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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.




[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 <DW72> 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.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Nursery, September 1877, Vol. XXII, 
No. 3, by Various

*** 