



Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Music
by Linda Cantoni.











THE

NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XIV.--No. 3

        BOSTON:
        JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36, BROMFIELD STREET.
        1873.



        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
        JOHN L. SHOREY,
        In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.





        BOSTON:
        STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, & CO.




[Illustration: CONTENTS.]


IN PROSE.

                                                     PAGE.

  The Queer Things that happened to Nelly              65

  The Six Ducks                                        69

  The Bunch of Grapes                                  71

  A True Story about a Dog                             73

  Pitcher-Plants and Monkey-Pots                       76

  Under the Cherry-Tree                                77

  Rambles in the Woods                                 80

  What I Saw at the Seashore                           82

  Blossom and I                                        85

  How Norman became an Artist                          87

  A Boot-Race under Difficulties                       89

  Pictures for Walter                                  90

  The Fisherman's Children                             92


IN VERSE.

                                                    PAGE.

  Rose's Song                                          68

  A Little Tease                                       75

  Sleeping in the Sunshine                             78

  Young Lazy-Bones (_with music_)                      96


[Illustration: THE QUEER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO NELLY.]




THE QUEER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO NELLY.


[Illustration: N]ELLY BURTON had been weeding in the garden nearly all
the summer forenoon; and she was quite tired out. "Oh, if I could only
be dressed up in fine clothes, and not have to work!" thought she.

No sooner had the thought passed through her mind, than, as she looked
down on the closely-mown grass by the edge of the pond, she saw the
queerest sight that child ever beheld.

A carriage, the body of which was made of the half of a large
walnut-shell, brightly gilt, was moving along, dragged by six beetles
with backs glistening with all the colors of the rainbow.

Seated in the carriage, and carrying a wand, was a young lady not larger
than a child's little finger, but so beautiful that no humming-bird
could equal her in beauty. She had the bluest of blue eyes, and yellow
crinkled hair that shone like gold.

She stopped her team of beetles, and, standing upright, said to Nelly,
"Listen to me. My name is Pitpat; and I am a fairy. I see how tired you
are with work. Your father, though a good man, is a blacksmith; and
there is often a smirch on his face when he stoops to kiss you. Your
mother wears calico dresses, and doesn't fix her hair with false braids
and waterfalls. Would you not like to be the daughter of a king and
queen, and live in a palace?"

"Oh, yes, you beautiful Pitpat! I would like that ever so much!"
exclaimed Nelly. "Then I should be a princess, and have nothing to do
but amuse myself all day."

"Take the end of my wand, and touch your eyes with it," said the little
fairy.

Nelly obeyed; and in a moment, before she could wink, she found herself
in a beautiful room, with mirrors reaching from the ceiling to the
floor. By these she saw that she was no longer clad in an old dingy
dress, nor were her feet bare; but she had on a beautiful skirt of
light-blue velvet, and a bodice of the most costly lace, trimmed with
ribbons; while diamonds were in her hair, and a pair of gold slippers on
her feet.

Servants were in attendance on her, one of whom said, "May it please
your Highness, his Majesty, your royal father, is coming." Nelly's heart
fluttered. The door opened, and, preceded by two or three lackeys, a
pompous old gentleman entered, clad in rich robes, a golden crown on his
head, and no smirch on his face.

But, dear me, instead of catching her up in his arms, and calling her
his own precious little Nelly, his Majesty simply gave her his hand to
kiss, and passed on.

The queen followed in his steps. Her hair was done up in a tower of
top-knots and waterfalls; and there was drapery enough on the back of
her dress to astonish an upholsterer. Instead of calling Nelly "her
darling," as Nelly's first mother used to do, the queen merely said, as
she swept by, "Where are your manners, child?" for you must know that
poor Nelly had forgotten to courtesy.

Nelly put her face in her hands, and began to cry. "Oh, you cruel
Pitpat!" said she, "why did you tempt me? Oh! give me back my own dear
mother in her calico dress, my own dear father with the smirch on his
face, my doll Angelica, my black-and-white kitten Dainty, and my own
dear, dear home beside the lovely pond where the air is so sweet and the
bushes are so green."

"Take the end of my wand again, and touch your eyes with it," said the
voice of Pitpat. And there on the carpet, in her little gilded carriage,
stood the fairy once more with her wand held out. Nelly seized it
eagerly, and touched her eyes.

"Why, Dainty, what are you about?" said Nelly, as she felt the kitten's
head against her arm; and then, opening her eyes, she started to find
herself in the old wood-shed, seated with her back against the door,
Angelica in her lap, and the soft breeze from the pond fanning her cheek
and bosom. She looked at her feet. Ah! the golden slippers had
disappeared. "Dear me! I must have been dreaming," said Nelly.

                                                  IDA FAY.




ROSE'S SONG.


            So it's hush-a-by, baby,
            Hush-a-by now,
        Mamma's gone to buy something good;
            And she will not forget
            Her own darling pet,
        But will buy her a bonny blue hood:
        Yes, she'll buy her a bonny blue hood.
            Oh! she will not forget
            Her own baby pet,
        But will buy her a bonny blue hood.

            Then it's crow away, baby,
            Crow away, sweet,
        Papa he is coming to-night;
            And he'll bring home a kiss,
            Like _this_ and like _this_,
        For his sweet little Minnie so bright,
        For his dear little Minnie so bright.
            Oh! he's many a kiss,
            Like _this_ and like _this_,
        For his sweet little Minnie to-night.

                                                  GEO. BENNETT.

[Illustration]




THE SIX DUCKS.


IN the pond near Emily's house six tame ducks used to have a fine time
swimming about, except in winter, when the pond was frozen. Emily had a
name for each one of them. They used to run to her when she called; for
they knew she loved them all, and would treat them well.

Among these six happy ducks there was a white one that was at one time
of his life a wild duck. Emily named him _Albus_; for _albus_ is Latin
for _white_. I will tell you how Albus happened to become tamed.

He was once on his way to the South with a large flock of his wild
companions, when, as they were alighting near a creek, Albus was shot in
the wing by Dick Barker, a sportsman who was out gunning. Dick ran with
his dog Spot to pick up the poor wounded bird; but Albus was not so much
hurt that he could not fly a little.

He flew and flew till he came to Emily's little garden; and then he fell
at her feet, faint, but not dead, as if pleading for protection. Emily
took him up in her arms, though she soiled her apron with blood in so
doing. Dick and Spot came up; and Dick said roughly, "Give me up that
duck."

"The duck has flown to my feet for protection; and I would be shot
myself before I would betray him and give him up," said Emily. "I shall
keep him, and heal his wounds."

Mr. Dick Barker scolded wildly; but it was of no use. He had to go off
duckless. As for Albus, he soon grew well under Emily's tender care; but
his wing was not as strong as it used to be: so he concluded he would
become a tame bird, and not try to fly off again with his wild
companions. He had a happy home, a kind mistress, and pleasant duck
acquaintances. So, like a good sensible waddler, he was content.

                                                  EMILY CARTER.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE BUNCH OF GRAPES.


"I AM thinking what I shall do with this beautiful bunch of grapes,"
said Reka Lane as she sat on the bench near the arbor. Her real name was
Rebecca; but they called her, for shortness, Reka.

"I know what I should do with it," said little Matilda, who had been
wading in the brook, and was without shoes and stockings. "I should
divide it among the present company."

"Good for Matty!" exclaimed brother Henry. "The best use you can put
grapes to is to eat them before they spoil. Come, Reka, divide, divide."

"I am not sure that I shall do that," said Reka.

"Look at that queer dog!" said Matty. "He has crept under the shawl on
the ground, and looks like a head with no body to it."

"That shawl was left there the other day by old Mrs. Merton," said Reka.
"The dog is her son's terrier; and his name is Beauty."

"He is any thing but a beauty," said Matty. "I think him the ugliest dog
I ever saw."

"I suppose they call him Beauty to make up for the bad word he gets from
every one as being ugly," said Reka. "He is a good dog, nevertheless;
and he knows that shawl belongs to his mistress.--Don't you, Beauty?"

Here Beauty tore out from under the shawl, and began barking in a very
intelligent manner.

"Now I will tell you what we will do," said Reka. "Put on your shoes and
stockings, Matty, and we will all go and call on Mrs. Merton, who is
ill; and we'll take back her shawl, and give her this beautiful bunch of
grapes."

"Bow, wow, wow!" cried Beauty, jumping up, and trying to lick Reka's
face.

When the children left Mrs. Merton's, after they had presented the
grapes, Henry Lane made this remark, "I'll tell you what it is, girls,
to see that old lady so pleased by our attention gave me more pleasure
than a big feast on grapes, ice-creams, and sponge-cake, with lemonade
thrown in."

                                                  DORA BURNSIDE.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




A TRUE STORY ABOUT A DOG.


I AM a middle-aged gentleman who is blessed with only one child, a
little girl now nearly six years old. Her name is Fanny; and her cousin
Gracie, who is about the same age, lives with us.

Both of these little girls are very fond of having me tell them stories;
and I have often told them about a dog I once had. They liked this story
so much, that they made me promise I would send it to "The Nursery," so
that a great many little girls and boys might hear it also. This is the
story:--

        When I was a little boy, not more than eight
        years old, my mother consented to my having a
        dog which a friend offered to give me. He was a
        little pup then, not more than five weeks old.
        I fed him on milk for a while, and he grew very
        fast. I named him Caesar.

        When he got to be six months old, he became
        very mischievous. Things were constantly being
        missed from the house. Handkerchiefs, slippers,
        shoes, towels, aprons, and napkins disappeared;
        and no one could tell what became of them. One
        day Caesar was seen going into the garden with a
        slipper in his mouth; and I followed him to a
        far-off corner where stood a large
        currant-bush.

        I looked under the bush, and saw Caesar digging
        a hole, into which he put the slipper, and then
        covered it up with earth. Upon digging under
        this bush, I found all the things that had been
        missed.

        A neighbor's dog, called "Dr. Wiseman," was
        Caesar's particular friend. One day we heard a
        loud scratching at the front-door; and, when we
        opened it, in walked Caesar and Dr. Wiseman.
        Caesar took the Doctor by the ear, and led him
        up to each of the family, just as if he were
        introducing him, and then led him into the
        garden, and treated him to a bone.

        Although Caesar did many naughty things, we all
        loved him; for he was quite affectionate as
        well as intelligent: but our neighbors
        complained of him because he chased their
        chickens, bit their pigs, and scared their
        horses. A farmer who came to our house one day
        with a load of potatoes took a great fancy to
        him. He wanted him for a watch-dog on his farm,
        which was only four miles from our house.

        As he promised to treat him kindly, my mother
        thought it was best to let him have the dog;
        and I finally consented, although I believe I
        cried a good deal about it.

        So Caesar was put into the farmer's wagon, much
        against his will; and off he went into the
        country. About three months afterwards, when
        there was a foot of snow on the ground, there
        came a great scratching at the front-door of
        our house, early in the morning, before I was
        up; and, when the servant opened the door, in
        bounded Caesar with a rope around his neck, and
        a large chunk of wood fastened to the other end
        of it.

        He ran by the servant, and up the stairs, with
        the piece of wood going bump, bump, all the
        way, dashed into my room, jumped right up on my
        bed, and began licking my face.

        I was very glad to see my dog again. He staid
        with us several days; and, when the farmer came
        for him, he lay down on the floor, closed his
        eyes, and pretended to be dead; but the farmer
        took him back to the farm in his wagon.

        About a year and a half after that, when I came
        home for a vacation, we all went up to the
        farm, hoping to see Caesar; but we never saw him
        again. The farmer had shot him, because he
        killed the chickens, and chased the sheep, and
        would not mind any thing that was said to him.
        Thus you see, children, that Caesar came to a
        bad end, although he had every advantage of
        good society in his early youth.

                                                  LANSINGBURGH, N.Y.

C. R. W.

[Illustration]




A LITTLE TEASE.


        I KNOW a little fellow
          Who is such a wilful tease,
        That, when he's not in mischief,
          He is never at his ease:
        He dearly loves to frolic,
          And to play untimely jokes
        Upon his little sister,
          And upon the older folks.

        He rings the bell for Sarah,
          And then slyly runs away;
        And tries to make a fool of her
          A dozen times a day:
        He hides away in corners,
          To spring suddenly in sight;
        And laughs, oh! very heartily,
          To see her jump with fright.

        When kitty's lying quiet,
          And curled up warm and snug,
        This little fellow always feels
          Like giving her a hug;
        And kitty from his fond embrace
          Would surely never flinch,
        Did she not know the little tease
          Would give her many a pinch.

        But this provoking fellow
          Has a very curious way
        Of feeling rather hurt at tricks
          That other people play,--
        Just like some older jokers,
          Who laugh at fun they make,
        But never can enjoy the fun
          Of jokes they have to take.

                                                  JOSEPHINE POLLARD.




PITCHER-PLANTS AND MONKEY-POTS.


[Illustration]

PITCHER-PLANTS are so called, because, at the end of the leaves, the
midrib which runs through them is formed into a cup shape; and in some
it looks very like a pitcher or water-jug You will understand this
better if you look at the drawing.

There are various kinds of pitcher-plants. Some are shorter and broader
than others; but they are all green like true leaves, and hold water as
securely as a jug or glass. They grow in Borneo and Sumatra, hot islands
in the East. The one shown in the drawing grows in Ceylon.

Some grow in America; but they are altogether different from those in
Borneo and Ceylon. One beautiful little pitcher-plant grows in
Australia: but this is also very different from all the rest; for the
pitchers, instead of being at the end of the leaves, are clustered round
the bottom of the plant, close to the ground.

All these pitcher-plants, though very beautiful to look at, are very
cruel enemies to insects: for the pitchers nearly always have water in
them; and flies and small insects are constantly falling into them, and
getting drowned.

Monkey-pots are hard, woody fruits; some as large and round as a
cannon-ball, and some shaped like a bowl. They grow on large trees in
Brazil and other parts of South America; and the natives take out the
seeds, and use the fruits for holding water, or to wash themselves in.

They are called monkey-pots because monkeys are very fond of the seeds.
Some of the seeds are so good, that they are collected, and sent to
London and other places, where they are sold in the markets. The
Brazil-nut is one of them.

                                                  J. R. J.

[Illustration]




UNDER THE CHERRY-TREE.


"NOW is the time to pick the cherries!" shouted Charles as he came
running in from the garden one July afternoon.

"Are they quite ripe?" said his mother.

"Ripe? I should think so. Just look at them!" answered Charles, pointing
to the trees.

"O mamma!" said Mary, "the birds are getting them all. We must have them
picked at once."

"Never fear, little girl," said her mother. "There will be enough for
the birds and ourselves and our neighbors too. But it really is time to
begin to pick them. So, Charles, get a basket, and we will all go out
under the cherry-tree."

So out they all went,--Charles and Mary and Ellen and Julia and Ruth;
and mamma followed with the baby.

"I told the gardener to bring a ladder," said mamma. "He will be here in
a moment, Charles. You can't pick cherries without a ladder, you know."

"Of course," said that saucy boy. "Nobody can pick cherries without a
ladder." And with that he gave a spring, and in about half a minute had
climbed up into the tree.

"Now, girls, hold your aprons," said he. And down came a shower of the
delicious fruit.

Then what a glorious scramble those little girls had! How they laughed
and jumped and knocked heads together in picking up the cherries! They
ate as many as they wanted; and still Charles kept throwing down more.

"Have you had enough?" said he. "So have I. Now it's time to think about
filling the basket. Ah! here comes the ladder at last, with a man under
it."

                                                  UNCLE SAM.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE.


        SLEEPING in the sunshine,
            Fie, fie, fie!
        While the birds are soaring
            High, high, high!
        While the buds are opening sweet,
        And the blossoms at your feet
        Look a smiling face to greet.
            Fie, fie, fie!

        Sleeping in the sunshine,
            Fie, fie, fie!
        While the bee goes humming
            By, by, by!
        Is there no small task for you,--
        Nought for little hands to do?
        Shame to sleep the morning through!
            Fie, fie, fie!




RAMBLES IN THE WOODS.


RACHEL has been used to a life in the city, but she is now on a visit to
her uncle's in the country; and she has fine times rambling through the
woods and fields.

Her cousin Paul takes her to pick berries, and tells her the names of
the things she sees. "Smell of these leaves," Paul will say, breaking a
twig from a shrub, somewhat like a huckleberry-bush, and crushing the
leaves in his hand. "This is the bayberry-shrub. How fragrant the leaves
are! It bears a berry with a gray wax-like coating; and in Nova Scotia
this wax is much used instead of tallow, or mixed with tallow, to make
candles."

"But what is this little red berry on the ground?" asked Rachel once
when they were on one of their rambles. "It has a dark glossy leaf; and
I like the taste and the smell of it very much."

"That is the checkerberry," said Paul. "Some people call it the
boxberry; and some call it wintergreen. It has a flavor like that of the
black birch. It is used to scent soap, and sometimes to flavor candy. It
is an evergreen plant."

"What do you mean by an evergreen?" asked Rachel.

"I mean, it is green the whole year round: it does not dry up and fall
off, like the leaves of the strawberry-plant," said Paul.

"What other sweet-smelling plants are there about here?" asked Rachel.

"Did you ever taste the bark of the sassafras-tree?" asked Paul. "If
not, here is one; and I will break off a twig for you to chew. The color
of the inner bark, near the root, is red, like cinnamon. A beer is made
from it; and it is also used in soaps."

[Illustration: RAMBLES IN THE WOODS.]

"I like the odor of it very much," said Rachel.

"Here is a black-birch tree," cried Paul. "Some people call it the
sweet-birch. I will cut off a piece of the bark for you to taste."

"Why, it tastes like checkerberry-leaves," said Rachel.

"Yes," replied Paul. "It is a beautiful tree, and is good for fuel. But
here is a white-birch. See how white the bark is! It grows on poor land,
and is a very pretty tree when well taken care of."

Here there was the sound of a horn; and Rachel asked, "What is the
meaning of that sound?"

"It means that we must run home to dinner," said Paul. "So give me your
hand, Cousin Rachel. You need not be afraid of snakes. There are none
here that can do any harm. Come, we will make a short cut through the
grove to the house."

                                                  UNCLE CHARLES.

[Illustration]




WHAT I SAW AT THE SEASHORE.


LAST summer I went to spend a few weeks at a quiet little island on the
New-England coast. Every morning I used to go to the beach, and sit on
the sands, and watch the blue sea with its sparkling waves, and listen
to the surf breaking in white foam all along the shore.

On pleasant days the beach was lively with bathers, shouting and
laughing as they plunged into the cool waves; and little boys and girls
playing in the clean sand, digging with their shovels, and loading and
unloading their wagons, or picking up shells and sea-mosses to carry
home.

On the brightest days of all, I noticed a pale-faced lady who came to
sit a while in the sunshine, propped up with shawls and pillows. She
always brought with her a little sky-terrier, of which she seemed as
fond as if it had been a real baby.

After a while, I got acquainted with the invalid lady, and found that
her name was Miss Dean, and that her dog was named Skye. He was a
shaggy-looking little creature; but he had very bright eyes, and he knew
almost as much as the children who played with him. He was very fond of
his mistress, and very thoughtful of her comfort.

Let me tell you one thing about him that made me think so. Skye slept in
the room with his mistress, on a soft cushion, with a little blanket
spread over him; and in the morning, when he woke, if she was still
asleep, he never disturbed her. He just sat up on his cushion as still
as he could be, and watched her till she woke. As soon as she opened her
eyes, he gave a little bark, for "good-morning," and sprang up on her
bed, to be loved and petted.

Well, Skye was a good little dog; and we all learned to love him; and
none of us would have hurt him for the world. But one day, as we were
walking up from the beach, ladies and gentlemen and children and all,
Skye ran down a lane, out of sight; and a thoughtless, wicked boy, who
had a stone in his hand, and wanted to hit something with it, threw it
with all his might at poor Skye, and broke one of his legs.

Skye cried out with the pain; and we all hurried back to see what was
the matter. There we found him, whining and howling, and trying to limp
along on three legs; and we just caught sight of the bad boy, running
away far down the lane. Miss Dean picked up her poor little darling,
and carried him home.

[Illustration]

Now, it happened that there was a very skilful surgeon staying at the
hotel, who had come down to the island for a short vacation. Miss Dean
sent for him, and begged him to set poor Skye's broken leg. He was a
kind-hearted man, and I could not refuse to use his skill to relieve the
dumb little sufferer.

So Miss Dean took Skye on her lap, and stroked him gently, and talked
lovingly to him, calling him "Poor doggy!" and "Dear Skye," while the
doctor made the splints, and pressed the broken bones back into their
place. Then the doctor sent for some plaster of Paris, and made a soft
mortar of it, and put it all around the mended leg, and let it harden
into a little case, so that the bones would have to stay just as he put
them till they grew together again.

All the time the doctor was doing this, Skye kept as still as a mouse;
but, when it was all done, the little creature laid his head on Miss
Dean's shoulder, and cried great tears, just like a child. Miss Dean had
to cry, too, at the helplessness of her poor dumb darling.

For a good many weeks, Skye could only hobble about on three legs, and
had to keep still on his cushion, or lie on his mistress' lap, most of
the time; but he was very patient. And at last, when the good doctor
said it would do to remove the plaster and the splints, we did so; and
Skye ran around the room as well and lively as ever. Wasn't he glad to
have his liberty again!

                                                  MUZ-MUZ.

[Illustration]




BLOSSOM AND I.


I WILL tell you a true story about my sister and me. I am five years
old, and Fanny (papa calls her Blossom) is three.

We are in Germany now, but our home is in America; and, when I go out to
play with the boys here, they call me "America." We came over the ocean
in a big ship. Papa and mamma were seasick; but Fanny and I were not,
and we liked to live on the water.

[Illustration]

When mamma packed our trunks, I wanted her to put in my little pails and
wheelbarrow; and she said there wasn't room, but that we could bring as
many numbers of "The Nursery" as we pleased. So we brought all we had.

We have used them so much, that papa says they are not fit to be bound;
but I don't want to put them away on a shelf to be kept nice. I like to
have them every day; and so does Fanny.

When we were coming on the steamer, Fanny used to sit in the captain's
lap, and tell him the stories.

[Illustration]

Our auntie sends us a new "Nursery" every month. One was lost, and we
were very sorry; for we can't read other picture-books so well. Fanny
always has a "Nursery" to take to bed with her; and in the morning, when
I wake up, I hear her talking to the boys and girls in the pictures.

                                                  C.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




HOW NORMAN BECAME AN ARTIST.


THE landscape-painter sat on a camp-stool with an umbrella over his
head. His palette and his box of paints were on the ground by his side.
He was there to draw a picture of the village of F----.

Hardly had he begun his crayon outline when he heard a boy's voice
behind him. "May I look on? sir?" said the boy. "Yes, look as much as
you please, but don't talk," said the painter without turning his head.

The boy had a basket strapped to his back, and stood looking intently,
with both hands resting on his knees. His name was Norman Blake. Other
boys, and a young woman, soon came up, and joined him as spectators.

Norman studied every movement of the painter's hand; and, when he got
home, he took a piece of charcoal, and tried to draw a picture on the
wall. Rather a rough picture it was, but pretty good for a first
attempt.

The next day Norman went again, and looked on while the painter
sketched. "You've got that line wrong," cried Norman all at once,
forgetting that the painter had told him not to talk.

"What do you know about it, you young vagabond?" cried the painter
angrily. "Out of this! Run, scamper, and don't show your rogue's face
here again! But stop. Before you go, come here, and point out what
struck you as wrong."

Norman pointed to a certain line which made the village church seem a
little out of its right place in the picture. The landscape-painter
seized him by the ear, and said, "You little scamp, how did you find
that out? You are right, sir! But what business have you to criticise my
picture? I am hesitating whether to thrash you, or to make a painter of
you."

"Make a painter of me, by all means;" said Norman, laughing; for he saw
that the honest painter was only half in earnest.

Well, the end of it was, that Norman accompanied the painter to the
city, and began to study drawing and painting. He succeeded so well,
that, after he had been studying six years, he one day brought to his
friend the painter the sketch which we have had copied above.

"Do you remember that?" asked Norman.

"Of course I do!" said the painter. "It represents our first meeting.
Little did I think that the young vagabond with the basket on his back
would one day beat me in sketching."

                                                  ALFRED SELWYN.

[Illustration: HURRAH! GREAT BOOT-RACE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.]

[Illustration: "NOW, WHEN SHE COMES OUT, I SHALL BE SURE OF HER!"]




PICTURES FOR WALTER.


[Illustration]

HERE are some birds having a ride on the weather-vane. The vane is on
the top of the barn.

I should think it would make the birds dizzy to swing backwards and
forwards. But they like it just as well as some boys like to swing on a
gate.

[Illustration]

Here is an old crow sitting on the fence. He is a sly old thief. There
is a nest in the grass; and he is after the eggs. If you try to get near
him, he will fly away, saying "Caw, caw, caw!"

[Illustration]

The milk-maid set down her pail of milk, and went to the orchard. A
little pig came along, and tipped the pail over; and the milk was all
spilled. Never leave milk where a pig can get at it.

A woodpecker had a nest in a hollow tree. A boy climbed up to get the
eggs; but the old birds flew at him, and pecked him, and made him get
down. I am glad they drove him away. What right had he to meddle with
their nest?

                                                  W. O. C.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE FISHERMEN'S CHILDREN.


THERE were three children on the beach looking out to see the boats of
the fishermen sail off to the fishing-grounds. Little Joe Bourne and his
sister Susan stood side by side, watching their father's boat. Rachel,
who was with them, was not their sister, but an orphan-child, whose
grandfather, Mr. Harrison, was in one of the boats.

It was a windy day in November. The waves broke with a great noise on
the shingly beach. Soon the wind rose higher: the sea rose too, and the
rain fell fast. The children walked back to the village; and there the
old men said, shaking their heads, "We shall have a storm."

That night, all the boats came safely back into the harbor, excepting
the boat in which Rachel's grandfather had sailed. It was a long, sad
night for poor Rachel. The next day and the next passed by; and no
grandfather came back to take care of her, and find her in food and
clothes, and carry her in his strong arms when she was tired out with
walking.

[Illustration]

Susan and Joe in their own house felt sad for the little orphan. One day
their mother went to market. Baby was in the cradle, and Susan was
rocking it, whilst Joe was cutting out a boat with an old jack-knife.
The kettle on the stove began to sing; and Susan and Joe began to talk.

"Poor Rachel will have to be sent to the workhouse now," said Joe.

"I hope not," said Susan. "I hope father will give her a home in our own
house."

"Why, he says he can hardly earn enough to feed his own family," said
Joe.

"But can't we do something to help him?" asked Susan.

"I know of nothing children like us can do," said Joe.

When their mother came home, Susan begged so earnestly to have Rachel
come and stay with them, that Mrs. Bourne at last replied, "Well, we
will take her in for a week or two, and see; but mind, Susan, you must
try and earn a little money somehow. You will now have less time to play
on the sands, remember."

[Illustration]

So Susan went and found Rachel, and brought her home to live with them
all. The poor little orphan was a bright, joyous child. She had a
strange hope that she should see her grandfather again; that he was not
lost; for he had told her many stories of his escape from great dangers
at sea.

"Why, grandfather was on a wreck once a whole week," said Rachel: "he
was cast away once on an island where he had to live on clams a long
while before he was rescued. I think we shall hear from him soon."

One day Joe caught a fine basket of perch from the rocks, and went round
to try and sell them. But all the folks in the village told him they
could get as many fish as they wanted without buying them. So Joe walked
off to a town four miles away from the sea, and there he sold his fish.

He told a kind blind lady, to whom he sold some, that his sister wanted
to get work, so that she could help a poor little orphan-girl. The kind
lady sent Susan half a dozen handkerchiefs to hem; and the next morning
Susan rose early, and sewed by candle-light, while the other children
were in bed and asleep.

[Illustration]

For three years the poor Bourne family gave Rachel a nice happy home in
their little house; and they would have kept her longer, but one day,
while the children were all playing on the beach, they heard a great
shouting, and ran to see what it was about.

It was all in honor of Grandfather Harrison. He had come back, as Rachel
had always said he would. He had been picked up at sea in his sinking
boat by a ship bound for Australia. The old man was carried to that far
country. He went to the mines, and helped some men dig gold. He made a
good deal of money, thinking it would be a good thing if he could only
be rich enough to send his dear little grand-daughter to school.

But Rachel was not the only one who was benefited by his good fortune.
The Bournes shared in it. Joe and Susan, and all the rest of the
children, were sent to school also; and they studied with a will. It was
always a happy thought to Rachel that the great kindness of these good
people did not miss its reward even in this life.

                                                  IDA FAY.

[Illustration]




YOUNG LAZYBONES.

Music by T. CRAMPTON.

[Illustration: Music]

_Cheerfully. mf_

        1. Young Lazybones is smooth and sleek,
          Young Lazybones is fat;
        His eye sits drowsing in his cheek,
          And many a day has sat,
        Young Lazybones he keeps his state
          All in his easy chair,
        And tho' the time is getting late,
          He does not seem to care.

        2. Then little Maggie sings to him,
          And plays upon the harp;
        While rapid Robert, keen and slim,
          Cries, "Lazybones, look sharp!"
        And Lucy tickles with her wand,
          This sleepy, lazy boy;
        And one and all with tricks and jokes
          In teasing him take joy.

        3. But Lazybones must take his nap
          Before he goes to bed:
        He does not move his weary limbs
          Or lift his heavy head.
        And though a dozen brewers' drays
          Should rumble o'er the stones,
        Not all the noise that they can make
          Would rouse Young Lazybones.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

This issue was part of an omnibus. The original text for this issue did
not include a title page or table of contents. This was taken from the
July issue with the "No." added. The original table of contents covered
the second half of 1873. The remaining text of the table of contents can
be found in the rest of the year's issues.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Nursery, September 1873, Vol. XIV.
No. 3, by Various

*** 