Chapter I: Preface (1)

This Second Reader, like the two preceding books of the Aldine Series, combines material and method in such a way that the former does not suffer, while the latter gains by the combination. That is, the subject-matter of the book, both the text and the illustrations, is just as suitable and just as interesting as it could be made were there no such thing as method; indeed, the sole sign of method, as one reads the book, is the parenthesis about certain words preceding the stories. At the same time, this subject-matter, both the text and the illustrations, embodies in systematic arrangement the most effective principles of mastering the mechanics of reading.

Children who have read thoroughly the preceding books of this Series have acquired independence, the habit of self-reliance, and the power of self-help to such a degree that they will be able to master this book with little or no direct aid from the teacher. And when they have thus mastered this book, they will be good readers. That is, so far as the mechanics of reading is concerned, they will be able to read unaided anything which they can understand; so far as the subject-matter is concerned, they will be able to understand from the printed page anything which they can understand through the spoken word. More than this, if the teacher has contributed her part, most such children will have realized the utility and tasted the real delights of reading to such an extent that they will continue to read of their own accord; most of them will also be good oral readers, reading with appropriate expression and genuine enthusiasm.

These statements are not mere predictions of the hoped-for results of untried theories; they are simple, unexaggerated expressions of facts which have been observed in the work of thousands of children of a score of nationalities.

To secure such results a complete mastery and intelligent observation is necessary of the principles and plans described in the authors’ _Manual for Teachers_, entitled “Learning to Read.”

The authors gratefully acknowledge their indebtedness to Miss Marie Van Vorst for the use of “Three of us Know” and “The Sandman”; to Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller for “The Bluebird”; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for the use of the poem “Discontented,” by Sarah Orne Jewett, and “Calling the Violet,” by Lucy Larcom; to Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons for “The Wind,” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

CONTENTS

PAGE
OUT OF DOOR NEIGHBORS 1
The Cat and the Birds 3
Why Ravens Croak 6
The Proud Crow 8
The Wolf and the Kid 12
Queer Chickens 17
Little Ducks _Robert Mack_ 21

ONCE UPON A TIME 23
The Caterpillar 25
Who is Strongest? 27
Lambikin 37
The Ant and the Mouse 46

SONGS OF LIFE 51
The Brook 53
The Little Brook 55
Calling the Violet _Lucy Larcom_ 59
The Wind _Mary Lamb_ 61
The Wind _Christina Rossetti_ 62
The Wind _R. L. Stevenson_ 63
The Leaf’s Journey 64
Sweet and Low _Tennyson_ 69
Sleep, Baby, Sleep! _From the German_ 70
Stars and Daisies 71
Lady Moon _Lord Houghton_ 73

WITH NATURE’S CHILDREN 75
The Little Shepherdess 77
Discontent _Sarah Orne Jewett_ 81
Belling the Cat 84
Three of us Know _Marie Van Vorst_ 91
The Dandelion 93
The Magpie’s Lesson 95
The Bluebird _Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller_ 100
The Wolf and the Stork 102
The Indian Mother’s Lullaby _Charles Myall_ 103

IN STORY LAND 105
How Mrs. White Hen helped Rose 107
The Sandman _Marie Van Vorst_ 115
Billy Binks 117

SOME THINGS TO THINK ABOUT 131
When the Little Boy ran Away 133
How the Bean got its Black Seam 138
Friends _L. G. Warner_ 145
Help One Another 147

WITH OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS 149
The Drowning of Mr. Leghorn 151
The Starving of Mrs. Leghorn 160
Mr. and Mrs. Leghorn to the Rescue 172

VOCABULARY 179

THE CAT AND THE BIRDS

(hap py)
rap

doc tor

words

door

An old cat lived near a bird house.

Every day he saw the birds flying in and out.

Every day he said to himself, “How I wish I had one of those nice fat birds for my dinner!”

One day he heard that the birds were ill.

“Now is my time,” he said. “I will get a bird to eat to-day.”

So he put on a tall hat and a coat.

He took a cane in one hand and a box of pills in the other.

Then he went to the bird house and rapped at the door.

“Who is there?” asked an old bird.

“It is I, the doctor,” said the cat. “I heard that you were ill. So I have come to see you. I have some pills that will make you well. Open the door.”

The old bird looked out.

“Your words are kind,” he said, “like the words of the good doctor. Your hat, coat, cane, and box of pills are like his. But your paws are those of the old cat. Go away! We will not let you in. We do not want your pills. We are more likely to get well without your help than with it.”

Then all the birds flew at him.

They pecked at his eyes; they pecked at his ears.

They tore his coat.

Away flew his high hat; away flew his cane; away flew his box of pills.

Then away flew the old cat himself, and he never went back.

WHY RAVENS CROAK

wash es

wa ter

pret ty

(w eather)
f eather

(ought)
th ought

(am)
sw am

swan

use

A raven was very unhappy because his feathers were black.

One day he saw a beautiful white swan swimming in a lake.

“How beautiful and white her feathers are,” he thought. “It must be because she washes them so much. Why, she almost lives in the water. If I should wash my feathers all day long, they might get white, too. I will try it.”

So he flew from his nest in the woods, and lived for days near the lake.

Every day he washed his feathers from morning to night.

But his feathers did not get white.

They were just as black as ever.

But as the raven was not used to living in water, he caught a very bad cold.

So, at last, he flew back to his nest in the wood.

“It is no use,” he croaked. “I can never be white. I do not want to be white. Black feathers are pretty enough for me. Croak! Croak!”

All ravens have said “Croak! Croak!” ever since.

THE PROUD CROW

(p ea)
sp eak

l uck y
st uck

laughed

on ly

(l oud)
pr oud

(c ool)
f ool ish

a mong

steal

(r ock)
pea c ock

(n ot)
l ot

(f ull)
p ull ed

One day a crow found a lot of peacock feathers.

“My,” cried the silly crow, “how lucky I am. No other crow in the world will look as fine as I. How all my old friends will envy me!”

And the proud crow stuck the peacock feathers all over his back.

Then he flew away to show himself to his friends.

He strutted up and down before them.

But they only laughed at him.

“Just look at that silly bird!” they cried. “See him strut! Did you ever see anything so proud? Caw, caw, caw!”

The proud crow was now very angry.

“Do not speak to me,” he said. “I have fine feathers. I am a peacock. I will have nothing to do with you crows.”

So off he strutted to the peacocks.

“How do you do, my dear friends?” he said in his sweetest voice.

“Who are you?” cried the peacocks scornfully.

“Do you not see that I am a peacock?” answered the crow. “Look at my fine feathers.”

“Fine feathers, indeed! We threw those old feathers away long ago. You are no peacock. Yon are just an old black crow.”

Then the peacocks fell upon the old crow, and pulled off all his fine feathers.

They tore out many of his own feathers, too.

The foolish crow was a sight!

He crept back to his old friends.

He tried to steal in among them without being seen.

But they all cried out, “Who are you? What do you want here?”

“Don’t you see that I am your old friend?” croaked the crow. “I am going to live with you always.”

“No, you are not,” answered a wise old crow. “You are no friend of ours. A few old peacock feathers made you think you were a peacock. So you left your old friends. The peacocks saw you were a cheat and drove you away. Hereafter you must live alone. Be off with you!”

And all the crows said, “Caw, caw, caw! Caw, caw, caw!”

THE WOLF AND THE KID

(h ark)
d ark

(m uch)
s uch

noise

e nough

trot ted

(h ive)
l ive ly

(l eg)
b eg ged

(p ea)
pl ea se

(k ind)
find

hun gry

oft en

wolf

(n ow)
gr ow led

One day a little kid was lost in a dark wood.

He ran on and on, but could not find his way out.

At last he became frightened and began to bleat.

A hungry wolf heard him.

How glad the wolf was to find such a good dinner!

“Oh, Mr. Wolf!” cried the little kid, “please show me the way home.”

“Show you the way home!” growled the wolf. “I am hungry and I’m going to eat you.”

“Oh, please, please, Mr. Wolf,” begged the frightened kid, “please let me go!”

“No, no, I’ll eat you,” growled the wolf.

And he sprang at the kid, now almost dead with fright.

Just then a lucky thought came to the little kid.

“Oh, Mr. Wolf,” said he, “I have heard that you make very fine music. I love to dance. Will you not sing for me, so that I may have one more dance before I die? It is not much to ask.”

This pleased the wolf, for he was proud of his voice.

“Well,” he growled, “music is good before eating. I often sing before my dinner. To-day I was too hungry to think of it. But I will sing just one song. Then I will eat you. Dance lively, now!”

So the wolf sang a song, and the kid danced his best.

When the wolf stopped, the kid cried, “That was good. But you did not sing loud enough or fast enough for me. Is that the best you can do?”

“No,” said the wolf. “I can sing louder and faster than any one in the woods. Listen!”

So the wolf sang louder and faster.

And the kid danced livelier and better than before.

But the wolf made so much noise that the dogs heard it.

They came running into the woods to see what the matter was.

The wolf had to run for his life.

But the wise little kid trotted safely home to his mother.

“I have to go without my dinner,” growled the wolf. “I alone am to blame. I should kill and eat kids, not sing for them.”

QUEER CHICKENS

(qu ick)
ch ick
ch ick en

(c are)
d are

(d eer)
qu eer

splash

(th ank)
b ank

(r ose)
th ose

each

e ven

sail

a fraid

(th en)
h en
t en

(t ook)
br ook

(east)
l east

stream

An old hen found a nest behind the gate.

It was full of eggs. Such beautiful eggs!

They would make any old hen’s heart glad.

“I will sit on these eggs. I will keep them warm,” thought the hen. “Then a little chicken will come out of each one.”

So the old hen spread her wings over the eggs.

How very wide she had to spread them!

For many days she sat there waiting.

One morning she awoke to find her nest full of little ones.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, there were.

“Cluck, cluck, what dear little chickens,” said the hen.

“Come and get breakfast. Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck! What hungry chickens!

Now I will let you play in the meadow. Come down to the brook first and get a drink.

The water is clear and cool. Do not go too near, or you will fall in.”

Now, what do you think those little ones did?

You never could guess, so I will tell you.

As soon as they saw the brook they ran to it. They ran as fast as ever they could go.

They rushed right into the water.

“Cluck, cluck! Cluck, cluck! Come back! Come back!” called the old hen. “Come back, come back to your mother!”

But they did not come back.

They did not even listen.

They sailed clear across the stream.

They sailed up stream and they sailed down stream.

But they did not come back to their mother.

She could only run up and down the bank, looking and calling.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried. “Come back! Come back, you naughty chickens. You will drown, every one of you. I know you will drown. O, why will you not mind your mother?”

How frightened she was!

She just knew all her dear chicks would drown.

Still she did not dare to follow them into the water. She never swam a stroke in all her life. She never even waded in the water.

But such fun as her little ones were having!

They were not the least bit afraid. They swam and splashed around all day.

All day the old mother hen ran up and down the bank calling and begging, “Come back! Come back! Come right back to your mother!”

At last the little ones were tired.

Then they came back to their frightened mother.

One after another came up the bank and ran to her.

How glad she was to gather them again under her warm wings.

But what queer chickens they were.

LITTLE DUCKS

(who)
who se

sure

(c aught)
n aught y

be lieve

once

roam

Ma’am

“My dears, whatever are you at?
You ought to be at home;
I told you not to wet your feet,
I told you not to roam.

Oh, dear! I’m sure you will be drowned,
I never saw such tricks;
Come home at once and go to bed,
You naughty, naughty chicks!”

Now most of them were five days old,
But one, whose age was six—
“Please, ma’am,” said he, “I think we’re ducks;
I don’t believe we’re chicks.”

—ROBERT MACK.

THE CATERPILLAR

ugly

push

(w ise)
r ise

I creep upon the ground, and the children say,
“You ugly old thing!” and push me away.

I lie in my bed, and the children say,
“The fellow is dead; we’ll throw him away.”

At last I awake, and the children try
To make me stay, as I rise and fly.

WHO IS STRONGEST?

(age)
c age

(f ellow)
b ellow

(high)
s igh ed

breathes

bear

(h ouse)
m ouse

(sp eak)
cr eak
squ eak

climbed

roared

Tum tol lo

(ice)
m ice

(b ox)
ox

(th ink)
dr ink

uprooted

bur rowed

Once upon a time Tumtollo climbed a tree.

The wind blew hard and uprooted the tree.

Tumtollo was thrown to the ground.

“Oh, oh, oh!” he cried with pain, “oh, oh, oh!”

“My, isn’t the tree strong!” cried he; “it can throw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“You are wrong,” creaked the tree. “I am not strong. If I were, could I be uprooted by the wind?”

“Ah, I see,” said Tumtollo, “it is the wind that is strong.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, friend, you are wrong,” sighed the wind. “If I were strong, could I be stopped by the hill?”

“Oh, I see now,” said Tumtollo, “it is the hill that is strong.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“Wrong again,” said the hill. “I am not strong. If I were, I should not be burrowed by mice.”

“Oh,” said Tumtollo, “then it is the mouse that is strong.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“Still wrong,” squeaked the mouse. “It is not I who am strong. If I were, could the cat catch me?”

“Well, then, it is the cat that is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, Tumtollo, I am not strong,” mewed the cat. “If I were, could the dog frighten me?”

“Then it is the dog who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“It is not I who am strong,” barked the dog. “If I were, would the ox hook me with his horns?”

“Then it must be the ox who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No,” bellowed the ox, “I am not strong. If I were, would the bee sting me?”

“Ah, ha! it is the little bee that is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, no!” buzzed the bee, “it is not I who am strong. If I were, would the bear steal my honey?”

“Indeed, then it is the bear who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“You are wrong, Tumtollo,” growled the bear.

“If I were strong, could the lion drive me away from my dinner?”

“Very well, then it is the lion who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The lion drove away the bear.

The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“It is not I who am strong,” roared the lion.

“If I were, could the rope bind me?”

“Just as you say,” said Tumtollo, “then it is the rope that is strong.”

“The rope bound the lion.

The lion drove away the bear.

The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“It is not I, indeed, that am strong,” said the rope. “If I were, could the fire burn me?”

“Well, well, then the fire must be strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The fire burned the rope.

The rope bound the lion.

The lion drove away the bear.

The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, no, Tumtollo,” snapped the fire, “I am not strong. If I were, could the water put me out?”

“The water it is, then, that is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The water put out the fire.

The fire burned the rope.

The rope bound the lion.

The lion drove away the bear.

The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“You are still wrong, Tumtollo,” sang the water in a spring near by. “I am not strong. But I will tell you who is truly strong. It is Man.

Man drinks the water.

Man lights the fire.

Man makes the rope.

Man cages the lion.

Man tames the bear.

Man eats the bee’s honey.

Man drives the ox.

Man keeps the dog.

Man feeds the cat.

Man kills the mouse.

Man digs the hill.

Man breathes the wind.

Man fells the tree.

Man rises when he is thrown to the ground.”

Tumtollo rose, drank deeply from the sweet spring, and went on his way.

LAMBIKIN

(who)
who m

mor sel

curled

(pl ant)
can’t

wad dle

reached

(t ip)
sk ip

(s eed)
gr eed y

(j ump)
h ump
pl ump

joy

(g ate)
ate

(out)
ab out

(cr ied)
d ied

mouth

breath

Once upon a time there was a wee, wee Lambikin.

He frolicked about on his tottery legs from morning to night.

He was always happy.

One day Lambikin set off to visit his Granny.

He was jumping with joy to think of the good things he would get.

As he frisked along, he met but a wolf!

The wolf howled, “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll _eat_ YOU!”

But with a hop and a skip, a hump and a jump, Lambikin said,

“No, no,
To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The wolf thought this wise and so let Lambikin go.

Away frisked Lambikin.

He had not gone far, when whom should he meet but a bear!

The bear growled, “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll _eat_ YOU!”

But with a hop and a skip, a hump and a jump, Lambikin said,

“No, no,
To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The bear thought this wise and so let Lambikin go.

Away frisked Lambikin.

He had not gone far when whom should he meet but a lion!

The lion roared, “Lambikin! Lambikin! I’ll _eat_ you!”

But with a hop and a skip, a hump and a jump, Lambikin said,

“No, no,
To Granny’s house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so.”

The lion thought this wise and so let Lambikin go.

Away frisked Lambikin.

At last he reached his Granny’s house.

“Granny dear,” he cried, all out of breath, “I have said I would get fat. I ought to keep my word. Please put me in the corn-bin at once.”

“You are a good Lambikin,” said his Granny.

And she put him into the corn-bin.

There the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days and seven nights.

He ate, and ate, and ate, and he ate until he could hardly waddle.

“Come, Lambikin,” said his Granny, “you are fat enough. You should go home now.”

“No, no,” said cunning little Lambikin, “that will never do. Some animal would surely eat me on the way, I am so plump and tender.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried old Granny in a fright.

“Never fear, Granny dear,” said cunning Lambikin. “I’ll tell you what to do. Just make me a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died. I can get into it and roll along nicely.”

So old Granny made Lambikin a drumikin out of the skin of his dead brother.

And cunning Lambikin curled himself up into a round ball in the drumikin.

And he rolled gayly away.

Soon he met the lion, who called out,

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you!
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“Too bad, too bad,” sighed the lion, as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.

So away rolled Lambikin, laughing gayly to himself and sweetly singing,

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Soon he met the bear, who called out,

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you!
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“Too bad, too bad,” sighed the bear, as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.

So away rolled Lambikin, laughing gayly to himself and sweetly singing,

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Soon he met the wolf, who called out,

“Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?”

Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you!
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“Oh, ho, little Lambikin, curled up snug in your little drumikin,” said the wolf, “you can’t fool me. I know your voice. So you have become too fat to hop and to skip, to hump and to jump. You can only roll along like a ball.”

And the wolf’s mouth watered as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.

Little Lambikin’s heart went pit-a-pat, but he cried out gayly,

“Hark, hark! Hear the dogs bark!
Faster, roll faster, my little Drumikin!”

The wolf was frightened and stopped to listen for the dogs.

And away rolled cunning Lambikin faster and faster, laughing to himself and sweetly singing,

“Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!”

THE ANT AND THE MOUSE

(h oney)
m oney

(th is)
m iss

pieces

sharp

(w ish)
f ish

(r ob)
c ob

lost

buy

(c arry)
m arry

(r each)
p each

roost er

hur ried

There was once an ant.

While sweeping her house one day, this ant found three pieces of money.

“What shall I buy?” said she.

“Shall I buy fish?”

“No, fish is full of bones. I can’t eat bones. I’ll not buy fish.”

“Shall I buy bread?”

“No, bread has crust. I can’t eat crust. I’ll not buy bread.”

“Shall I buy peaches?”

“No, peaches have stones. I can’t eat stones. I’ll not buy peaches.”

“Shall I buy corn?”

“No, corn grows on a cob. I can’t eat cobs. I’ll not buy corn.”

“Shall I buy apples?”

“No, apples have seeds. I can’t eat seeds I’ll not buy apples.”

“Shall I buy a ribbon?”

“Yes, that’s just what I want. I will buy a ribbon.”

And away ran Miss Ant to the store and bought her a bright red ribbon.

She tied the ribbon about her neck and sat in her window.

An ox came along and said, “How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?”

“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”

The ox was very proud of his voice and he bellowed with all his might.

“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Ox. Your bellow frightens me. Go away.”

Soon a lion came that way and said, “How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?”

“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”

The lion was proud of his voice and he roared with all his might.

“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Lion. Your loud roar frightens me. It shakes the very hills. Go away.”

The lion had not been gone long when a proud rooster came strutting along that way.

“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the rooster.

“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”

The rooster was very proud of his shrill voice and he crowed with all his might.

“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Rooster. Your shrill crow frightens me. Go away.”

The rooster was hardly out of sight when a big dog came trotting that way.

“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the dog.

“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”

The dog was very proud of his voice and he barked with all his might.

“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Dog. Your sharp bark frightens me. Go away.”

After a time a wee little mouse came frisking that way.

“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the mouse.

“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”

Now the wee little mouse was not at all proud of his voice. But he squeaked as sweetly as he could, “Wee, wee, wee!”

“Yes, yes,” cried the ant, “I’ll marry you, dear Mouse. Your sweet little voice pleases me. Come right in.”

In scampered the mouse.

The ant gave him two pieces of money, for she had spent only one for her ribbon.

He hurried away to the store, and came quickly back bringing apples and bread.

Mrs. Ant Mouse now sat down to a feast.

Mr. Mouse ate the crusts and the seeds, so nothing was lost.

THE BROOK

(fl ies)
sk ies

branch es

riv er

(l ove)
ab ove

Down from the hillside,
Sparkling and bright,
Rushes the little brook,
In the sunlight.

On through the meadow,
Where the flowers hide,
With skies bright above it,
Now its waters glide.

Tall trees beside the brook,
Their branches o’er it throw,
As through the quiet woodland,
The sparkling waters flow.

So it hurries down the hillside,
And across the meadow sweet,
And through the shady woodland,
Till the river it shall meet.

THE LITTLE BROOK

(l ift)
sw iftly

(th is)
wh is per

(gr ass)
p ass

mur murs

talk

(spl ash)
d ash
fl ash
ash

See the little brook rushing down the steep hillside!

How it hurries!

How it leaps over the falls!

Hear it dash and splash among the rocks!

See its waters flash and sparkle in the sun!

“Stop, stop, little brook! Wait, I want to talk with you.”

“No, no, I must hurry on. I have a long way to go.”

“I will go with you, then. I will run along your banks. Please do not hurry so. I can hardly keep up with you.”

Now we come to the wide meadow.

Here the little brook flows more slowly and quietly.

But it never stops.

It must flow ever on and on.

Bright flowers are hiding along its banks.

They peep out from the grass.

They look into the clear flowing water.

“Stay, little brook, play with us,” they whisper.

“Why do you always hurry so? Are you not weary?”

“No, no, I am never weary, never tired,” murmurs the brook.

“I never stop to play.

It is play for me to rush swiftly down the steep hill.

It is fun to flow gently across the meadow.

I like to see you peeping over my banks as I pass.

But I cannot stop.

I must hurry on to meet the river.

Good-by, sweet flowers, good-by.”

Now the brook glides into the woodland.

Here the sad willows droop over the gliding waters.

High above them tower the oak, the ash, and the pine trees.

“Do not hurry, little brook,” whisper their leaves.

“Are you not tired?

You have come a long way.

Here the bright sun never comes.

Stay with us, and we will shade you.

Rest a while under our spreading branches.

In the meadow the burning sun is so hot.

But here it is cool.

Why can you not stay with us?

Why must you always hurry on?”

“Because I have to meet the river.

I love your wide spreading branches.

I love the gentle murmur of your green leaves.

I love your cool shade.

You are very kind to me.

But I cannot stay with you.

The great river needs me.

I shall have to hurry on.

Good-by, noble trees.

Good-by, drooping willows.”

So the never resting brook rushes, and glides and flows on forever.

CALLING THE VIOLET

mos sy

don’t

Dear little Violet,
Don’t be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock’s mossy shade.
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky;
May is here waiting,
And here, too, am I.

Come, pretty Violet,
Winter’s away;
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;
Quick, little Violet,
Open your eye!

—LUCY LARCOM.

THE WIND

(m oss y)
t oss es

height

up ward

(w hen)
w hen ce

(sh all)
v all ey

(c oats)
g oats

trav erse

whith er

Which way does the wind blow,
And where does he go?
He rides o’er the water
And over the snow;
O’er wood and o’er valley,
And over the height—
Where goats cannot traverse
He taketh his flight.

He rages and tosses,
And bare is the tree,
As when you look upward
You plainly can see;
But from whence he comes,
Or whither he goes,
There is no one can tell you,
There is no one who knows.

—MARY LAMB.

THE WIND

nei ther

trem bling

(h ow)
b ow

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The Wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The Wind is passing by.

THE WIND

dif fer ent

young

la dies

skirts

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

—R. L. STEVENSON

THE LEAF’S JOURNEY

jour ney

(f ish)
w ish ed

eight

(l og)
fr og s

leaped

(st ream)
d ream ed

On the steep hillside grew a tall ash tree.

Right on the bank of the rushing brook it grew.

Its branches spread far out across the little stream.

Its leaves looked down into the flashing water.

There, when the sun shone brightly, they saw leaves looking up at them.

They called these “water leaves.”

The little tree leaves wished to go to the water leaves.

Many of them had already fluttered down.

But one leaf, very young, could not let go her hold of the twig.

At last a raging wind tore away the little leaf.

Over and over she turned.

Down, down, down, she fell.

She was so afraid the wind would carry her away.

But the friendly stream leaped up the rocks to meet her.

It bore her away, swiftly but gently.

The little leaf was afraid. She was lonesome.

The dear little “water leaves” were nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t be afraid, little leaf,” murmured the kind brook.

“I will give you a fine ride.

And I’ll talk to you all the time.

I’ll tell you all about the things we pass.

Here we are, already in the meadow.

Now I don’t have to hurry.

See the pretty flowers peeping over my banks.

They all love me.

I give them cool water to drink.

Here we go past the old mossy log.

Just see the frogs on it!

They are all in a row.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, of them!

They love me, too.

When anything makes them afraid, they leap into me.

They hide in some of my deep pools.

Here is the shady woodland.

Now I glide more slowly.

Soon I shall meet the great river.

I will not carry you into it.

For there you would be afraid.

I will land you here with lots of other leaves.”

And the stream pushed her gently upon the low bank of sand.

“Good-by,” he murmured; “good-by, little leaf.”

And the little leaf lay quietly thinking.

How many different things she had seen!

She never dreamed there were so many things in the whole world.

SWEET AND LOW

west ern

roll ing

fa ther

(p ea)
s ea
br ea the

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

—TENNYSON.

SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

(dr ess)
gu ess
shep herd ess

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father watches his sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down comes a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess;
The gentle moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

—FROM THE GERMAN.

STARS AND DAISIES

(t alk)
w alk

di a mond

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

Do you know what daisies are?

Do you know what stars are?

I will tell you what I think.

At night we see the stars shining in the sky.

There are so very many of them, more than we can count.

I think the sky is a beautiful meadow.

And the stars are little white daisies growing in the sky meadow.

Sometimes the moon comes into the meadow.

She is a beautiful lady.

All night she walks among the flowers.

She gathers the little sky daisies.

In the morning we cannot see the stars.

Where are they?

In the meadow near our home are many bright-eyed daisies.

There are so very many of them, more than we can count.

How did they get there?

Where did they come from?

Daisies look like stars, you know.

So I think the lady moon threw them down from the sky.

LADY MOON

rov ing

pale

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?

Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I’m told.

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

—LORD HOUGHTON.

THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS

soft

taste

awoke

lost

(s eek)
ch eek

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep
And can’t tell where to find them;
Leave them alone and they’ll come home
Bringing their tails behind them.

One morning a pretty little shepherdess drove her flock of sheep to the meadow. There she watched them while they ate the fresh, green grass. How sweet it tasted to the hungry sheep!

A large dog went with the shepherdess to help care for the sheep. He was the shepherd.

The shepherd let no lamb go astray. If one got too far from the flock, Mr. Shepherd ran after him.

“Bow-wow! Go back!” cried the shepherd.

The shepherdess took good care of her flock, too. She led them where the grass was greenest and sweetest.

When noon came all the sheep had eaten enough. So they lay down quietly in the cool shade of some old oak trees. Little Bo-peep lay down too, with her good shepherd dog beside her.

How cool and still it was there! Little Bo-peep could hear only the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead. She could feel only the soft wind on her cheek.

The wind blew more and more softly; the leaves rustled more and more gently. Soon little Bo-peep was fast asleep.

“Bo-peep, Bo-peep, where are you?”

“Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow-wow!”

“Bo-peep, Bo-peep!”

Little Bo-peep awoke with a start. She sat upright, her eyes wide open. Not a sheep could she see. Her dog was not beside her. It was dark; the stars were twinkling overhead. How frightened the little shepherdess was!

“Bow-wow!”

“Bo-peep, Bo-peep! Where are you, child?” Surely that was her mother’s voice.

“Here, mother, here I am, under the big oak tree!” called Bo-peep.

Up rushed the dog, and mother followed close behind.

“Where are my sheep, mother? I fear they are lost.”

“Where is my little Bo-peep? I feared she was lost.”

“Here is your Bo-peep, dear mother. How long I must have slept!”

“Your sheep are all safe at home. Old Rover drove them in long ago.”

This is the way Bo-peep lost her sheep; this is the way she found them. And this is the way Bo-peep was lost; and this is the way she was found.

DISCONTENT

(l azy)
cr azy

swal lows

to geth er

pleas ant

dull er

(b ear)
w ear ing

(g ave)
s ave
br ave ly

June

(g ather)
r ather

per haps

hon est

pas sion

col or

Down in the field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped—that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup,
Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trim and tall;
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck,
In just the daisies’ fashion.

And buttercups must always be
The same old, tiresome color,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

“Dear robin,” said this sad young flower,
“Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
Some day, when you are flying.”

“You silly thing,” the robin said,
“I think you must be crazy;
I’d rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

You’re nicer in your own bright gown;
The little children love you;
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We’d better keep our places.
Perhaps the world would go all wrong,
With one too many daisies.

Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.”

—SARAH ORNE JEWETT.

BELLING THE CAT

sn ug
d ug

aw oke
sp oke

fam i ly

life

pounce

h ole
st ole

warn ing

st eal
m eal

g ood
st ood

straight

A family of rats had their home in a barn.

They made many snug nests in the warm hay.

They dug holes through the hay from nest to nest.

They ran in and out and all about the barn. They had nothing to fear.

When they were hungry they could always find nice grain in the stalls. They became very fat.

And they were as happy a family of rats as one could wish to see.

But one day a big black cat found the rats’ barn.

That was a sad day for the rat family!

This cat was not fat and he was not happy.

He was very thin, very cross, and very hungry.

One thing he liked to eat best of all things in the world—rats.

How he did love nice, fat, happy rats! At last he had found them, a whole big family of them!

This hungry, greedy cat now had rat for breakfast, rat for dinner, and rat for supper. And sometimes he had rat between meals.

Very soon this cat began to grow fat and happy.

But happy cats make unhappy rats. While this cat grew fat, these rats grew thin.

Yet in the stalls there was just as much grain as ever. But it was only a very hungry rat that dared go for it. For no rat could tell when the cat might pounce upon him.

That sly cat stole about without a sound.

The most watchful rat could hear nothing, could see no living thing.

Then, pounce! The wicked cat’s claws held him fast.

So, many a poor rat went to the stall, and never came back. And the rat family was growing smaller day by day.

At last the wise old rats saw that something must be done. So they called a meeting of the whole family of rats, as many as were still alive.

When all had come together in a safe place and were still, the oldest and wisest rat rose up on his hind legs.

He stood up very straight, very tall, and very thin.

“My dear brothers and sisters, my dear children and grandchildren!” began the wise old rat.

“You all know the one fear of our lives.” Every rat trembled.

“That wicked cat has grown fat and sleek feeding on your brothers, your mothers, your wives, and your children.

No one of you knows when his turn may come to make a meal for that ever hungry monster.

He steals upon you without warning.

He is never seen, he is never heard, until it is too late.

But you were not called together to hear what you already know only too well.

You were called here to do something to make your lives safer and happier.

What can be done? Who has a plan?”

The old rat waited.

All the other rats looked from one to another, but no one spoke.

“Well, then,” said the wise old rat at last, “listen to me.

If we only knew where the cat was, we could not be caught. If we could only hear him coming, we might get out of his reach.

Now, my plan is this. We will hang a bell to that cat’s neck.”

“The very thing! Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried all the rats together.

“Why haven’t we thought of that before?

No more of us will go to make dinners for that old cat.

Now, for all the corn we can eat!”

And away sprang the hungry rats for the stalls.

“Stop! Stop!” cried the wise old rat. “Back to your places!

The bell isn’t on the cat’s neck yet.”

Slowly and sadly the starving rats settled back.

“Now,” the old rat went on, “who will tie the bell around the cat’s neck?”

“Not I! Not I! Not I!” squeaked the poor frightened rats.

And they trembled all over at the very thought.

Then they sat very still and looked at each other.

Oh! how hungry they were! How sweet that yellow corn in the stall would taste.

One by one they began to steal away softly.

Where do you think they were going?

Rat families still live in barns.

Cats still feed upon them.

But no rat has ever tried to make life safer by belling a cat.

THREE OF US KNOW

bal lad

se crets

Who are my playfellows?
Wait, you shall see;
Sometimes a little bird,
Sometimes a bee.
All through the summer world
Gayly we go.
Where is the greenest close,
Where is the sweetest rose,
Three of us know.

Bee seeks the rose’s heart,
Bird seeks the tree,
I seek a little brook
Clear as can be.
It singeth all day long
Sweetly and low,
Ballad of sun and star;
What its song secrets are
Three of us know.

Bee takes the honey home
To the Queen bee;
Bird seeks a nest that hides
High in the tree;
I seek a little house
Where sweet vines grow.
What in God’s world is best—
Trees, flowers, home, and rest—
Three of us know.

—MARIE VAN VORST

THE DANDELION

gyp sy

gild

idle

Little Gypsy dandelion,
Dancing in the sun,
Have you any curls to sell?
“Not a single one!”

Little idle dandelion
Then I’ll mow you down.
What is it you’re good for, pray,
With your golden crown?

“Ah! I gild the fields so green
In the pleasant spring,
Shining like the morning star
With the light I bring.”

THE MAGPIE’S LESSON

ma ple

mean

learn

hooted

ea gle

(en ough)
r ough

(gr owl)
owl

pa tient

(h ome)
d ome

(l eaves)
eaves
w eave

o ri ole

cov er

troub le

moun tain

(b ud)
m ud

yon der

choose

roofs

build

(afr aid)
p aid

Years and years ago—ever so many years ago—only one bird in the whole world knew how to build a nest. That wise bird was the magpie.

One day all the other birds came to the magpie. They wanted to learn how to build nests. They begged the magpie to teach them.

“Indeed, I am glad to teach you,” said Mrs. Magpie. “Just listen and watch me. First, you must choose a tall tree, like this great maple. Then take sticks—”

“A tree,” broke in the bold eagle, “a tree here in this valley! No trees nor valleys for me! My nest shall be on the highest cliff of yonder mountain.”

And away flew the eagle without waiting to hear more of the magpie’s lesson. To this day he puts together a few rough sticks on a rocky mountain cliff, and calls them a nest.

The magpie began again. “Take sticks like these,” she said, “to a high branch.”

“Are you a fool?” cried the lark. “Don’t you know that the first strong wind will blow your nest to the ground?” “And the first boy who comes this way will throw stones at it,” put in Mrs. Bob-o-link.

“No high branches for us,” sang the lark and the bob-o-link together. And down they flew into the tall grass of the meadow. There they have made their nests ever since.

Mrs. Magpie didn’t even look at the birds flying away. “Weave the sticks together so, in and out,” said she cheerfully. “That will make the bottom of the nest.”

“I don’t mean to set my nest on a branch like that,” spoke up the oriole. “The wind surely would blow it off, as the lark just said.”

And the oriole flew away and hung her nest from little twigs. There you may see it to-day swinging in the wind far out at the end of a long branch.

“Plaster the inside of your nest with mud,” Mrs. Magpie went on again. “Then line it with soft grass, so.”

“Dear, dear, so much work to make a nest!” yawned the whip-poor-will. “I’m not going to take the trouble.” And that lazy bird hasn’t made a nest from that day to this. She just lays her eggs in a hollow on the ground, or perhaps on a log.

“Who, who, who would go to all that trouble!” hooted the owl. “I think I have a better plan.”

She looked very wise, but said no more. You can guess what her plan was when you find her eggs in a crow’s or a hawk’s old nest.

“Now take more mud and sticks,” began the patient magpie once more. “You need to build a dome over your nest. That is to hide the little ones and to keep out the rain.”

“Oh, never mind the dome,” said the robin. “I will cover my little ones with my wings. I can hide them and keep off the rain.”

“You are right, Mrs. Robin,” said the crow. “We have no use for domes.” And to this day neither robins nor crows have built domes over their nests.

Mrs. Magpie paid no more heed to these birds than to the others who had already left her. She went quietly on building her nest, just as she knew it ought to be built. Soon it was done, dome and all.

“Indeed, Mrs. Magpie,” said the swallows, “we like your nest. The dome is a fine thing, but why should we build it? There are plenty of domes already built; we need only to make our nests under them.”

Ever since then some swallows have made their nests under banks. Others have made theirs under roofs of open barns; and still others under eaves.

So all the birds flew away and left Mrs. Magpie with never a “thank you.” Each one built her nest as she pleased. And each one thought her way so much better than the magpie’s.

But the magpie still builds her nest in the top of a high tree. She makes it of mud and sticks and covers it with a dome.

THE BLUEBIRD

cro cus

mer ry

daf fo dils

I know the song that the bluebird is singing—
Out in the apple tree where he is swinging.
Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary;
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat.
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen a while and you’ll hear what he’s saying
Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying:

“Dear little blossoms down under the snow,
You must be weary of winter, I know;
Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer:
Summer is coming, and springtime is here.