Chapter I: TOOK the sugar-tongs, and tried

To curl my doggie’s hair;
I heated them until they burned,
Which filled him with despair.

The sugar-tongs were spoiled,
And the hair would not curl,
And now I’m sent to bed,
An unhappy little girl.

HARD TIMES.

“NO CHRISTMAS for us this year!” said Fred, coming out of his father’s study with his hands in his empty pockets, and a blank look on his face.

“No Christmas?” cried Edith. “What do you mean, Fred?”

“Hard times!” said her brother. “Father says he shall have all he can do to get through the winter, and that we mustn’t expect presents, or anything of that kind. Of course it’s all right, only,—it will seem queer, won’t it?”

“Oh, no _money_ Christmas!” said Edith, looking relieved. “Yes, I knew that before. But we can have a _merry_ Christmas, Fred, without money. I mean to have a particularly merry one, and you must help me.”

“I should like to know what you can do without any money!”

“Wait and see! and come out into the woods with me this afternoon, that’s a good boy!”

It was about a month before Christmas when this conversation took place; and all through December there were no busier young people in Woodville than Fred and Edith Brown. They slighted none of their lessons; but Fred spent a good part of his home time in the barn, with a hammer in his hand and a Latin grammar at his elbow; while Edith’s knitting needles flew as she bent over her history lesson. The day before Christmas, Papa and Mamma were summoned to dine and spend the day with Grandmamma. Mamma rather wondered that the children were not invited, and did not want to go without them; but their faces grew so direfully long at this suggestion that she saw through the little plot, though Papa did not, and she cheerfully took her shawl and departed, charging Edith to keep up the fire, and Fred to take care of the house.

When the parents returned in the evening the house was a bower of green. “Here is one thing that costs nothing!” Edith had said, “and it is half of a merry Christmas.” So she and Fred had brought great armfuls of fragrant cedar and hemlock, and tall fir saplings, which were set up in every corner, while wreaths hung in the windows, and long garlands festooned fireplace and picture frames. Papa looked very much pleased. “Why, it is Christmas already!” he said. “And I thought we should not have any celebration at all this year. You were too bright for me, children.”

“It’s all Edith, Papa!” said honest Fred.

“All but about two-thirds, Papa!” said Edith. “I could have done nothing without Fred’s strong arms.”

Next morning the sun was out, and the snow sparkled like diamonds in the golden light. “Here is something else that costs nothing, Edie!” cried Fred, who had entered heart and soul into his sister’s idea. “Sunshine is a pretty good present, isn’t it? And we have the very best article to-day.”

“Hurrah!” cried Edith, “this is glorious. Merry Christmas, boy! Smiles are another thing, Fred. Let’s be sure not to look gloomy for a single minute all day.”

“All right!” said Fred. “I’ll grin like the Cheshire cat from morning till night. Now, here’s mother’s work-table, all ready. It has taken a good polish, hasn’t it?”

“Splendid!” cried Edith. “And here’s father’s portfolio. Do you recognize the cover, Fred?”

“Looks like that pretty dress you had ever so long ago, when you were a little shaver,—I mean shaveress!”

“Just what it is! The pieces were folded away all this time, of no use to anybody. And there was enough to make this pretty work-bag for mother, and another like it for Aunt May. And,—look here, Fred! Merry Christmas, dear old fellow!”

Fred looked at the blue and gray toboggan cap with astonishment and delight. “Oh, Sis, that is a stunner! But, I say! you have broken the rule. This wool must have cost you something, and a good deal.”

“Not a penny!” rejoined his sister, triumphantly. “Do you remember that huge old comforter that Aunt Eliza sent me three years ago? I never could wear it out, though it was just as dear and kind of her to make it for me. That gave me the wool for the cap, and for several other things beside.”

“Well, it is a beauty!” said Fred. “Here’s all the present I have for you, and I wish it was a better one.” He produced a birchbark basket, filled with chestnuts and hickories, and was rewarded by a good old-fashioned hug.

“As if you could have found anything I should have liked better!” cried Edith. “Such beauties, too! Why, you must have picked out every single nut, Fred Brown!”

“Something like it!” admitted Fred.

“How about those partridges for dinner?”

“They are all ready to put in the oven!” Edith said. “Mother knows nothing about them yet, but is sighing a little because she has no chicken for us. And you know Mrs. Spicer gave me a jar of mince-meat for the cranberries I brought her. I am a little proud of my pie, Fred!”

“Hurrah for you!” said Fred.

Somehow or other the Browns had never had a merrier Christmas than this one of the hard winter. Edith said it was all the sunshine and the green boughs; Fred said it was all Edith; but Mr. and Mrs. Brown, as they sat by the cheerful hearth, and watched the chestnuts roasting, and listened to the merry young voices, gave reverent thanks for their treasure of love, and felt that they were rich in spite of the hard times.

ON THE STEEPLE.

WEATHERCOCK, up on the steeple,
Flap your wings and crow!
Weathercock, plenty of people
Say that you can’t, you know.

But I know better! I hear you,
And Johnny Boy hears you, too,
When you think that there’s no one near you,
Cry “Cock-a-doo-doodle-do!”

NAUGHTY BILLY.

BILLY put the puppy-dog
In the water-pail;
Billy tied the toasting-fork
To the kitten’s tail.

Puppy bit his naughty legs,
Kitty scratched his nose.
Somebody is screaming now,
Who, do you suppose?

A LAD.

THERE was a lad,
Whose name was Chad.
He had a brother
Whose name was Bother.
He had a sister
Whose name was Twister.
He had an uncle
Whose name was Buncle.
He had an aunt,—
Tell her name I sha’n’t!

SAINT VALENTINE’S HOUSE.

DO you know, children, how and where all the valentines are made that you see in the shops nowadays?

Well, suppose I tell you all about it.

When you go to fairy-land, turn to the left after you enter the gate, and the first house you come to will be Saint Valentine’s.

This is what I did when I went there, and you shall hear what I saw.

On entering the house, I found myself in a large hall hung with gold and silver paper, and glittering with an incomparable brightness. Here were hundreds of little cupids with tiny wings, who were running and flying about, as busy as bees.

One was carrying a roll of gold paper as big as himself; another was painting beautiful flowers on white paper; others were making paper lace. But all seemed to be helping and waiting on a person who sat by a huge table at the farther end of the hall, and this person I soon found to be Saint Valentine himself.

He was a young man, and very handsome. He was dressed in sky-blue velvet, embroidered with gold, and had great fat pearls for buttons. He seemed as busy as the rest, and merely nodded and smiled when he saw me, and called out,—

“Number Three Shears,
Approach, my dears!”

I heard a queer, sharp voice at my elbow, saying, “Now, then, by your leave!” and turning, saw at my elbow an enormous pair of shears, walking about on two legs, and looking as proud as you please.

“Dear Number Threes,
A million sevens, if you please!”

said Saint Valentine.

Snip-snap! snip-snap! went the shears, and there lay a million little sheets of white paper.

Then the Saint cried,—

“Bring me some hearts,
And flaming darts!”

and a dozen cupids came up, dragging a great basket full of hearts, and carrying bundles of darts under their arms. Quick as lightning, Saint Valentine took a couple of hearts out of the basket, clapped them on a sheet of paper, stuck a dart into them, flung a wreath of flowers round them, then, thump! a great stamp came down on the paper, and out of it came a lovely valentine.

That was quick work! in five minutes, I should think, five hundred valentines were turned out. I stood looking on in delight.

Suddenly the Saint called out,—

“A big one let us now begin,
And let us put the lady in!”

At first I did not know what he meant: but he took an enormous sheet, and after showering hearts and roses and cupids upon it, turned to me, and said, sweetly,—

“Now if you will venture in it,
I’ll stamp you out in half a minute.”

This was too much, and making him a low bow, I awoke!

THE GENTLEMAN.

THERE once was an elderly gentleman,
Whose manners were soft and mild:
He doffed his hat to each woman he met,
He kissed his hand to each child.
He smiled and he bowed to meek and proud,
And thus to himself said he:
“A gentleman I, as none can deny,
So gentle I still must be!”

A-walking he went in a lane one day,—
A lane that was long and narrow;
And there in the path a rustic lay,
Beside his plough and harrow.
A ruffian and a gruffian he,
A horrid rustic for to see:
And all in the way he sprawling lay,
And never a foot budged he.

“I pray you, worthy friend, to rise!”
The gentleman mildly said;
But the ruffian glared with his ugly eyes,
And shook his ugly head.
“The ditch is wide on either side,
And dry enough,” quoth he;
“There’s room to pass, old Timothy-grass,
Without disturbing me.”

The gentleman smiled a charming smile,
And bowed a gracious bow;
And looking around with his glass the while,
He spied a grazing cow.
“As sure as I live, a lesson I’ll give,”
Thought he, “to my rustic friend.
I’ll warrant me yet he’ll not forget
This day to his life’s long end.”

The rustic lay in the path and snored;
The cow ate grass and lowed;
The gentleman took her and gently shook her,
And led her along the road.
Then he took a string, and an iron ring,
And the end of the cow’s loose tether,
And harrow and plough and ruffian and cow,
He fastened them all together.

“And now, my friend,” he sweetly said,
“Since you have not the strength to rise,
The means for a ride I am glad to provide,
And I trust that the same you’ll prize!”
He pulled a switch from the wayside ditch,
Gave Moolly a sounding blow,
And off with a wallop she set at a gallop,
As fast as her legs could go.

The rustic, the plough and the harrow went, too,
A-bumping along the stones;
The rustic did yell, oh! and Moolly did bellow,
You’d think they were breaking their bones.
But the gentleman smiled, and pensive and mild,
On his peaceful way went he:
“A gentleman I, as none can deny,
So gentle I still must be!”

A LEAP YEAR BOY.

“TO-MORROW is my birthday!” said Robby to Bobby.

“What is your birfday?” said Bobby to Robby.

“Why, to-morrow, Silly!” said Robby.

Now Robby was nearly six years old, and a person of great importance.

“I don’t mean _that_!” said little Bobby, who was not yet four. “I mean, what is our birfday? Is it good to eat?”

“Why! why-ee! Bobby Bell! Don’t you have birthdays?” cried Robby, opening his eyes.

“No!” said Bobby, opening his mouth. “I neber saw one.”

“You don’t _see_ them!” said Robby, in a patronizing tone, “you _have_ them! It is the day you were born, and you have a party and presents, and a birthday cake with frosting, and your name on it in pink letters, and candy and oranges, and a gold dollar with Grandmamma’s love to her dear little boy. Do you _really mean_ that you never had one, Bobby Bell?”

Little Bobby looked very grave. “Perhaps I wasn’t born!” he said. “I’s going to ask Mamma.” So he trotted in to his mother.

“Mamma,” he said, “was I born?”

Mamma looked at him a moment in mute surprise. “Were you born, dear?” she repeated. “Yes, certainly you were born. Why do you ask me that, little boy?”

Bobby’s lip began to quiver, and his blue eyes filled with tears. “Den why,—why don’t I have birfdays?” he asked.

Mamma looked very sorry. “Dear! dear!” she said. “Now who has been telling my leap year boy about birthdays? Come and sit in Mamma’s lap and tell me all about it, and then I will tell _you_ all about it.”

So Bobby climbed up into Mamma’s lap and hid his face in her dress, and sobbed out his little story about frosted cake and pink letters, and gold dollars with Grandmamma’s love to her dear little boy. “And I neber—I neber had _any_!” he said, piteously.

Then Mamma told Bobby a funny little story. It was about the years, and it told how they came along, one after another, and how each year had just the same number of days in it.

“Three—hundred—and sixty-five!
So many days I’ve been alive.
Storm and shine, and sorrow and cheer,
Really, there never _was_ such a year!”

That is what each one says before it puts on its nightcap and goes to sleep.

But every _fourth_ year there comes one who is bigger than the rest. He has one day more, and he is very proud of it, and holds his head very high, and says,—

“Three—hundred—and sixty-_six_!
One _more day_ for frolicsome tricks.
One day more for work and for play.
Look at me! look at me! _One_ MORE DAY!!!”

“And so four years ago,” said Mamma, “there came one of these extra days, and it was the very best day that any year ever brought, for on that day my Bobby was born! Think of that!”

Bobby laughed and clapped his little fat hands.

“And so,” continued Mamma, “of course my Bobby couldn’t have another birthday till another long year came round, with another extra day. And now,—whisper, Bobby! now the long year _has_ come, and next Friday is your birthday, dear, and you are going to have—oh! but I mustn’t tell!”

Mamma laughed and shook her head, and didn’t tell any more, but her eyes told a great deal; and that was all Bobby wanted, for he was very fond of surprises and secrets.

He hugged Mamma, and then he hugged himself, and then he went and hugged the kitten, and told her all about it, and what he _thought_ he was going to have.

Well, and it all came true, and a great deal more; for Bobby had the finest birthday that ever any little boy had, or any little girl, either. In fact, it was so _very_ fine that I couldn’t possibly write about it in common black ink on white paper. I should have to take silver paper and gold ink; and I cannot do that, so I shall have to stop now. Isn’t that too bad?

KING PIPPIN.

LITTLE King Pippin he had a long nose,
Little King Pippin wore doublet and hose;
Doublet and hose, and shoes for to trip in,
This was the person of little King Pippin.

_Cho._—This was the person of little King Pippin.

Little King Pippin, his soldiers were three;
They drew out their swords and said “Fiddle-de-dee!
Where is the foe, that his blood we may dip in?”
These were the soldiers of little King Pippin.

_Cho._—These were the soldiers of little King Pippin.

Little King Pippin, his sailors were five;
They thanked their dear stars that they yet were alive.
“Sure we should be drowned if the sea we should slip in!”
These were the sailors of little King Pippin.

_Cho._—These were the sailors of little King Pippin.

Little King Pippin, his story is done;
Little King Pippin, his battles are won.
Never a fight that he did not whip in!
What do you think of little King Pippin?

_Cho._—What do you think of little King Pippin?

THE STORY OF THE CRIMSON CRAB.

THE Crimson Crab was to be married to the Eldest Frog. The wedding guests were assembled on the great water-lily leaf, in their best dresses and best spirits. There were lizards and water-beetles, dragon-flies and butterflies,—in fact, all the best people of the neighbourhood. The musicians, young frogs of remarkable talent, were stationed with their instruments in the pink buds of the lily; in the largest blossom the bride was completing her toilet. But she wept as she polished her shining claws, and her feelers shook with grief; for she did not wish to marry the Eldest Frog. He was gray and grizzly, had no voice save a dismal croak, and was known to have an odious temper. The Crimson Crab thought of the gallant young Green Frog, whom she had met at the Pollywogs’ Ball. How handsome he was! She had danced nearly every dance with him, and he had pressed her claw tenderly, and whispered sweet words in her ear. Then, the next evening, he came and sang beneath her window; ah, how he sang! When the song was over he leaped lightly upon the window-sill, poured out his tale of love, and gained her promise to be his bride. Ah, moment of rapture! She thrilled even now with the recollection of it. But he vanished, and—she had never seen him since. She was told that he had disappeared, had probably gone to the Muskrat War, and been killed in battle.

Alone she sat and wept, till her stern father came and told her that she was to be the bride of the Eldest Frog. Vain were her tears, vain her entreaties. Preparations for the wedding were at once begun, the fine clothes were ordered, and now the fatal day was come.

“Alas!” cried the Crimson Crab, “why am I beautiful? Why does this lovely carmine mantle in my shining shell? If I were a plain green crab the Eldest Frog would not have sought me out, and I might still sit in my lonely bower and weep for my lost love.”

At this moment her father’s summons came, and she was forced to dry her tears.

“Console yourself, noble Lady!” cried her faithful Attendant Lizard. “See the beautiful gifts your bridegroom has sent you. A girdle of pearls! a mantle of glittering fish-scales! webs of gossamer, the finest that ever were seen! Never was bride so richly decked. So generous a bridegroom as the Eldest Frog is sure to make a kind husband.”

But the bride only sighed the more, and sadly took her way toward the great leaf, whereon the wedding guests were assembled.

The Eldest Frog was dressed in his best. His speckled coat was new, and his yellow breeches fitted to perfection; but for all that he was old and ugly. He leered at the bride with his goggle-eyes, and grinned till the two ends of his mouth nearly met behind.

“Croak! croak!” he said, laying his hand on his heart. “Ah! the fair bride! Ah! the lovely Crimson! What happiness to win the love of such an exquisite creature!” He held out his withered hand, and advanced a step or two; but at the same instant a voice was heard, crying, “Villain! do not dare to touch her!” and leaping across the lily-leaf, his eyes flashing fire, his bulrush spear in his hand, came the Green Frog.

With one thrust he sent the Eldest Frog sprawling on the floor. Then, while all the company looked on aghast, he caught the Crimson Crab in his arms, and hailed her as his bride. “This villain lay in wait for me,” he cried, “and captured me unawares the very night when last I saw thee, my own. For weeks I have lain fast bound, hand and foot, in a dungeon deep under the mud. To-day I was set free by a faithful Horned Pout, whom I had formerly befriended. Fly with me, my bright, my beautiful! My home among the reeds is lowly, but love will make it rich. Away! away!” He seized the slender claw of the Crimson Crab; and before her father could prevent it, the two had leaped from the leaf, and were scuttling swiftly through the clear water.

All the guests followed,—that is, all who could swim,—to see what would become of the venturous young couple. The old Crab went into his hole and sulked; while as for the Eldest Frog, he just lay on his back where his rival had thrown him, gasping and gurgling, and nobody took any notice of him, till at last a fat brown duck came along, and—gobbled him up!

MOTHER’S RIDDLE.

MOTHER has a kitten,
Mother has a mouse,
Mother has a bird that sings
All about the house.
Mother has a lammie,
Mother has a chick:
All together have but two feet;
Guess my riddle, quick!

KING JOHN.

I’M learning a lesson upon
King John:
A very great rascal was he.
He murdered Prince Arthur,
’Cause England would rather
The Prince should her sovereign be.

I’m learning a lesson upon
King John:
A coward and craven was he.
Up rose every baron
And said, “We’ll make war on
This king as our worst enemee!”

They beat him in many a field;
“Now yield!”
Cried they, “or Your Grace we must slay!
Or else, let us barter!
You’ll sign Magna Charta,
And we’ll take the soldiers away.”

He signed in a terrible hurry,
And flurry;
But soon as the soldiers were gone,
This pitiful fellow
Did shriek, howl and bellow,
To think of the thing he had done.

He bit, and he scratched, and he kicked,
And licked
Every person that came in his way;
He murdered their spouses
And burned up their houses,
Behaved in an odious way.

One night he took tea with some monks,
(Old hunks!
Just to save his own supper at home!)
But he put on such airs
That they poisoned his pears,
Which concludes both his life and my pome.

THE SPOTTY COW.

MY Spotty Cow, my Spotty Cow,
I love you very dearly!
You are, I think, the fairest beast
In all the wide world, nearly!

My Kitty-cat is also sweet,
But then, she has no spots:
While you, my pleasant Spotty Cow,
Have lots and lots and LOTS!

The King of Spain he may be grand,
The Queen of England, too.
They cannot have my Spotty Cow,
Whatever they may do.

But if they both should bring to me
Their gold and gems and silk,
I might—_perhaps_ I might—give them
A very—little—milk!

THE BUTTON PIE.

A BUTTON pie! a button pie!
It was our fondest wish.
We took the nursery buttons
And put them in a dish.

We mixed them well with sawdust
Squeezed out of Dolly’s arm,
And some of Nursie’s hair-oil,
Not thinking any harm.

And then we set the pie to bake,
Beneath the sewing table;
And went to play a little while
With Johnny’s horse and stable.

But Nursie came, and whisked her gown,
And over went the pie.
I think I will not tell the rest,
For fear—that—I should—cry!

THE INQUISITIVE DUCKS.

ONCE upon a time there were some children, and once upon a time there were some ducks. It was upon the same time, too, and they all lived together in one house. That was funny, wasn’t it?

And there were two reasons for it. In the first place, it was so cold where they lived that the ducks could not stay out of doors, except in summer; and in the second place, the good man of the house, the children’s father, was so poor that he could not afford to have a separate house for the ducks.

Indeed, there were only three rooms in the house. One was the kitchen, which was parlor and dining-room and sitting-room as well, and one was the children’s room, and the third was the parents’ room. So there they all lived together, and they were very sociable. The names of the children were Greta, Minna, Lisa, Carl and Baby Fritz. The names of the ducks were Red-top, Waggle-tail, Gobbler and Spottle-toe; and the children were all good, but the ducks were all naughty, as you shall hear.

The father had made a nice wooden box for the ducks, and this was always filled with hay and kept beside the great porcelain stove in winter, so that the pets might be warm. But were they grateful for this kindness? Not a bit of it. They were always getting out of their box and poking their bills into all sorts of places where they had no business to be. You might find Waggle-tail inside the mother’s Sunday cap, and Gobbler tasting the soup on the table, and Red-top and Spottle-toe pulling the baby’s doll to pieces. These were things that happened every day. And, indeed, what else can be expected, when one keeps one’s ducks in the kitchen? But one day something very much worse than all this came.

The mother was ill, so ill that she was obliged to stay in bed and send for the doctor, and that was something very unusual. The doctor came and gave her a box of pills, telling her to take one every day until she was better. He told her to put her feet in a hot mustard-bath, as that would draw the pain down from her head; then he patted the children, and mounting his old gray pony, rode away again.

Well, the mother took her pill, and then closed her eyes for a short nap, laying the pill-box down on the low stool beside the bed. Presently Greta, the eldest daughter, came in with the hot foot-bath, and seeing her mother asleep, set it down softly and went out again to get the warm shawl that the good woman would need when she sat up.

Now, it happened that she left the door open, and as this was what the four ducks had been waiting for all day, they immediately waddled into the mother’s room. Poking about in their usual way, they soon found the box of pills, and supposing them to be something particularly nice, they gobbled them all up in the twinkling of an eye. Now, you know that pills are not apt to be nice, and these pills were very particularly nasty, as the ducks soon found out.

“What’s this?” said Gobbler.

“Ugh! quack! ugh! What is it?” exclaimed Red-top.

Waggle-tail had swallowed four pills, and his feelings were too deep for words. His one thought was “something to drink!” and seeing the foot-bath, he plunged his bill in and took a good draught of the hot mustard and water.

Oh, then, what a clamour arose! The other ducks had hastened to follow his example, and now they were all screaming and sputtering and flapping their wings in a way that was dreadful to hear. The poor mother woke up in a fright; Greta and all the children came rushing in, followed by the dog; finally the father came, armed with a heavy stick, and the terrified ducks were driven out of doors, where they sat, shivering, on the doorstep, declaring that they would never eat or drink anything again.

QUEEN MATILDA.

OH! Queen Matilda baked,
And Queen Matilda brewed;
And Queen Matilda taught her boys
They never should be rude.
“Take off your hat!
Wipe your shoes upon the mat!
When you help yourself to butter,
Only take a single pat!”

Oh! Queen Matilda sewed,
And Queen Matilda span,
And Queen Matilda taught her boys
The duties of a man.
“Keep your mouth shut,
Don’t give way to ‘if’ or ‘but;’
Don’t employ your little toofsies
When you wish to crack a nut!”

THE TWO-SHOES CHAIR.

FOR BETTY.

WHEN the baby eyes are heavy,
When the baby feet are sore,
When she cannot go a-singing
And a-springing any more,
Then the Baby and her mother,
Oh! the happy, happy pair!
They turn to seek the shelter
Of the Two-shoes Chair.

_Chorus._—Oh! the Two-shoes Chair!
Oh! the Two-shoes Chair!
’Tis there we seek for pleasure,
And ’tis there we hide from care.
And all the little troubles,
They float away like bubbles,
As we sit and rock together
In the Two-shoes Chair.

Has the dolly’s head been broken?
Has the dolly’s frock been torn?
Has Johnny gone to play with boys,
And left her all forlorn?
Still her little heart is cheery,
And she yields not to despair;
She can always have her mother,
And the Two-shoes Chair.

_Cho._—Oh! the Two-shoes Chair! etc.

When a bump is on her forehead,
Or a bruise is on her knee;
When the kitten has been horrid,
“Just as horrid as can be!”
Then she climbs her coign of vantage,
And is sure of comfort there,
For her mother’s arms are round her
In the Two-shoes Chair.

_Cho._—Oh! the Two-shoes Chair! etc.

But best of all, when twilight
Comes softly down the sky,
When birds are crooning on the bough
Their “Lulla-lullaby!”
When all the stars are ready
To light her to her beddy,
’Tis then she loves to linger
In the Two-shoes Chair.

_Cho._—Oh! the Two-shoes Chair! etc.

ETHELRED THE UNREADY.

ETHELRED UNREADY,
He would not go to beddy.
Sat up all night,
Till his nurse died of fright,
With a nightcap over his heady.

POOR BONNY.

A TRUE STORY.

BONNY was only six years old when it happened. He went to the mill, one day, with his uncle, riding in front of him on the old gray mare, while the bags of corn hung over on each side.

While Uncle Allen talked with the miller, Bonny ran about, peeping here and there; and at last he strayed off into the pasture to see the red calf with the three spots on its nose. He was gone so long that Uncle Allen thought he had run away home, so he rode off with two bags of flour instead of the corn.

Bonny was rather frightened when he found he must go home alone through the woods, a distance of three miles, but he was a sturdy little fellow, and would not let the miller know that he was afraid.

Off he trudged, with his hands in his pockets, whistling the merriest tune he knew, to keep his courage up,—“Tra la lira la!” Very gayly it sounded through the bare woods, for it was early spring, and the leaves were only just beginning to break out of their woolly coverings. The red squirrels came out of their holes to look at him, and the little wood-mice sat and chattered at the doors of their houses. Bonny was used to these little creatures, and only whistled louder when he saw them; but presently he came to something that made him stop whistling and open his mouth very wide indeed with surprise.

On the stump of a fallen tree sat a great bird with mottled feathers, which spread around and over the stump. It was a wild turkey, Bonny knew, for Uncle Allen had told him just what they looked like, though he had never seen one.

When the turkey saw him, she rose up for a moment, and he saw that she was sitting on a nest full of brown eggs. Then she settled down again, folded her wings over her treasure, and glared fiercely at the intruder.

Bonny stood quite still for some time, wondering what he should do. He wanted the eggs,—not all, but just a few, to show Uncle Allen. But the turkey was very large and very fierce-looking, with her glaring, yellow eyes and her sharp beak; and Bonny was only six years old.

On the whole, he thought the wisest plan would be to go straight home and tell Uncle Allen about it; and then they would come together and drive the turkey away, and get a few of the beautiful mottled egg.

Full of his new idea, the little fellow ran on, and finally reached home before dark. But here a sad disappointment awaited him, for Uncle Allen—Bonny had no father or mother, and lived with his uncle—would not believe that he had seen a wild turkey at all.

“Pooh! pooh!” he said. “Nonsense, my lad! you saw a partridge; or it might be a hen that had stolen a nest, as the saying is. There are no wild turkeys about here that ever I heard of. Get your supper now, and go to bed, like a good little lad. We have had a fine worry about you, thinking you were lost.”

Bonny _knew_ it was a wild turkey that he had seen, and he was very unhappy because his story was only half believed.

“If I could only have got an egg!” he said to himself, over and over. “If I had only one egg to show, they would know that I am right. But I know it! I do! I do!” He ate his supper, and went to bed with his head full of the wild turkey, but he was so tired that he fell asleep in spite of himself.

It seemed as if Bonny had only been asleep five minutes when something struck him very hard on the head, and woke him up. He cried out, and opened his eyes in a great fright. Where was he? Why was he so cold? Why were his feet wet?

At first the child was bewildered with fright and amazement; but when he came to himself, he found that he was standing in the midst of a wood, alone, barefooted, clad only in his little flannel nightgown, in the dead of night.

Poor Bonny! poor little lad! And what was he holding up in his nightgown, holding tight with both hands? He let go his hold, and down fell—the wild turkey’s eggs!

The child had walked there in his sleep, and had found the bird gone, or else driven her away, he never could know which. As he raised his head after gathering up the eggs, a branch must have struck him on the head and waked him.

But oh, to get home! It was so cold, so wet! He shivered with fear, as well as with the chill; but this time he would not go back empty-handed. Surely, the eggs could not be _all_ broken?

No, here was one whole one! Clasp it tight, little Bonny, and run! Follow your own little footprints, pit-pat, pit-pat, back through the dark woods,—the moon shining through the trees, and making just enough light for you to see your way,—across the meadow, up the lane and then,—oh! then scamper, run! rush over the home-field, home! home at last!

Pit-pat, softly, up the back stairs, after closing the door, which he found swinging wide open, and the little shivering figure crept into its little bed, cuddled down under the bedclothes and lay as still as a mouse.

Great was the outcry in the morning when Bonny told his story.

“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” cried Uncle Allen.

But there was the turkey’s egg, and there were the little muddy footprints at the back door and up the stairs.

Then Uncle Allen followed the tracks, and went himself across the field and down the lane and over the meadow and through the wood. And when he came to the nest on the stump and the broken eggs, with the print of the little bare feet close by, he said, “Well, well! I declare! now, I do!”

And he went home and gave Bonny a big orange and ten cents and his old jackknife. But Aunt Lucy kept him in bed till noon, and made him drink hot lemonade every hour to take out the cold; and he had the kitten to play with, and Grandma’s spectacles, and he didn’t catch cold, after all.

THE HUSKING OF THE CORN.

WHEN the autumn winds are merry,
And come piping o’er the lea,
Kiss the lassies’ cheeks to cherry,
Toss their curls in frolic glee,

Then the neighbour children gather
At the sound of Robin’s horn,
Trooping to the barn together
For the husking of the corn.

There the floor is swept so trimly,
Ready for the pleasant play,
There the light falls soft and dimly
Down the hills of fragrant hay;

There the pumpkins and the squashes,
In a circle ranged complete,
For the laddies and the lassies,
Make for each a royal seat.

On our golden stools a-sitting,
Each beside a pile of corn,
Lightly goes the laughter, flitting,
While the rustling husks are torn.

And the yellow ears and gleaming
Pile we high before us there,
Till a wondrous castle, seeming
All of gold, we’ve builded fair.

Then, when all is finished, Robin
Brings the apples, glowing red,
Chestnuts in their satin jackets,
Cookies crisp, and gingerbread.

And we feast, with song and laughter,
And we make the echoes ring,
Till each ancient cobwebbed rafter
Shakes to hear our revelling.

Till the rising moon is jealous,
Envying our merry play;
Through the window peeps to tell us,
“Hence, to bed! away! away!”

So, with parting jest and greeting,
Troop the neighbour children home,
Looking to another meeting
When a holiday shall come.

City children, you who wonder
How the “country bumpkins” live,
Know, we would not join you yonder
For all joys that you could give.

Keep your shops, your smoky weather,
Keep your looks of pitying scorn!
You can never troop together
To the husking of the corn!

THE CLEVER CHEESE-MAKER.

ONCE upon a time there lived, in a little straw hut, a poor cheese-maker and his wife. They made good cheeses, and sold them whenever they could; but they lived in a lonely spot, and few people passed by that way, so that they made but a slender living. Now it chanced one day that when the good wife came to count the cheeses she found that there were six missing, although she had not sold any or given them away.

So she said to her husband,—

“Some thief has stolen six cheeses in the night.”

“Good!” said the husband.

“Bad!” said the wife.

“Good, I tell you!” cried the husband. “We will watch to-night and catch the thief, and to-morrow we will take him before the judge and ask that he be forced to pay us twice the value of the cheeses.”

“Good!” said the wife. “What a clever fellow you are!”

“Oh! I have not a pumpkin on my shoulders!” said the husband, chuckling.

Accordingly, the husband and wife concealed themselves under the bed the next night, and watched to see what would happen. About midnight the door opened softly, and in came a large brown monkey. He looked all about, and seeing no one, he went to the cheese cupboard, took three of the finest cheeses, and made off. The wife was for following him, but the husband said, “No! let us wait and see if he comes again.”

So they waited, and sure enough the monkey returned in a few minutes, and taking three more cheeses went off again. This time the man followed him. Holding the cheeses carefully in his arms, the monkey took his way through the woods till he came to the mouth of a cave, into which he ran. The cheese-maker slipped noiselessly after him. They went through a dark, winding passage, which led to a vaulted chamber hollowed in the solid rock. Here the monkey entered, while the man concealed himself behind a point of rock and peeped after him. The room was full of monkeys; and at the farther end sat the Monkey King, on a throne made of a huge mass of gold. The cheese-maker stared at that, for he had never seen such a sight. When the Monkey King saw the cheese, he howled with delight, seized the largest one, and gobbled it up.

When the cheese-maker saw that, he turned about and went home again, for he needed to see no more, having a head on his shoulders, and not a pumpkin.

“How now?” asked his wife. “You come back without the cheeses?”

“Hold your tongue, good wife!” he said. “Knowledge is better than cheese.”

“Truly!” said the wife, scornfully. “It must be a fine knowledge to be worth six of my best cheeses.”

The next night the man hid himself behind the door of the hut, and when the monkey-thief appeared, he sprang out and caught him by his long tail.

“Here, wife!” he cried, “bring me your shears, that I may cut off this fellow’s tail for a rope to beat him with.”

“Ai, ai!” screamed the monkey. “Do not cut off my handsome tail! Spare me, and I will give you whatever you wish.”

“Do you mean it?” asked the cheese-maker, giving the tail a twist.

“Ai, ai!” said the monkey, “I swear it, upon my honour!”

“Then,” said the cheese-maker, “go and bring me a lump of gold from the king’s throne as big as my fist, and you shall have your freedom and a cheese besides.”

The monkey, glad to escape so easily, hastened away, and soon returned with the lump of gold.

“What do you want of this yellow stuff?” he asked. “It is only fit to make chairs of.”

“Well, I may want to make a chair some day,” replied the cheese-maker. “The door will be locked after this,” he added; “but whenever your master wants cheese, you know how to get it.”

It happened, in this way, that the cheese-maker and his wife grew very rich; for the monkeys constantly came to buy cheese, and they always paid for it with heavy lumps of gold. Soon the straw hut disappeared, and in its stead rose a stately house of stone, with gardens and terraces about it. The cheese-maker wore a velvet coat, and his wife flaunted about in a satin gown; but still they never failed to make their cheeses twice a week.

“Why do you still make cheese?” asked the fine visitors who came to see them, rolling in gilded coaches. But the cheese-maker had one answer for them all: “Because I have a head on my shoulders, and not a pumpkin.”

THE SPELLING LESSON.

THE teacher sat in her high-backed chair,
Her chair so straight and tall;
Her eyes went flashing to and fro
Among the children small.
At last she spoke, and “Billy boy!
Now answer, Billy Bolee,
And tell me quickly, what does C-
O-W spell?” quoth she.

Then up went Patty’s hand,
Up went Matty’s hand,
Up went Freddy’s hand, too;
But poor little Billy,
He _was_ so silly,
He didn’t know what to do.

The teacher smiled her pleasant smile,
And shook her small, wise head.
“Be quiet, all! for I am sure
That Billy knows!” she said.
“Put on your thinking-cap, my child,
And tie it very tight;
Then C-O-W will not trouble you,
And you will say it right.”

But up went Patty’s hand,
Up went Matty’s hand,
Up went Freddy’s hand, too,
And poor little Billy
He _was_ so silly,
He didn’t know what to do.

But when the children ’gan to laugh,
And fun at him ’gan poke,
Poor Billy thought it might not be
So _much_ worse if he spoke.
So, lifting up his fearful eyes
All sad and timorously,
“Sure, C-O-W, must spell, _Sobble-you_!”
Thus spoke Billy Bolee.

Then out laughed Matty,
And out laughed Patty,
And out laughed Frederick, too;
But _poor_ little Billy,
He felt so silly,
He didn’t know, _what_—TO—DO!!!

THE PERSON WHO DID NOT LIKE CATS.

ONCE upon a time there was a Person who did not like cats. She did not like dogs, either, but she never said anything about that, because the Big Master and the two Little Masters and the four Little Mistresses were all very fond of dogs, and liked to have them lie round under everybody’s feet and get white hairs all over everybody’s clothes, and take up the whole hearth-rug and run away with the roast beef, and bark to be let out and then howl to be let in, and shake themselves when they were wet, and do all the things that dogs do,—they liked all these things, so the Person who did not like cats never dared to say a word.

But nobody cared very much about cats—except when they were little downy kittens, and they _will_ not stay kittens!—save Maggie, the cook; so the Person felt free to speak her mind, and said she would not have any cats in the house. And after she had said that, these things happened:

One day a kitten belonging to the neighbour’s little boy came into the kitchen, and refused to go out again. The little boy was sent for, and he came and took the kitten home.

Next day it came again, and was taken home again. And so it went on for a week, till every one in the house was tired out with carrying that kitten home, and the kitten’s little boy cried and thought it was too bad. It was.

But the kitten was very happy, and Maggie, the cook, said she “couldn’t let the crathur starve,” so it stayed; and pretty soon it was not a kitten any more, but a cat, and it had kittens of its own, one of which was given to the little boy.

Now the Person who did not like cats said the other kittens must be taken away in a bag; but all the Little Masters and Mistresses cried out, and said,—

“Oh, Mamma!” “Please, Mamma, the dear, sweet little things!” “See their little paws!” “See their dear little noses!” “Hear them squeal!” “We must keep this one, Mamma!” “We can’t possibly part with that one, Mamma!” “Oh, Mamma!” “Dear Mamma!” “Feel this one’s little back!” and so on, and so on.

So the Person said that they might keep the one which they all thought the prettiest, and that the others must go away in a bag; but while they were deciding, the kittens grew up and became cats. So then the bag was not big enough to hold them, and they stayed, partly for that reason, and partly because they were all so ugly that no one could tell which was the least ugly.

Now, one day, the man at the livery stable, where the Master kept his horse, said that he wanted a cat, because the rats were giving him a great deal of trouble in his hay-loft. So the Master took the ugliest cat of all, which was really ugly enough to frighten the crows, and he put her in a basket, and took her away to the stable, and everybody was glad.

But three days after, as the Person was weeding the flowerbed, she heard a loud squeal of joy, and felt something rubbing against her back; she turned round, and there was the Ugliest Cat, purring and squeaking, and seeming just as glad to get back as if she were perfectly beautiful, and as if everybody loved her to distraction. She was sent to the stable again, but this time she came back the very next day, because she had found out the way. So she stayed.

But after that, things went worse than ever. The Person went out to walk, and a cat followed her home, and would not go away, and would come in! and Maggie, the cook, said she “couldn’t see the crathur starve,” so she fed it and it stayed. And on Thanksgiving Day a miserable hungry kitten came to the door and begged to be let in, and nobody could refuse to give it a Thanksgiving dinner, so _it_ came in, and _it_ stayed.

And now the Person who does not like eats has nothing but cats about her all the time. They lie on the stairs and trip her up in the dark. If she takes up a clothes-basket, out rolls a kitten. If she gets the little sleigh to take the Littlest Mistress to ride, out jumps a cat. Wherever she goes, whatever she does, she sees a dirty white cat, or a rusty black cat, or a faded yellow cat, or a dingy tabby cat, or a hideous tortoise-shell beast, which is the Ugliest Cat of all. And the Person would like the children to tell her _what_ is to be done about it!

THE END.

The Hildegarde Series

AND OTHER BOOKS BY LAURA E. RICHARDS.

*** Next to Miss Alcott’s famous “Little Women” series they easily rank, and no books that have appeared in recent times may be more safely put into the hands of a bright, intelligent girl than these four “Queen Hildegarde” books.

HILDEGARDE’S NEIGHBORS.

By Laura E. Richards. A companion to “Queen
Hildegarde,” etc. Illustrated from original designs.
Square 16mo, cloth. $1.25.

A new volume in the “Hildegarde” Series, some of the best and most deservedly popular books for girls issued in recent years. This new volume is fully equal to its predecessors in point of interest, and is sure to renew the popularity of the entire series.

QUEEN HILDEGARDE.

A story for girls, by Laura E. Richards, author of
“Captain January,” etc. Illustrated from original
designs by Garrett (292 pp). Square 16mo, cloth.
$1.25.

“We would like to see the sensible, heroine-loving girl in her early teens who would not like this book. Not to like it would simply argue a screw loose somewhere.” _Boston Post._

HILDEGARDE’S HOLIDAY.

A companion to “Queen Hildegarde.” By Laura E.
Richards. Illustrated with full-page plates by
Copeland. Square 16mo, cloth. $1.25.

HILDEGARDE’S HOME.

By Laura E. Richards, author of “Queen Hildegarde,”
“Captain January,” etc. Illustrated with original
designs by Merrill. Square 16mo, cloth. $1.25.

_ALSO_

FOUR FEET, TWO FEET, AND NO FEET;

Or, Furry and Feathery Pets, and How they Live. Stories
of Animals, Fishes and Birds for the Little Folks.
Edited by Laura E. Richards. Illustrated with nearly
250 wood engravings, all original in design, and
engraved by George T. Andrew. Quarto. Illuminated
board covers. $1.75.

FIVE MICE IN A MOUSE TRAP.

The story of their lives and other wonderful things
related by The Man in the Moon, done in the
vernacular from the lunacular form, by Laura E.
Richards, daughter of Julia Ward Howe, author of
“Four Feet, Two Feet, and No Feet,” “Joyous Story
of Toto,” etc. With a large number of beautiful
illustrations by Addie Ledyard, Kate Greenaway and
others. Quarto. Illuminated board covers. $1.25.

SIX GIRLS.

A delightful book for girls. By Fannie Belle Irving,
a gifted writer, and niece of Washington Irving.
Illustrated from designs by Merrill. 16mo, cloth.
Boston. $1.25.

_Estes & Lauriat, Publishers, Boston._

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 28, “of” changed to “off” (wiped off the dust)

Page 80, “Conquerer” changed to “Conqueror” (of William the Conqueror)

Page 101, “sudddenly” changed to “suddenly” (and suddenly, they emerged)

Page 116, “butttons” changed “buttons” (as many buttons as it)

Page 124, “but” changed to “put” (put on her best bonnet)

Page 161, “lizzard” changed to “lizard” (creature, like a lizard)

Page 208, repeated word “the” removed from text. Original read (up the the back stairs)

End of Project Gutenberg's Five Minute Stories, by Laura E. Richards