten in her lap, and a little black paw clasped in her chubby hand. Mrs. West smiled and shut the door softly, saying to herself "Dear child, she is certainly doing no mischief." Then she called her sister to come down and peep in at the sleeping companions. Helen said, "Isn't that a pretty picture? Suppose we take a big peach from this basket of fruit and put it softly beside her on the chair to surprise her when she wakes." When Lily woke soon after, she rubbed her eyes, and said, "Why, where did this peach come from, I wonder! Have I been asleep, and has a fairy dropped it in my chair?" AUNT SUE. THIRSTY BILLY. "WHOA, Billy!" said a farmer, as he was driving home from the mill with a load of meal. "We'll stop here, and you shall have a good drink. You must need it after climbing up this long hill. "There are good people in the world, are there not, old fellow? And it certainly was one of them who put this trough here for poor beasts like you to drink from. Well, you are thirsty, to be sure! Don't you mean to leave a drop there? What do you think the next donkey that comes along will do? [Illustration] "Ah, you prick up your ears, and wink your eye, as much as to say, 'Never you fear about that, my friend. There's no danger of my drinking all there is in this trough, and you know as well as I that there is plenty more water in the spring where this came from.' "So at last, then, you have enough," added the farmer, as Billy lifted his dripping nose from the water. "Come on then, long ears: we have another hill to climb, you know, and wife wants some of this meal to make a corn-cake for supper." And Billy started on briskly, as if he knew well what supper meant, and thought he should have a share of corn-cake too. UNCLE CHARLES. A DEFIANCE. KING of the barn-yard here am I. If any bird my power deny, That bird to combat I defy; I raise my ancient battle cry, Resolved to conquer or to die. Who has the rashness to reply? CHANTICLEER. [Illustration] [Illustration] ABOUT WINDMILLS. "PAPA, what is that funny-looking house, with that great whirligig going round and round on it?" said Charlie to his father, pointing to this picture. "That is a windmill," his father answered. "I don't wonder you call those long arms a whirligig, for they whirl round very swiftly when the wind blows. "But they do not go round and round for nothing, as your toy whirligigs do. They are busy at work, turning a great wheel inside the mill; and the wheel is busy grinding corn into meal. "There are not many windmills to be seen in our country; but if you should go to Holland, you would see them in all directions. Holland is a very flat country and has no swift rivers to turn the mill-wheels, so the wind has to do the work instead. "There are said to be ten thousand windmills there. The arms of some are a hundred feet long." "I should like to see them," said Charlie. "Will you not take me there sometime, papa?" "Perhaps," said his father, "but you are a small boy yet, and have much to see and learn at home first." ALFRED STETSON. ANNIE'S GIFT. ANNIE FAY had been taking a walk, one winter day, with her mother. On their way they had stopped to see her grandmother, and she had given Annie a large apple to take home. But just before reaching the house, they saw a forlorn-looking girl with her apron full of dry twigs which she had been picking by the roadside. She was thinly dressed, and looked pale and sad. Annie's heart was touched at the sight. "Oh, mamma!" she said, "how tired and cold and hungry that poor girl looks! May I give her my apple?" "Certainly, dear," said her mother, "you may give it to her. And ask her in to get warm." So, quick as thought, Annie ran to the girl and held up the apple, saying, "Please take this. And mamma wants you to come into the house with us and get warm." The girl could hardly keep back her tears at being so kindly spoken to. But she took the apple, thanked Annie, and followed her into the house. On questioning her, Mrs. Fay found that she was an orphan. She lived with a woman who was too poor to do much for her. She had to work hard, and the woman was not always kind to her. [Illustration] After getting warm and eating a good dinner, she cheered up wonderfully. And when Mrs. Fay put on her a woolen sacque and mittens and some thick shoes, she looked so happy and thankful that Annie was quite delighted. When Annie saw her grandmother, the next day, and told her what was done with the apple, the kind old lady said, "That was right. I am very glad you gave it to her. If she is a nice child I would like to have her live with me. I cannot move about much, and for some time I have wanted to find a handy little girl to wait on me." And when Annie next went to her grandmother's house, there was the little girl, neatly dressed, and fast losing the sad look she had on her face when they met her that cold day. JANE OLIVER. FLOSSIE'S PET ALLIGATOR. "AUNT MEG, did you ever see an alligator,--a real live one, such as papa took me to see in Boston, last summer?" "Oh, yes, Toddy! I have seen more alligators than you can count fingers and thumbs on your little dimpled hands. But I saw the funniest one when I was in Kansas last winter; and if you will sit here on my lap, I will tell you all about it. "One day, last year, when Flossie was in Jacksonville, Florida, with her parents, she saw a baby-alligator, and took such a fancy to it, that her papa bought it for her. They brought it home in the spring, and cousin Fred made a pen for it in the back-yard, near a large puddle of water; for alligators, you know, live in the water. "Always after a rain, the water was quite deep, and 'Allie,' as Flossie named her pet, would splash about in it, as happy as could be. Flossie and all the children in the neighborhood, used to play with him every day. "Before the spring was over, Allie was so tame, that he would follow Flossie up to the house, where the children would feed him with fish or meat. "The alligator kept growing and growing, until he was too large for the pen; and as he grew old, he grew so cross, that Flossie's papa sold him to a circus-man for a twenty-dollar gold-piece, and the children never saw their pet again." AUNT MEG. "THE NURSERY" TO ITS READERS. FIFTEEN years ago, in my green cover Faintly colored like the leaves in spring, High and low, of every child the lover, First I came my welcome words to bring. And from then till now I have not rested; I have still kept busy every day; When the cowslips bloomed, and, crimson-breasted, Sang the robins in the golden May, When the silver daisies starred the mowing, When the nestling swallows fluttered forth, When the maple-woods like flame were glowing, Or the wild wind piped from out the north; All the time I used to look and listen: "Something for the children I must find, Merry tales to make their bright eyes glisten, Useful lessons they should keep in mind." Fifteen years--how brief they were and pleasant! When these little golden heads are gray, Looking back on what is now the present, Who can tell? There may be one will say,-- "These few words that once my mother taught me From 'The Nursery,' ere I could read, Lingering in my memory, have brought me Helpful counsel in life's hours of need." Everywhere, of every child the lover, Willing doer of my best was I; For the last time, in my pale green cover, I have come to say to you "Good-by!" MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number. Table of Contents omits the mention of the Drawing-Lesson on page 369. 
42160	----	transcribed by Veronika Redfern. THE NURSERY _A Monthly Magazine_ FOR YOUNGEST READERS. VOLUME XXX.--No. 5. BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. [Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS] [Illustration: Contents.] IN PROSE. PAGE Where Jimmy Lives 323 Jessie and her Kitten 324 Fanchette 329 Old Jack 333 A Day in the Woods 338 Milly and Jip 342 Lawn-Tennis 344 The Kitten's Necktie 345 A Basket from Home 348 A Letter from Honolulu 350 IN VERSE. Hush-a-by 322 Two Sides 326 Sweet Good-day 331 My Garden 332 Off for the Winter 335 Baby Bobby 341 A Thrifty Family 346 When will the Snow come 347 Christmas-Time (_with music_) 352 [Illustration] [Illustration: HUSH-A-BY. VOL. XXX.--NO. 5.] HUSH-A-BY. HUSH-A-BY baby: as the birds fly, We are off to the island of Lullaby: I am the captain, and you are the crew, And the cradle, I guess, is our birch-bark canoe; We'll drift away from this work-day shore, Forty thousand long leagues or more, Till we reach the strand where happy dreams wait, Whether we're early, or whether we're late. Hush-a-by baby: as the birds fly, Let us make the snug harbor of Lullaby: Some little folks are far on the way; Some have put in at Wide-awake Bay; Others, I fear, are long overdue; Don't let this happen, my darling, to you: Let us steer for the coast where happy dreams wait, Whether we're early, or whether we're late. MARY N. PRESCOTT. [Illustration] WHERE JIMMY LIVES. JIMMY MASON lives on a ranche in Colorado. Do you know what a ranche is? It is a kind of farm,--not a farm for raising wheat and potatoes and oats and corn, but for rearing horses and cattle and sheep. Jimmy's papa has about a hundred horses, as many cows, and a great many hundred sheep. He does not keep them in barns, or feed them with hay, but they roam over the hills, and feed on grass both in winter and summer. Mr. Mason's house is five miles from any neighbor, and fifteen miles from town. There is no garden or fence round it, and there are no trees to be seen anywhere near. But there are wild flowers in abundance. One of them is a species of cactus. It bears beautiful yellow blossoms in summer, after which comes the fruit, a prickly pear, not good to eat. Another kind of cactus has crimson and scarlet blossoms, but no prickly pears. Both of these plants are covered with sharp thorns and prickles. Jimmy thinks the blossoms are pretty; but he does not like to pick them. Can you guess why? Where do you suppose Jimmy goes to school? Well, he goes to his mamma, and he has a very nice teacher. He never gets lonesome; for he has so much to do and so much to think about, that he has no time to be lonesome. He helps his mother in the house, he takes care of the chickens, he makes friends with the sheep. When he gets a little bigger, he will ride on horseback and help his papa in taking care of the horses and cattle out on the hills. EMMA MITCHELL. JESSIE AND HER KITTEN. "O MAMMA!" said little Jessie one stormy afternoon, "I'm tired of playing with dolly, I'm tired of looking at pictures, I'm tired of my blocks, and I'm tired of sitting still. What shall I do?" "Call kitty," said her mother, "and let her try to catch this ball while you hold the string." "Oh, yes, that will be fun," said Jessie; "but if I make a noise, mamma, you will be sure to say, 'Hush, my child! or you will wake grandma.'" Her mamma laughed, and said, "I think we can manage that, dear. You shall go down in the large front-hall, and there you can run and play as much as you please." Jessie was delighted with this plan, and presently stood holding the ball just out of reach of the kitten's paws, saying, "Catch it if you can, kitty; catch it if you can!" As soon as kitty, standing on her hind-legs, had her paw almost upon it, away Jessie would run, shouting and laughing, and kitty would follow her as fast as she could go. [Illustration] When they had played till Jessie was quite tired, she went to her mamma with kitty cuddled in her arms, and said, "We have had a jolly time, mamma! Now I must give kitty some milk and put her to bed; for I think she is hungry and sleepy after so much exercise." This last was a big word for such a little girl, and she said it quite slowly. "Yes, dear," mamma said, smiling, "and I think I know somebody else who will soon be hungry and sleepy too." JANE OLIVER. [Illustration] TWO SIDES. OH, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past; The singing-birds have gone; The robin, from the maple-bough, Who waked me every morn; The bobolink that used to make The meadow-grass with music shake; The humming-bird that dipped his bill In lily-cup and rose,-- Not one would stay; I only hear The cawing of the crows. The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear! The dismal autumn days are here. And all my pretty flowers are dead! My roses and sweet-peas; The hollyhocks, where, all the day, There was a crowd of bees; The lovely morning-glory vine, That round my window used to twine; The larkspur, with its horns of blue; The sunflower proud and tall,-- That thief the Frost, so sly and still, Has come and stolen all! Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear! The dreary autumn days are here. [Illustration] The hives are full of honeycomb; The barns are full of hay; The bins are heaped with ripened grain, That empty were in May; The red and yellow apples now Bend many a heavy orchard bough; Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves, The frost-grapes smell of musk; The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps; And, in its silver husk, The corn now shows a golden ear; Come! why be sorry autumn's here? The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs; The keen wind scatters down Upon the grass, for eager hands, The chestnuts ripe and brown; The orange woods, the flame-red bowers, Are brighter than the gayest flowers; 'Tis constant changes make the year: Then why be sorry autumn's here? MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration] FANCHETTE. WHILE spending a winter in a quiet old town in Southern France, I used to meet in my walks, a girl about ten years of age, trudging along, bare-footed, carrying on her arm a large basket. The first time we met she looked up at me with such a pleasant smile, that I bowed and smiled in return. After a few days we became still better acquainted, and she would say, "_Bon jour, madame!_" in answer to my greeting. One day, besides the basket, she carried a large fagot, and her apron full of wild flowers and drooping vines. Then I thought I would like to know more about her. So I said, "You look tired, my little girl: will you not sit down under this old tree with me, and tell me where you live, and where you go every day with that big basket?" She seemed quite pleased to do so, and then told me that her father was a wood-cutter, and that every day she had to walk three miles to the forest to carry him his dinner, and sometimes to help bind fagots. "My name," she said, "is Fanchette, and I have a sister Marie, and a sister Claire, and a baby-brother named Pierre. My sister Marie is ill, and cannot leave her bed, and I have gathered these flowers to take to her." "But are you not tired with walking so far?" "A little tired, madam," she said; "but I do not mind, for Marie will be so pleased with these flowers, and baby will clap his hands and laugh when he sees me coming. Then mother will take this fagot and light the fire, and give us our supper, and we shall be very merry. "There is my home," she said, pointing to a small brown thatched cottage under a hill not far away. "Will you not come to see us some day, madam?" I promised to do so, and when I kept my word soon after, I found all as she had said. Though they were poor, and the mother had to work hard, their home was so neat, and all seemed so happy in it, that it was a pleasure to go there. I repeated my visits many times, carrying dainties for the invalid, who was soon quite well and strong; and I shall never forget bright, cheery little Fanchette. ANNA LIVINGSTON. [Illustration] [Illustration] SWEET GOOD-DAY. "WE are fading, little children; One by one, we flutter down; For the winds are harsh and chilly, And the meadows, bare and brown. We are fading," leaves of purple, Leaves of amber, softly say; "But we'll meet you in the May-time, Our merry, merry play-time: Little children, sweet good-day!" "We are going, little children," Sigh the flowers in the sun; "Oh! we soon shall end our singing," Lisp the brooklets as they run; And the birds, with silver warble, Long before they wing away, Pipe, "We'll meet you in the May-time, Our merry, merry play-time: Little children, sweet good-day!" GEORGE COOPER. [Illustration] MY GARDEN. WHEN fields are green, and skies are fair, And summer fragrance fills the air, I love to watch the budding rose That in my pleasant garden grows; But when old Winter, fierce and free, Has hushed the murmur of the bee, And all the fields and hills are hid Beneath his snowy coverlid, Oh! then my only garden-spot Is just this little flower-pot. X. V. Z. [Illustration] [Illustration] OLD JACK. "DEAR me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, as she looked from the kitchen-window of her farmhouse; "there are uncle Joe, and aunt Peggy, and all the girls! They have come to tea, I'm certain, and I haven't a speck of green tea in the house. Uncle Joe can't drink any thing else, and he must have white sugar in it too. "Here, Mike, Mike! take a basket, jump on old Jack, and go to the store just as fast as you can. Get a pound of the best green tea and three pounds of white lump sugar. Now mind you are back in half an hour." Mike was delighted. He had come to live on the farm only the week before, and in all his life had never been on the back of a horse or donkey. He had looked every day with longing eyes at Jack grazing quietly in the pasture, and had thought how happy he should be if he were ever allowed to have a ride on him. So off he started in great glee, saying to himself, "It will be easy enough to manage this little fellow." When about half a mile on the way, they came to a brook, and Mike thought he would let Jack have a drink. This was all very well; but, when Mike wanted to go on, Jack had changed his mind, and concluded not to go any further. Mike pulled and pulled on the bridle, trying to turn him back into the road; but the obstinate creature planted his feet firmly, and would not budge an inch. Just then a kind old Irishman came, on the little foot-bridge, over the brook, and Mike called to him to know what he should do. "Sure, you must have a stick, sonny," said the man. "Donkeys won't go without the stick." So he cut a stick from a tree near by, and gave it to Mike, who used it as hard as he could, but to no purpose. Then the old man took another, and, going behind the little beast, touched him up smartly with it, at the same time giving his tail a funny little twist. This was more than Jack could stand. He gave in and jogged on. But he would go very slowly, in spite of Mike's urging, and now and then he would amuse himself by kicking out his hind-legs, and trying to throw Mike off. Once, too, just as they were starting back from the grocer's he suddenly lay down flat, and threw Mike over his head, scattering basket and bundles. Poor Mike was half an hour late; but, when he told good Mrs. Smith all his troubles, she excused him. She laughed hard, too, when Mike said, like a true-born Irish boy, "Sure, marm, I never want to ride Jack again till I've learned how." IDA FAY. [Illustration] OFF FOR THE WINTER. "O SWALLOWS! what can be the matter? And what do you mean by your chatter? You sit on the barn-roof by dozens,-- Aunts, grandmothers, uncles, and cousins; You circle and wheel, then you twitter away: Oh, what are you saying? Do tell me, I pray." "My little one, cold winds are blowing; We swallows to South-land are going: We meet in the clear autumn weather, And plan our long journey together. When spring-time returns, with its green dancing leaves, We'll come back to our little nests under the eaves." "Sweet wild flowers, oh, where are you hiding? In what hidden nook are you biding? I've wandered the meadows all over,-- There's no breath of wild rose or clover; No violets peeping through grass-blades I see, No daisies or buttercups nodding to me." Then up spake a gentian, late comer, The last blue-eyed darling of summer,-- "To our long winter rest we betake us: Good-night, till May breezes awake us." Then her soft downy cap she drew over her head, And joined her sweet sisters asleep in their bed. RUTH REVERE. [Illustration] [Illustration: A DAY IN THE WOODS. VOL. XXX.--NO. 5.] A DAY IN THE WOODS. "AUTUMN days are going fast. Who wants to spend a day in the woods?" said uncle Tom to his nieces Jennie and Kate. "I!" shouted Jennie; "and I!" shouted Kate; "and can aunt Jane and cousins Tom and Ann go too?" said both. "Yes," said uncle Tom: "I will take the big wagon, and there will be room enough for all. Run and ask your mother to put up a lunch for us. We must start early in the morning." Off they ran, and soon came back with Tom and Ann and their little brother Johnny, all eager for a frolic. The next morning, as soon as the sun peeped out of the east, all the children were up and dressed. By the time breakfast was over, the wagon stood at the door. Into it they climbed one after another. The lunch-basket was packed in safely. Aunt Jane sat on the front seat; uncle Tom jumped up beside her with the reins in his hands; the children shouted "Hurrah!" and off they started. What fun they had as they rode along! The pure air of the country, flavored with an odor of the sea (for the road lay along the side of the ocean), seemed to put new life into them all. When they reached the woods, they jumped out of the wagon and rambled about at will. The girls filled their baskets with wild flowers; aunt Jane twined some of them in Kate's hair; and Jennie made a lovely wreath, which she placed on Tom's head. [Illustration] By and by they all began to feel very hungry. So they opened the lunch-basket under a large tree, and found that mamma had put into it just what they wanted. They had a grand feast. They laughed and sang, and made the old woods ring with their merry voices. At last uncle Tom said, "Now, girls, give us one song more, and then we must be getting ready to go home." While they were singing, uncle Tom went after the horse. Pretty soon he drove up with the wagon and said, "Now pack in, every one of you, and we will have a jolly ride home." [Illustration] They were about to take their seats in the wagon, when aunt Jane said, "Where's Johnny? We can't go home without him." Sure enough, Johnny was missing. "He strolled off while we were singing," said cousin Tom: "I guess he went down to the beach; for I saw him go in that direction, and he had a box under his arm, probably to put shells in." "I'll warrant that's where he's gone," said uncle Tom. "And he is there exploring now, I dare say. But he can't be far off. We'll call him." Then uncle Tom shouted in his deep voice, "Johnny!" Then aunt Jane and all the girls joined in the chorus of "Johnny!" "The boy must be deaf if he does not hear that," said uncle Tom. Then they all shouted together once more. In a moment they heard Johnny's voice in reply. "I'm coming in a minute," said he. "Hurry up," cried uncle Tom. "We are waiting for you." It was five minutes before Johnny appeared, and then he came holding something in his hand triumphantly. "What in the world have you there?" said aunt Jane. "Something better than wild flowers," said Johnny. Now what do you suppose it was? It was a live crab, which the boy had found among the rocks on the shore. "You are not going to take it home with you, are you?" said aunt Jane. "Of course I am," said Johnny. "Well, jump in," said uncle Tom, "crab and all. We can't stop any longer." So Johnny scrambled into the wagon with the rest, and off they drove. UNCLE SAM. [Illustration] [Illustration] BABY BOBBY. I KNOW a house so full of noise, You'd think a regiment of boys, From early morn till close of day, Were busy with their romping play. And yet, I'm ready to declare, There is but one small youngster there,-- A little golden-headed chap, Who used to think his mother's lap The nicest place that e'er could be, Until he grew so big that he Was most a man, and learned what fun It is to shout and jump and run. This restless, noisy little elf Has learned, alas! to think himself Too old in mother's arms to sleep; Yet his blue eyes he cannot keep From hiding 'neath their lids so white; And, climbing to the sofa's height, He snuggles down, forgets his play, And into Dreamland sails away; And then it is that mamma knows Why the whole house so silent grows. MARY D. BRINE. MILLY AND JIP. THIS is a little English girl. Her name is Mildred; but she is usually called Milly. She has always lived in a fine old house, with lovely grounds about it, not far from London. But now she is going, with her father and mother, to India. She thinks it will be very nice to be travelling so far away with them; but she is sorry to leave her kind grandmother, and all her aunts and cousins. She could not help crying when she said good-by to them. "I cannot go without my Jip," she said to her mother the day before leaving. "Oh, no, darling!" said her mother. "I wouldn't think of leaving the little dog behind. He will be a fine play-fellow for you on board the ship." So she has Jip cuddled close in her arms, you see. It is late in November, and the weather is cold. But Milly has plenty of warm fur wraps to protect her and her pet too. [Illustration] She will soon be far away from cold weather, and when she reaches India, she will laugh at the thought of ever being bundled up in all that fur. JANE OLIVER. LAWN-TENNIS. [Illustration] JOHN sits on a three-legged stool. What is he doing? We can't tell, for we can't see through him: so we must guess. I guess he is watching a game of lawn-tennis. [Illustration] I think I see one of the players that John has his eye on. It is a bright little girl. Her name is Julia. Look at her. She is having fine fun. John hopes that her side will win. And so do I. Let us all give three cheers for her. M. L. O. [Illustration] THE KITTEN'S NECKTIE. "PUSS, Puss, Puss! where are you?" said little Nellie Rich. She had tied a new, bright, cherry ribbon on the kitten's neck, and told her to keep it nice; "for," said Nellie, "my cousin Belle is coming to see me this afternoon, and I want to show her how pretty you can look." And now naughty puss had run off, and she would come back, perhaps, with the new ribbon all rumpled and soiled. After searching through the house, Nellie ran out to the barn to look for the lost pet. Sure enough, there was the kitten, not taking the least care of her necktie, just ready to pounce upon a big mouse. Nellie's voice startled her so that she did not catch the mouse, after all. The nimble little rogue darted into a hole before kitty could even get her paw on his tail. But the cherry bow was still safe and unsoiled. So, after giving pussy a lecture on her disobedience, Nellie took her into the house. She met Belle at the door, and told her what a search she had made; while puss, cuddled in her arms, kept up a busy purring, as much as to say, "I'm sorry you were displeased with me. I really thought you would praise me for trying to catch that big mouse; for I'm not much more than a kitten yet." DORA BURNSIDE. A THRIFTY FAMILY. 'TWAS a bitter cold morning; the new-fallen snow Had pierced every crack where a snowflake could go; The streams were all solid, the ice sharp and clear; And even the fishes were chilly, I fear. Almost all the wild creatures were troubled and cold, And sighed for sweet summer,--the shy and the bold; But one thrifty family, as you must know, Was breakfasting merrily under the snow. Close by a tall tree, in a hole in the ground, Which led to a parlor, with leaves cushioned round, Five jolly red squirrels were sitting at ease, And eating their breakfast, as gay as you please. D. H. R. GOODALE. [Illustration] [Illustration] WHEN WILL THE SNOW COME? WHEN will the snow come, mother dear? When will the soft white snow be here? Upon my sled I want to go: Oh for the snow! I long for snow. I want to see it falling fast, And covering all the ground at last, So Dick and I can snowballs throw: Oh for the snow, the splendid snow! I look, as soon as it is light, To see if all the earth is white; I watch the clouds each day, but no, There's not a single flake of snow. I want to plunge about, waist deep, In the great drifts so high and steep, And wash Dick's face,--oh, you don't know What lots of fun we have with snow! We're going to build a fort, and you'll See battles fought there after school! And cannon-balls will fly--hallo! Look! mother, look! here comes the snow! ELIZABETH SILL. A BASKET FROM HOME. "HALLOA, boys! Here's old Trott, the expressman, coming into the yard. What do you suppose he has brought?" exclaimed one of a group of boys in the playground of a country boarding-school. "It is probably a box for me," said one of the older boys, with rather an important air. This boy, being somewhat selfish, was not a favorite with the little ones, one of whom whispered to another, "I hope it isn't for him, don't you? None of the rest of us will get a peep into it if it is." Presently the wagon stopped; and Mr. Trott pulled out a basket, and reading the address, "Master Robert Rand," said, "Is there any boy of that name here?" A bright little fellow answered quickly, "That is my name." "Then this basket is yours," said the driver. "Hurrah for you, Rob!" called out four other boys about his age. "Come on, we'll help you carry it in." In a few minutes the same boys stood around the basket with eager eyes; and Rob and his cousin Willy were seated on the floor, unpacking it. Oranges, lemons, and apples were soon displayed; then a pot of jam appeared. "Halloa, what's down in that corner?" cried Tom, a youngster in Scotch cap and velveteen suit. "Isn't that a cake, though!" as a big round cake well stuffed with plums appeared. "And there's a box of sardines," shouted another boy. [Illustration] "What's in this paper bag?" said Rob. "First-rate! it's white sugar. That's for lemonade. Mother hasn't forgotten how much I like it." So all the good things that Rob's thoughtful mother had sent him were one by one set out upon the floor. Rob looked at each one with real delight, and, when the basket was emptied, he said,-- "Now, boys, there's some eating to be done, and I want you all to help me. It is Saturday afternoon: let us all go into the woods and have a regular picnic." All agreed that this would be jolly fun. One boy (who had a brother in college) remarked that it would be "just immense." Willy, the youngest boy, who was a great pet with the housekeeper, was sent to borrow a pitcher and tumblers, and whatever else was needed. [Illustration] Instead of a pitcher, what do you think he brought back?--A teakettle, just like this! "Why, what did you bring that for?" said Rob. "Because I thought a pitcher wouldn't hold lemonade enough," said Willy. "There's something in that," said Tom. "We'll put something in it, anyhow," said Rob; and they all had a good laugh. Several other boys joined them at Rob's invitation, and they soon found a pleasant, shady spot near a cool spring. "Very handy," said Tom, "for making lemonade." We have not space to tell all the good things that were said at the feast. In fact, there was no reporter present. But it was a jolly affair. When it was ended, three cheers were given for Robby Rand, and three more for his basket; and then the boys started for home, to wind up the fun with a game of ball. UNCLE CHARLES. A LETTER FROM HONOLULU. LAST Christmas my mamma gave me a bound volume of "The Nursery," and I have been wanting to tell you how much I like it. I live in Honolulu, way off in the Pacific Ocean. I wonder if many of your readers know what a pretty place Honolulu is. The town faces the open sea; but those who have been accustomed to the stormy Atlantic or the Northern Pacific would scarcely believe that this calm blue water is the ocean. Back of the town are two mountains,--"Punch-bowl" and "Diamond Head." Between them there is a cocoanut-grove, near which there is a nice place for sea-bathing. As it is a short drive from town, we often go there to bathe, and have great fun. We have no winter here, and it is never too cold to bathe. I am trying to learn to swim. Sometimes I get tired of having it always summer, and wish for the fun that the snow and ice bring, about which I read so much in "The Nursery." I go to a kindergarten, and we learn a great many of your songs. Some of your poetry we have made into songs, and we like them very much. Last summer, at the closing exercises of our class, we played the "Kindergarten Game" published in the January number of last year, and every one was delighted with it. If you like this letter I may write again, and tell you about a feast that I went to, in celebration of the birthday of the little Victoria-Kawekin-Kaiulani-Lunalilo-Kalaninuiahilapalapa. Is it not a pretty name? I cannot pronounce it all for I do not speak the native language. I am a little German girl and my name is ALEXANDRA. [Illustration] [Illustration: Music] CHRISTMAS TIME. T. CRAMPTON. 1. Come, stir the fire, 'tis Christmas time! While loud the winds howl o'er us, We'll hail the day with joyful lay, And raise the swelling chorus. Time, who brings both care and sorrow, Bids them slumber till to-morrow, Bids them slumber till to-morrow. 2 To joyous music's merry strain Responsive hearts are beating, And happy voices join amain The carol, Christmas greeting. Hearts with fondest rapture swelling, Glow while lips their thoughts are telling. 3 Then raise the song for Christmas time, While winds are loudly blowing, With carol old and chorus bold Our joyful praises showing, Bright the old yule-log is beaming, Let each soul of joy be dreaming. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues. Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the title page after the Volume number.