Chapter XIII: Part II (1)

But it was his last hurrah; for puppies, like people, view the world through their own eyes, and where their brother had seen, approved, and desired, they gazed quite indifferently. Bob and Billy carried them out-doors for a broader view of life; but could not persuade them that sunshine and verdure were more to be desired than two snug little beds underground. Better death, with no good Puppy-land to go to; better an end of all things, than life with its ups and downs, its roses and thorns, the uncertain joys and certain ills that puppy flesh is heir to--such seemed their reflections as they gazed upon the world with languid, melancholy eyes. They shunned their brother’s gay society; they refused food and wailed with hunger; they partook of a little and wailed with pain; one died in the evening, yawning and stretching; the other in the morning, kicking and squealing; two new graves were dug under the apple-tree: and one puppy fell heir to the love of six.

“I wouldn’t care so much if they hadn’t opened their eyes,” said Billy; “but I thought they were sure to live then. It’s discouraging, I declare; I’m afraid it’s going to end like the ten little Injuns, ‘And then there were none.’”

“No, it won’t,” said Bob. “We’ll raise this fellow.”

“Yes,” said Timothy, “he’s going to live.” When Timothy spoke so positively one could afford to hope.

“Do you hear?” said Billy, capturing the lively puppy, who was behaving like anything but a mourner after the funeral. “We have hopes of you, sir; and beware how you disappoint us. See what obstinacy has done, and take warning by your brothers. I advise you to make the most of all the life you’ll ever get, for it isn’t soul that gives you such a knowing look. There is nothing behind those eyes but brains; and brains die out as much as bodies, sir. Bob,” he exclaimed, “see him look at me. Don’t tell me he doesn’t understand!”

“I wouldn’t risk such an opinion,” said Bob. “They say that eyes are the windows of the mind. Now that he’s got his windows open why shouldn’t you take looks back and forth.”

“Pretty good,” said Billy. “Duke has spied out the fact, somewhere, that I’m his master.”

They had named him, in contempt of Timothy, and in anticipation of the rank which was expected to assert itself with his growth.

“He certainly makes a difference between you and the rest of us,” said Bob.

The difference became more marked each day. In no one’s hand did Duke rub his little nose so often as in his master’s; no one else’s cheeks were licked so affectionately. It was Billy that he trotted after, and squealed for, when the big gate separated them and his master’s face was set towards home. These signs of preference were very flattering to Billy, but also caused him pangs, for the fonder he became of the dog, the more he feared to lose him. Although he increased rapidly in bulk, strength, vivacity and intelligence, it was a long time before Billy could cease to be alarmed if he appeared languid, over-slept, or ate lightly. However, he developed at last into such a sturdy fellow that anxiety on his account was absurd. All lingering doubts as to his loyalty, also, came to an end, for Billy had feared that his best affections might be won over to the master who fed him. But Duke knew his own master, and did not seem disposed to inquire why he was banished from his table.

The devotion of “Bob’s dog” to Billy was a constant source of surprise to the boys who had not heard the secret of the mastership. Wherever Billy went, the dog was sure to go--unless ordered to the contrary, for whatever Billy ordered, the dog was sure to do. His absolute obedience, rather than natural talent, made him the accomplished fellow which he became. Billy’s will was his dog’s will, and so great was the patience of both teacher and scholar that in course of time there was hardly a dog in town so skilled as Duke in leaping, vaulting, fetching and carrying, so at home on land and water--whether summoned to scour a field, explore a bush, stem a tide, or save a boy from drowning.

Assured, then, of his life and loyalty, proud of his character and his accomplishments, Billy had but two things to regret: that Duke was a plebeian and an exile.

He had grown to full size, and neither developed into pointer, spaniel nor mastiff; into setter, Irish or English; into hound, fox, blood or grey. Indeed, he had not the positive traits which would admit him into any family, however humble. Duke was hopelessly “mongrel.”

Considering his stubby paws, blunt nose, ungainly shape and indefinite color on the one hand, and on the other his intelligence, good-humor, honor and fidelity, Billy could not but learn a gradual lesson on the folly of judging from appearances. Never, he reflected, was canine exterior more plebeian, canine character more noble. So, though something of an aristocrat by nature, radical principles slowly worked in Billy’s mind, until one day, at Timothy’s suggestion that he should change Duke’s name, he was prepared to answer:

“No, sir! I believe people ought to rank according to their actions. What difference does it make how you happen to look, or what family you happen to be born into, if you’re a good fellow? My dog and I are Americans, and we’ll stand by our principles, and take rank according to the way we behave; won’t we, old fellow? I claim that he’s a duke in character, Tim; and he’s handsome enough to suit me. I wouldn’t have a spot on him changed now.”

To which plebeian Timothy, with an approving smile, replied:

“There’s no danger of his getting stolen, neither, Billy, for the price he’d fetch in market; no more’n he’ll get shot or poisoned for his bad temper.”

“No great loss without some small gain,” said Billy. “I’m satisfied, except for one thing, Tim.”

That one remaining cause of dissatisfaction Timothy appreciated. He knew that Billy would never be contented to have the dog which he had saved from death, reared and educated an exile from his home; and, though he and Bob would have missed Duke from their table, they made various plans for getting him admitted to Billy’s.

“I was screwing up my courage to lay the case before father,” said Billy, “when out he came with something about that ugly little dog of Bob’s that he’d seen around our house. He warned me not to encourage him--but I can tell you it’s hard work to keep Duke away, though he’s such an obedient fellow, and the cook never feeds him.”

“Billy,” said Bob, “he’ll have to save your father’s life. That’s the way the enemies in books always get into favor. Can’t you have him pull him out of the water one of these windy days?”

“That’s not such a bad suggestion,” said Billy; “the best you’ve made yet. What do you think, Duke? Could you swim a mile and pull him ashore? I believe he’s equal to it, Bob; and you know father’s always tipping over. He generally rights himself, to be sure; but he may be glad of a little assistance some time. I’ll keep Duke trained on bringing logs ashore, and we’ll be on the lookout windy mornings; for father never misses a breeze.”

But many a windy morning a dog and his master saw a stout gentleman set sail in a frail bark on a crafty sea; many a morning they roamed the beach, practicing on drowning logs, as they watched the wind sport with a distant sail; and however the sail might swell and veer, and lie over toward the waves, it always came erect and stately into port, while a stout gentleman stepped safely ashore.

“The winds are against us, Duke,” said Billy. “There’s no use in fooling around the shore any longer. I’m going to make a bold strike to-day; and if father won’t listen to reason, we’ll just have to give it up--unless we run away and live together. What do you say to that?”

Duke replied by a series of barks which Billy understood to signify assent.

“We’ll try father first,” said Billy.

He waited till his father was in his after-dinner mood. He followed him from the dining-room to the piazza, watched his chair go back on two legs, his feet go up on the railing, his cigar take its place in his teeth, the smoke curl and climb, the newspaper turn and turn, and still the courage of the boy on the steps did not rise to the occasion. It was not until the chair came down on four feet, and the stump of cigar dropped over the railing, that Billy ventured to speak:

“Father!”

He looked so well pleased with life as he walked, portly and smiling, towards his hat, that Billy thought now, if ever, he would be willing to please his son.

Hats of various shapes and degrees hung upon the rack. There was the broad-brimmed straw in which Judge Jenks appeared the country squire; there was the little cloth cap in which he rode the waves a gallant mariner; there was the soft felt which suited rough-and-ready moods; there was the second-best beaver; and there was the best beaver, known to Billy and his sisters as the “Pet and Pride.”

The choice to-day fell on the “Pet and Pride.”

“Good luck!” thought Billy. “I can get anything out of him when he’s petting that hat.”

“Well, my son,” said papa, holding the hat in one hand and passing the other caressingly around and around the crown, until the fur lay in silkiest smoothness.

But Billy waited until the hat was on, and papa surveyed the result in the mirror. It gave him an elegant judicial aspect, and was vastly becoming beyond a doubt.

“Now’s my time,” thought Billy.

“Father,” said he, “I’d like to have a little talk with you--a little discussion on a certain subject.”

“What is it?” said papa. “The Greenback movement? Or have you been catching Communism from Pat? What is it, Billy? Have you got the questions of the day settled for us? Which shall it be: hard or soft money, free-trade or the tariff?”

“I’m not just up on those matters, sir,” said Billy. “It’s a different subject.”

“Well,” said papa, giving the “Pet and Pride” a parting glance, ere he walked to the door, “well, Billy, what is it?”

“It’s--it’s--dogs, sir,” said Billy, meekly.

Stern and cold grew the beaming face beneath the “Pet and Pride.” Aversion was in the tones which repeated Billy’s word “_Dogs!_”

“And what have you to say on this subject?” inquired his father; “that they are faithful, trusty beasts? I tell you they are treacherous and villainous; that you wish to own one for no reason but that they are odious to your father and you are determined to have your own way! I reply better than you deserve, and offer you once more a goat, or a pair of them.”

“Thanks. It’s a dog or nothing, sir,” said Billy.

“As you please,” said his father. “But understand that this subject is not to come up again. Nothing could induce me to have a snarling, snapping, vicious, treacherous cur on the premises; and you are never to mention dogs to me again, sir.”

Billy stalked out of one gate and his father out of another.

“He has the Jenks will,” reflected his father, not without an emotion of pride. “A dog or nothing, indeed!”

But the Jenks will did not support Billy very bravely as he walked on towards Bob’s; and by the time he reached the gate, anger, pride and all harsh, inspiring feelings had given place to sadness. Bob told Timothy afterwards that he had never seen Billy so nearly “floored.” He did not need to ask the result of his interview; but proposed that he should accompany him to the post-office, whither he was hastening with a letter.

The wind which had lured Billy to the shore in the morning still rose in fitful gusts, playing tricks with all detached objects, greatly to the delight of Duke who ran in pursuit of every flying thing.

Billy’s eyes followed the dog gloomily.

“If it wasn’t for that leg of father’s that got bitten thirty years ago!” he said. “Speaking of angels, there goes father now. Hold on to your hat, Bob.”

Each boy seized his hat as a sudden gust came sweeping down the street. But papa, who had appeared in view a block ahead of them, walked calmly on, as if assured that no impertinent breeze would dare molest the “Pet and Pride.” He was so confident and careless that the wind could not resist taking him down a little, and lifting the hat whirled it about his head.

The uncovered judge put forth his hand, but the movement was too grave and deliberate; the wind wished to play tag, and it takes two to play at that game, so the judge must be taught how. As the deliberate hand almost reached the hat, off skipped the wind with it, compelling the judge with a stately skip to follow. But he could be taught even swifter motions than those; a second time he almost reached the hat, and it moved on with a hop and a whirl; while he, with something like a hop and a whirl, moved after. But still the hat, so near his hand, was not in it. His indignation rose. He could not allow matters to proceed after this unruly fashion. With a plunge he pounced on his property--when, lo! it lay across the ditch in the dust of the road, while his tormentor laughed at him!

But no, it was not the wind that laughed after all, though it seemed quite human enough to do so--the shrill tones proceeded from three open mouths on the corner. How dare those ragged urchins lift up their voices in derision of a Judge of the Supreme Court! Better, perhaps, to lose the hat than gratify them by pursuing it. But it was his “Pet and Pride”--by no means an inexpensive affair; a city hat, only to be replaced by a day’s journey; and then he might never find such an easy fit again.

After two or three somersets the hat stood still, unhurt, except for a little dust. The wind fell as suddenly as it had risen, and the judge was enabled to recover his property without sacrificing his dignity. At least so he flattered himself as he walked at his usual gait over the ditch, into the road. He had not calculated on another gust; and when the hat was actually snatched almost out of his grasp again, rather than become the sport of those rascals on the corner he decided to let it go, and run the risk of getting it at the next ebb of the wind.

He was turning away when he happened to see near the corner a big, black mud-puddle, lying in wait for unwary victims of the wind. If the wind and water had conspired to tease him they could not have succeeded better. While the hat was blown directly towards the puddle, the water was at the same time lashed upward to show him how black and muddy it was, how totally destructive to hats.

He felt tempted to pursue the “Pet and Pride” at a flying gait; but as he paused to consider the boys on the corner, the mud-puddle lost its terrors in a new object which appeared upon the scene. This was nothing less than a dog that came galloping after the hat with almost the speed of the wind. Better that the “Pet and Pride” should be drowned in the muddiest depths than become a puppy’s plaything, thought the judge. It was too late for him to rescue it by this time. The hat was doomed to the dog or the water--the water he sincerely hoped, as he prepared to seek the nearest store where a covering for his head could be found.

But as he was turning away he observed that the chances were in the dog’s favor. It was wonderful to see those four little paws fly over the ground. They were gaining on the wind, no doubt about it. Gaining, gaining--till the race was so close that one must wait a moment and see it out. “Ah, the rascal has it! No, you little scamp, you’re beaten! You didn’t count on that gust, sir!”

But as the judge so soliloquized, a familiar voice behind him shouted, “Fly, Duke, fly!” With a leap those four winged feet overtook the gust; and there stood the dog at the edge of the mud-puddle, carefully holding the “Pet and Pride” in his teeth.

The judge recognized that “ugly little dog of Bob’s” at the same time that he recognized his son’s voice; and presently he discovered that the race had been run not for his torment, nor for mere amusement, but for the purpose of rescuing and restoring his property.

“Well, well,” said the judge, as Duke trotted up and presented the hat to him; “well, well, Bob, you’ve a fine dog, sir; a gentlemanly fellow, upon my word. You’ve trained him well, Bob. He does you credit, he does indeed.”

Bob rapped Billy with his elbow, as much as to say, “Here’s your golden opportunity; speak up!”

“He’s mine, sir,” Billy blurted out.

“_Yours!_” said the judge, removing his hand from the canine head he was actually condescending to pat; “_yours!_”

Encouraged by another rap Billy continued:

“You can’t say that he’s ever given you any trouble, father. He’s never eaten a mouthful at home.”

“What do you think of such deception, sir?” said his father. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been boarding him out?”

“No, sir; he lives on charity. Bob supports him.”

“Charity!” said his father. “What do you mean, sir?”

But as he dusted the “Pet and Pride,” caressing it as of old, he took a kindly peep at the little head by his knee, and gave it one more pat before moving away.

“You’re all right, old boy,” said Bob. “You’ve had your chance; that wind did you a good turn, after all. It doesn’t sound quite so fine to say Duke saved his hat as his life, but it amounts to the same in the end. Just keep cool, Billy, and you’re all right.”

It was not very easy to keep cool, however. Billy hoped and watched and waited a whole day before the subject of dogs was mentioned again.

“Where did you get him?” asked his father, as the smoke began to curl from his after-dinner cigar.

“Him?” said Billy, confusedly. “Oh, Duke? I found him in the graveyard, with six more. The mother had left them, and I couldn’t let them die--though the rest did, after all. But we succeeded in raising Duke; and I couldn’t part with him after all that, sir.”

“Don’t attempt to excuse your obstinacy,” said his father, inwardly commenting on “that Jenks will.” “He’s a trained animal, I see. That is where the time has gone which should have been devoted to Latin. A very bad report that last, sir. Is he anything of a mouser?”

“Splendid!” said Billy.

Nothing more was said until the “Pet and Pride,” after the usual amount of caressing, was surveyed in the mirror--then tender memories prompted papa to say, gruffly:

“He is not to live on charity like a beggar. Shut him up in the store-room, if he’s good for anything, and let him have it out with the rats. But keep him away from me, sir. Let him be fed in the basement, but let him understand that he is not to come above ground where I can see him; and remember that he is on trial--distinctly on trial.”

The glad news was at once conveyed to Duke, Bob and Timothy; and Billy was a happy boy--for a few days. Like other mortals of whom we hear, having gained much he wished to gain more. He was not satisfied that Duke had conquered the rats and won the servants’ affections. He wished his higher accomplishments to shine in higher circles. He wanted his dog admitted to the full privileges of citizenship. He longed to introduce him to his own room on the second floor, and he found stern discipline necessary to keep him from the first floor.

Having investigated the kitchen, Duke felt a natural curiosity as to the parlor, and he was often caught on the top stair, peeping into the hall. Billy’s sisters called him up, but could not make him disobey his master. However he might stretch his neck, wag, cry and peer wistfully, he could not be tempted to put a paw on the hall floor.

“Where did he learn obedience?” said the judge one day, after observing his daughters’ vain attempts. “Certainly not of his master. But perhaps you know the secret, Billy, and can give it to me to try on my son. I should like to see if there’s anything to be done with that will of his.”

“Duke has never had any teacher but me, sir,” said Billy. “Shall I forbid his coming on the stairs?”

“Come up here,” said the judge, snapping his fingers towards Duke. “Let’s see what you think of this hall before we send you down.”

But to his surprise the dog did not obey.

“Come!” said Billy; and at the word he leaped toward his master, then looked about for some means of expressing gratitude. Spying a newspaper, and newspapers and elderly gentlemen being associated in his mind, he fetched it and presented it to the judge. The next noon he was summoned again. By that time he had discovered that the newspaper was taken with the cigar, and no sooner saw the one produced than he ran in search of the other. After a few days it happened that the judge dropped all responsibility in regard to his paper. He took his cigar and sat down, assured that wherever the paper might be, to what remote corner of the house any careless member of the family might have taken it, that knowing little dog would find it for him.

Having proved that he was a useful member of society, Billy wished Duke to display his higher accomplishments, and one day introduced to the dining-room what was known down-stairs as the Circus. Judge Jenks was greatly entertained, and the next day undertook to be circus-manager himself. He succeeded so well that it became an after-dinner custom for Duke to speak, leap and dance at his bidding. It was funny to see the portly gentleman whistling sprightly airs, with the greatest gravity of countenance, while the little dog, with countenance as grave, spun around on two feet, wholly intent upon keeping time to the tune. He would become a lion, monkey, or squirrel at command, but the last was his favorite character, as it involved nuts, which he must sit upright and nibble. After his fondness for almonds was discovered Billy noticed that they were seldom missing from dessert without being called for. By many little indications he was persuaded that Duke’s merits had overcome his father’s prejudices. But after all Duke was only a dog, with faults as well as virtues; and while he was still on trial Billy could not help fearing that some mischievous prank might end the trial unfavorably. He waited many days, hoping that his father would declare the probation ended; but at last there came a day when Duke gave a table-cloth a shaking which brought the judge’s favorite meerschaum pipe to ruin. Billy considered the misfortune fatal.

“It’s come at last. All’s up with us,” he thought, as he administered the punishment customary for such offences. But what was his surprise to hear his father say, sternly:

“That will do; that will do, sir! Who left the pipe on the table? You had better find out and save some of your blows for the chief offender. How would you fare if I should deal out justice to you at that rate? Dogs will be dogs, sir; and Duke’s none the worse for an occasional overflow of spirits.”

“Thank you, father, for defending my dog,” said Billy, warmly. “I was afraid it might end in my having to part with him.”

“Part with him?” said his father. “A very good suggestion. The best thing you can do. I advise you to part with him by all means. I should recommend an elderly gentleman who has learned to temper justice with mercy; one who needs a cheerful, young companion, competent and willing either to wait upon him or amuse him; one who will promise the dog a permanent home, and agree not to be too hard upon him for trifling offences. Allow me to recommend Judge Jenks, sir.”

“With Judge Jenks’ permission, I’ll take the home and keep the dog,” said Billy.

“We will call it a bargain,” said his father, his eyes twinkling as he added, “remarkable what a difference there is in dogs; eh, Billy?”

“Yes, sir!” said Billy.

PUSSY WILLOW AND THE SOUTH WIND.

Fie! moping still by the sleepy brook?
Little Miss Pussy, how dull you look!

Prithee, throw off that cloak of brown,
And give me a glimpse of your gray silken gown!

My gray silken gown, Sir Wind, is done,
Put its golden fringes are not quite spun.

What a slow little spinner! pray, pardon me,
But I have had time to cross the sea.

Haste forth, dear Miss Pussy! the sky is blue,
And I’ve a secret to whisper to you.

Nay, nay, they say Winds are changeful things,
I’ll wait, if you please, till the Bluebird sings.

LITTLE SISTER AND HER PUPPETS.

BY REV. W. W. NEWTON.

There was a dear little girl once whose name was Emily, but everybody called her “Little Sister,” because she was so sweet, and loved everyone.

She couldn’t pronounce some words plainly, and people used to get her to talk, on purpose to hear the cunning words used.

She used to sing a little song before she went to bed, and this was the way she sang it:

“Good night nitten tar (little star)
I mun (must) go to my bed
And neave (leave) you to burn
While I nay (lay) down my head,

On my pinnow (pillow) to neep (sleep)
Till the morning light,
When you mill (will) be fading
And I mill (will) be bight (bright).”

As she sang this little song, she would lean her face up against the window pane and throw a sweet kiss to the star and say, “Dud night, you nubny (lovely) nitten (little) tar!” (star.)

“Little Sister” used to make everybody love her who came near her. The grown-up people would always want to take her right up in their laps, and the little children loved to have her come up with her flowing silken hair and put her arms around them and kiss them.

When she went out with her sled in winter time, the gentlemen used to want to pull her, and the little boys would always drag her sled up hill again after a slide.

This was because she was so kind and sweet, and had such polite ways.

Little Sister used to love to go and see some puppets which were exhibited at a Punch-and-Judy show near where she lived.

The men used to stand under a great overspreading elm tree and work their puppets there, but there were so many people around the show that she could not see it plainly. Betsey, her nurse, used to hold her up, but still Little Sister couldn’t see it all.

On Little Sister’s fourth birthday, when she came down into the dining-room at breakfast time, what should she see over in one corner of the room but a puppet stand, with six puppets. First of all there was Punch, and then there was Judy; then there was the Doctor and the Judge, and the Policeman and Sheriff.

She was delighted. “Where did this come from?” she asked.

Then her papa told her that he had had the stand made for her, and had bought the puppets as a birthday present.

These puppets he worked with his thumb and fingers.

“Oh! what nubney nitten puppets!” said Little Sister, and off she ran to show them to her mamma.

Then in the afternoon of her birthday, her mother invited some little friends to come in and see the first exhibition of Little’s Sister’s puppets.

Nobody could see how her papa worked them from behind the stand.

They were ever so funny. One puppet was named Tommy, and he sat down to eat a piece of meat. Then the pussy-cat came on the boards, and walked right up to Tommy to take away the meat he had in his hands. Tommy gave the cat a hit on the head with his funny arm, and then pussy stood up on her hind legs and hit Tommy back. Finally pussy got hold of the piece of meat and jumped down, while poor little Tommy was left alone crying. Pussy was beautifully dressed up with a white paper ruffle around her neck, and pink ribbons tied on her feet and tail.

Then Tommy brought his naughty cat who had stolen the meat, before the Judge, an old wise-looking man, with a grey wig on, and the Judge sentenced pussy to be put in prison.

There was a prison all ready, which Little Sister’s papa had made out of a paper box. There were slats in it, and it was painted black, and had the word “Prison” printed at the top of it in large black letters.

Poor pussy, the thief, looked very sadly when the puppet policeman marched her off to prison.

Then there was old Punch, who threw the baby out of the window, and was also taken before the Judge and was hanged.

Then Tommy got sick from eating too much meat, and the Doctor had to come and bleed him. This made all the little folks laugh ever so much.

After this, Judy went to a store to buy some sausage, and when she got it home it turned into a snake and ran away.

Then Tommy took up his father’s musket to fire it off and the gun went to pieces, and poor little Tommy was blown up in the air; his head and hands and feet were all blown away from his body and there was nothing left of him.

Then there was a paper doll named Polly Flinders, who set herself on fire.

This was the song Little Sister’s papa sang in a piping, squeaky voice, when he made little Polly dance:

“Little Polly Flinders
Sat among the cinders
A-warming her pretty little toes;
Her mother came and caught her
And spanked her little daughter
For burning her nice new clothes.”

When he got through singing this funny little song, he would set Polly on fire and then put her in a toy wash-tub, and all of a sudden a little fire-engine would appear and squirt water on her in the wash-tub. Then the curtain would drop down, and Punch would put his head out and say in a squealing little voice, “Children, don’t you ever play with fire.”

These were some of the ways in which Little Sister and her papa amused their friends on Saturday afternoons.

Sometimes Little Sister and her brother invited poor children to come in and see the funny puppets work. Sometimes these little children went with their papa while he showed the puppets to poor little children in some of the houses and asylums in the city where they lived.

One time they all went to the Children’s Hospital, where the sick children were, and made the poor little things laugh over the funny doings of Tommy and Jerry, and Pussy and Polly Flinders.

And in this way dear Little Sister and her little playthings did good to others; for we can serve God and be doing good by making others happy even in our plays, and with the toys which are given to us, instead of keeping them selfishly for ourselves.

SPRING FUN.

The best of fun, I tell you, boys--
I wonder if you know?--
Is to get a dozen polywogs
And find out how frogs grow.

You go and catch them in the pond,
Along in early spring;
And when you stir them up--O, my!
They squirm like anything!

They are just like a little spot
Of jelly, with two eyes;
And such a funny little tail,
Of quite astounding size.

You put them in a great big dish--
A large bowl is the best.
They swim and squirm, and squirm and swim,
And never seem to rest.

Put in some dirt and water plants--
I’ve known them to eat meat.
They’ll grow and grow so beautiful
The girls would call them _sweet_.

And bunches by and by appear--
On each side there are two.
And little legs, like sprouting plants,
Will pretty soon peep through.

The legs grow long, the tail grows short;
And by and by you’ll see
There isn’t any tail at all
Where a tail used to be.

And froggy now can jump on land,
Or in the water swim.
And scientific men will now
“Amphibious” call him.

THE LOST DIMPLE.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

My little boy lies in his trundle bed,
With chubby arms above his head,
And a rosy flush on his cheek so fair,
And a gleam of gold in his tangled hair;
His beautiful eyes, so soft and blue,
’Neath rose leaf lids are hidden from view;
For sound asleep is my little boy,
My troublesome comfort, baby Roy!

But ah! there’s something upon his cheek
Of which I do not like to speak;
So I kneel beside my baby dear,
And softly _kiss away the tear_.
And I kiss from his rosy mouth a _pout_,
Which even slumber has not smoothed out.
And I have another kiss to spare,
To smooth the frown from his forehead fair.

How came the tear and the pout and frown
On this dear little face to settle down?
Ah well! I’m sorry to have to say
That Roy was a naughty boy to-day.
It wasn’t pleasant to play, you see,
When Roy and mamma couldn’t agree;
So he went to Dreamland to find a smile,
And the dimples will come in a little while.

There’s one should be in his cheek, right there,
And one belongs in his chin. ’Tis rare
That I look in vain for the merry trace
Of the winsome dimples in baby’s face!
But, by and by, he will open his eyes,
All soft and blue as the summer skies:
And when he laughs at my merry call,
I shall find the dimples, the smiles, and all.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY.

BY KATE LAWRENCE.

There were once two little bears who lived in a cave in the woods.

Papa Bear had been killed by a hunter, and his skin made into a coat, which the hunter wore while killing other bears.

Mamma Bear accepted this hard fact, but the little bears never gave up hoping that he would come, and they used to watch for him at the window every day.

One day when they were watching, they saw two little boys who had come into the woods for berries. Their baskets were about half full, but some dispute had arisen, and the luscious fruit hung ungathered while the two boys fought--boxing and scratching one another in a manner too shocking to be described.

“O, Mamma Bear!” they cried together, “do come and see; here are two of those dreadful creatures whom you call boys--they are fighting terribly.”

“Don’t stand and look at them, my darlings,” said Mamma B.; (the children sometimes called her Mamma B.) “‘evil communications corrupt good manners.’”

“What does that mean Mamma B.,” asked the little bears.

Now Mamma Bear did not like this question, for she did not know exactly what it meant herself. But she managed to say, “It means, my dears, that if you like to stand and watch boys and girls when they are quarrelling and fighting, you will soon get to be as bad as they are yourselves.”

At this both the little bears put their paws up over their faces, and cried, “O, Mamma B.!” for their feelings were dreadfully hurt by this comparison. “O, Mamma B., we _couldn’t_ be so bad! never, never!”

“I hope not,” said Mamma B., kindly; “but when I was a little bear, my mother used to say, sometimes, that her children were as cross as boys and girls.”

“O, Mamma B.!” cried the little bears again. “Boys and girls are dreadful creatures, aren’t they?”

“Men and women are dreadful creatures,” said Mamma B.; “and though their babies are very gentle and playful at first, it will not do to trust them. Human nature soon begins to show itself. Men often kill, not to get their food, or defend themselves against their natural enemies, as bears do, but for the _pleasure_ of killing. Besides they kill each other; and that, you know, bears very seldom do.”

“But we kill lambs and calves, mamma dear,” said one little bear, proudly; “I have killed a chicken myself!”

“That was for your natural food,” said Mamma Bear, beaming upon him fondly. “The most intelligent animals are those which, like bears, eat both meat and vegetables. Men are _almost_ as intelligent as we are; but they never will be truly wise, until they learn to live in peace with each other, as bears do.”

Before the little bears went to bed that night, their mamma taught them this pretty little hymn:

“Let boys delight to scold and fight,
For ’tis their nature to;
Let naughty children scratch and bite--
All human beings do.

“But little bearies, never let
Your angry passions rise;
Your little paws were never made
To tear each other’s eyes.”

When the little bears could recite this perfectly, they went to sleep with their paws around each other’s necks, resolving that they would never, never quarrel, for fear that they might sometime get to be as bad as boys and girls; and their mamma could not but feel grateful that they were so docile.

JACK HORNER.

Almost every child has been early taught to repeat the lines:

“Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said, ‘What a brave boy am I!’”

And Jack has generally been regarded as a nice, fat little boy, who, having pleased his mother by his good conduct, has been rewarded by a pie of his own. And we have thought of him as sitting quietly in the chimney-corner, enjoying his pie; and when he pulled out that plum, wondering if it were full of plums.

But among the many “investigations” of the present day, it appears that Jack Horner, though a boy, was a “defaulter” to a serious amount, and the plum which he pulled out of his pie cost the life of another.

A tradition which had its rise in the county of Somersetshire, England, has at last found a place in history, and seems to be looked upon as reliable.

During the imperious reign of Henry VIII., he procured by an act of Parliament the abolishment of several hundred monasteries, and a court was established for the management of their revenues and their silver, all of which he ordered granted for his benefit.

When this act came in force, at the monastery at Wells it was determined by the abbot that the title-deeds of the abbey estates, and the valuable grange attached, should not be confiscated by the king, but sent to the commissioners at London.

The abbot, wishing for some safe method of conveying them, finally hit upon this curious device. To avoid their being taken, he thought the safest method would be to put them in a pie, which should be sent as a present to one of the commissioners. The trustiest messenger, and one little likely to excite suspicion, was a boy named Jack Horner, the son of poor parents, living in the neighborhood of the monastery. He set out on foot carrying the pie.

It was a tiresome journey, and the road probably had few attractions, so, selecting a comfortable corner on the wayside, Jack sat down to rest. Like most boys on such occasions, he began to think of something to eat; and, having no well-filled bag to go to, he thought he might take a little from the inside of the pie, and it would never be missed.

So, “he put in his thumb,” when to his astonishment he found only papers. This was poor satisfaction to the hungry lad, but he had wit enough to conclude that papers sent in such a manner must be valuable, so he determined to pocket one, which he did, and pursued his journey.

Upon delivering the pie, it was at once discovered that the chief deed was missing, and, as it was thought the abbot had withheld it, an order was at once sent for his execution, for not the slightest suspicion seems to have fallen upon Jack.

Years after, the paper was found in the possession of Jack’s family, which, being the deed to abbey estates, was a “plum” of some value.

1. Tell in your own words the meaning of the rhyme of “Little Jack Horner.”

2. Do you know any other Mother Goose rhyme that has a hidden meaning?

DOUBLE DINKS.

BY ELIZABETH STODDARD.

Wide awakes, you have not heard of the boy Lolly Dinks that was, and is--a boy mitey in body and mighty in mind. He knows himself as the son and ruler of Mr. Dinks, a mild, pleasant man, who tears his shirt collar in two of mornings when his slippers are in the very place he put them, and he can’t find them, and who sits up of nights making books out of other people’s thoughts, and calls it a Literary Avocation! _I_ call it st--al--ng. What _I_ write comes from my own mind and Lolly’s.

Now, as always, the business of my life is to amuse Lolly. Lots of oat-meal, beef-tea, little pills, have I taken to keep me up so that I might make a successful business. For a time I supposed that I was teaching him; but I wasn’t, he was teaching me, and from that he went on till I found he governed me. _Did_ you ever hear anything like this--me, Mrs. Dinks, his mother, minding Lolly Dinks? Somebody has to mind me, and as Mr. Dinks will not read this, I confess I make _him_ mind.

And I thought myself so clever,--that I was packing, cramming the cells of Lolly’s brain with useful in-for-ma-tion, as full as the cells of a bee-hive with honey. I did it at all hours, and made a nuisance of myself under all circumstances. I’d go on this way: Suppose it a winter morning, and breakfast-time. Lolly and I are waiting for the bell to ring.

“Lolly,” say I, “little Jack Frost came in last night by the window panes; don’t you long to hear about little Jack?” and my voice is sweet as a sugar lump.

“No, marmy, I want some beefsteak. I smell it;” and Lolly gives so loud a sniff that I have to raise my voice, and thereby lose some of its sweetness.

“It is strange so many things should have Jack tied to them,” I continued. “There’s Jack-at-a-pinch, Jack-at-all-trades,--”

“Tom Bower,” breaks in Lolly, “has a toy he calls Jack-in-a-box; nasty thing, it jumps. I want my egg boiled so hard that this poker couldn’t smash it,” and he gives the fender such a bang that my nerves go ting-a-ling like a cracked bell,--not like poor Ophelia’s sweet bells, jangled, out of tune. But duty requires me to go on, for must not my Lolly understand something of great Nature’s laws? With sternness I proceed.

“There is, also, Jack-a-dandy, Jack-ass, Jack-a-napes, Jack Ketch, the hangman, Jack-pudding--”

“And Jack-straw,” cries Lolly; “and somebody’s lost my set of ivory Jack-straws.”

“My son, the substance, or appearance, which we call Jack Frost, is rigidly and beautifully regulated by laws, crystals--”

“Where is that boy?” asked papa Dinks, coming from behind his newspaper.

A moment afterward we heard him singing in the breakfast-room, “Spring, spring, gentle spring,” and presently found him near a beefsteak tranquilly munching a biscuit.

“The childhood,” says Milton, “shows the man, as morning shows the day;” but Milton was always saying one thing or another. If this is true, what will Lolly’s bump of reverence be when he has grown to be a man? Where shall a bank be found rich enough for him to draw the money he must have? And how many persons will be hired to find his garters, his hat, his knife, his book? I never could abear Paradise Lost, and I don’t wonder that the angel with the flaming sword kept Adam and Eve out of the garden, for Adam and Eve were a poky pair, after all, and could never have raised vegetables; that is, according to Milton. As a man, will this said Lolly domineer over his kind, and exact his rights? He thinks it hard that children should not have the privilege of scolding parents, when the parents are so old and the children so young; and why shouldn’t he contradict, when he is contradicted; he knows just as well as any old Dinks knows?

Lolly is not a nice hero for a story, but what can I do? He is all the Lolly Dinks I have,--a “poor thing, but mine own.” And if I can’t make the best of him, I must make the worst; it is “live and Dinks live” with me. All is, Wide Awakes, try to help him with his poor traits; that is, not make use of them on your own account.

Outside his family circle, which is compact though narrow, my Lolly has the reputation of a “perfect gentleman.” Our friends and neighbors invite him to dinner and to lunch. Then they tell how good, how refined, how sweet his manners, how gentle! And this young Dinks hears it all; does he believe so? Why not? He is to these people as he appears; but when I try to present to their view an interior picture, one I am somewhat familiar with, they return a pitying smile, and believe in their hearts that I am describing _myself_, or, at any rate, that I am solely to blame for all his shortcomings. I even bring up absolute facts. I say, “This morning, when I offered Lolly five cents, he tossed away, because I would not give him ten cents.” Or, “Yesterday, because I refused to go on the beach in a gale of wind to sail his boat, Lolly said, ‘You never do anything for me; you sit in your chair and read and read, and I think you are real mean.’” This, too, when I had trudged a mile into the woods with him, and lugged home a pile of bushes, flowers, and grasses. It is of no use; I am in the minority; they sympathize with him, not with me. I must hold my peace, but I will ask myself the question, so long as I have the spirit of a woman,--not Pilate’s,--whether old people or young people tell the truth; but, is it the young people or the old people who lie?

Whatever Lolly’s aspects are, life is a constant surprise and delight to him. He walks daily among wonders, as Emerson says. Well, as I have said before, this Master Dinks got into the habit of instructing me. His style was more imperative and curt than mine. Here is a sample:--

“Do you wish to know?
Listen, Marmy.
Shall I tell you?”

Of course I have got to know. His lesson begins: “Suppose, Mrs. Marmy, that the moon, being tired of her white color, should wish to borrow a few yellow rays from the sun,--where would she find postage stamps to get it at the sun post office?”

This terrible conundrum floors me, and I sit dismayed.

“Get ’em from the next rainbow!” he shrieks.

“My Lolly,” I reply, solemnly, “I see you understand the eternal fitness of things.”

And then in his turn he is posed, and falls back into his simple child ways. He twists himself up into my lap, and rubs his head against my shoulder, and says, for the hundredth time,--

“Tell me what you used to do, mother, dear.”

He kisses me; but I must own there is an “ancient and fish-like smell” about him, which comes from his fondness for catching minnows, and other small deer of the sea. Still it goes for a kiss.

A short tale follows.

Cola Meggs and Sailor Studd were two dogs, whose acquaintance I made in my childhood. One was mouse-colored, and the other was white, with large black patches; both were large. They hated cats, they hunted cats. In the underpinning of our house was a hole where the broken crockery was thrown. I used to crawl through this hole to get dishes for my family’s table; very odd-shaped dishes, kind of three-cornered things they were. The cats hid in this dark place when Cola and Sailor were on the war-path, and made themselves very unpleasant. So much so that I was often obliged to sit on the doorstep while the battle raged between cats and dogs. Then I knew what it meant by reigning cats and dogs. One day I sat on the cold, cold doorstep till I grew numb, but my brain was on fire. I composed a poem.

“So Cola Meggs and Sailor Studd
Had a fight and fell in mud.
Won’t I hang them onto pegs,
Even though they have 8 legs.”
(The cat was killed.)

“Marmy,” said Lolly, with dignity, “will you please read me Jules Verne’s story ‘Round the World.’”

Ah me, the mitey part of my Lolly Dinks had flown into the past, where so many little children lie in the amber of a mother’s memory.

He reminds me of the apple blossom and the apple; both are perfect in their way, and in the latter the nub of the blossom, from which the fruit comes, remains. But this does not make me opposed to apple trees; I am not like the man who said he was fond of apples, but he did not approve of the cultivation of the apple tree. I am willing that they should grow as crooked as they like, and lay their dark arms about Tennyson’s fields, and his white kine glimmer as they please.

I also made it one branch of my Dinks amusing business to print some of my talks with Lolly. Mr. Gill made a book for me; not the Mr. Gill whose teeth Wordsworth has given an immortal chatter to, but a Boston Gill. I thought some mothers might find a soothing syrup in the book for their Dinks boys. I know one little girl liked it so much that in reading it she fell out of bed and bumped her head dreadfully. A boy found it in a circulating library, but his mother carried it back the next day. She could see neither rhyme nor reason in it, and the boy cried, because he said he was afraid there was only one Lolly Dinks mother in the world; if there was, he was sure he could be as bad as Lolly Dinks, too.

What to do next about Lolly? Some wise person talks to me about the transition periods; meantime am I to submit to having all my moral corns trod upon, and to watch the growth of his incipient corns? So far he has had everything, from Noah’s ark to a schooner-rigged boat, from a paint box to a set of croquet. He has had all that money can buy; but I have a curious feeling that now he needs something that money cannot buy. I hope this confession will not bring down upon my weak head any dogmatic, cut-and-dried mamma. I am not at home to her. I have gone out: business calls me yonder. Perhaps my own Lolly will tell me what to do next. With all his restlessness and perversity, I see how the sense of beauty develops in his mind, and that somehow he begins to perceive the harmony of goodness; that to be selfish gives him a kind of creepy shame.

“Our Father in heaven,” he said, one day. “Where is the Mother?”

Will he see our life better, more clearly, than Mrs. Dinks, his mother, or Mr. Dinks, his father? We are waiting to learn.

LEARNING TO SWIM.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

Here I am, papa,
In my new tights dressed,
Crazy for a bath,
It must be confessed.

Shall we go straight in?
Oo! the water’s cold!
Let me take your hand,
Nice and large to hold.

I’m a big boy, now,
Tall and strong of limb.
Eight years old to-day,
Yet I cannot swim!