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Title: The Nursery, September 1877, Vol. XXII, No. 3
A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers

Author: Various

Release Date: February 20, 2009 [EBook #28137]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NURSERY, SEPTEMBER 1877 ***

Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
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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.

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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

Birds

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VOL. XXII.—NO. 3.

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INTRODUCED TO THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.

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.

Sailing

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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.

Aphids

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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.

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GARRY AND THE RAKE

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.

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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.

Carrying Harry

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.

Emily Carter.

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A TRUE STORY OF A PARTRIDGE.

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.

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.

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Dragonfly

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A LETTER FROM MINNESOTA.

Turtle

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.

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.

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THE LAZY SHEPHERD

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.

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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.

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HOW TO DRAW A PIG.

How to Draw a Pig

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A SIGHT OF THE OCEAN

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.

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RUTH'S WISHES

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.

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Geese

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.

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THE THREE LITTLE LADIES

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.

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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.

Did she behave herself?

"'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.

Nut

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AUNT MATILDA

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.

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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.

ANNA'S BIRD

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.

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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.

Divider

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.

Divider

THE PEDLAR.

THE PEDLAR.

Music

[Transcriber's Note: You can play this music (MIDI file) by clicking here.]

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.

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