Chapter M: K. M (3)

When the fly has had its first sip, it does not stop and fly right out, as it could do, but it indulges until it comes staggering up and reaches that portion where the hairs begin; here its progress outward is stopped, owing to the points of the hairs being placed against it. The fly is now in a pitiable plight; it attempts to use its wings, but in doing so only hasten its destruction. It inevitably gets immersed in the liquid, and dies drunk.

_Australian Pitcher Plant_ is a beautiful little object. Its pitchers are at the bottom of the principal stem of the plant.

One species distils an intoxicant of its own; but owing to its small orifice, it excludes the majority of insects, and admits but a select few. The individual pitchers somewhat resemble an inverted parrot's bill, with a narrow leaf-like expansion running along the top. The color is light green, beautifully shaded with crimson. The inside of the pitcher is divided into three parts: The first, nearest the entrance, is studded with minute honey glands, and is called the attractive surface; a little farther down the inside, very minute hairs are situated with their extremities all pointing to the other chamber. This is the conducting surface.

Lastly, the small hairs give place to the longer ones, amid which are placed secreting pores, which give forth the intoxicating nectar. This is termed the detentive surface. When the pitcher has caught a sufficient number of insects, the nectar gives place to a substance which enables the plant more readily to digest its food.

Another variety is the _Mosquito Catcher_. It grows about one foot high, and the leaves, after reaching a certain height, divide into long, narrow spathes, covered with hairs, each coated with a bright gummy substance. This, during sunshine, gives to the plant a most magnificent appearance. If a plant be placed in a room where mosquitoes abound, all the troublesome pests will in a brief period be in its steady embrace.

It is most interesting to watch the method by which it secures its prey. Immediately the fly alights on the leaf, it may be that only one of its six legs stick to the sweet, viscid substance at the extremity of the hairs; but in struggling to free itself, it invariably touches with its legs or wings the contiguous hairs, and is immediately fixed.

These little hairs meantime are not idle; they slowly but surely curl round and draw their victim into the very center of the leaf, thus bringing it into contact with the very short hairs, which are placed there in order to facilitate the process of sucking the life-blood from the body.

THE CUCKOO CLOCK.

The clock is Swiss,
And a curious thing it is,
Set like a flower against the wall,
With a face of walnut brown
Twelve white eyes always staring out,
And long weights hanging down.

But there is more
At the top is a little close-shut door.
And when 'tis time for the hour-stroke,
And at the half-stroke too,
It opens wide of its own accord,
And, hark,--"Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

What do you see?
Why, with a trip and a courtesy,
As if to say,--"Good day, good day,"
Out steps a tiny bird!
And though no soul were near to hear
He'd pipe that same blithe word.

Through all the night,
Through dawn's pale flush, and noon's full light,
And even at twilight, when the dusk
Hides all the room from view,
Out of his little cabinet
He calls,--"Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Though but a toy,
Yet might the giddiest girl or boy
Learn three most pleasant truths from it:
How patiently to wait,
How to give greeting graciously,
And never to be too late.

'Tis sweet to hear,
Though oft repeated, a word of cheer;
So this little comrade on the wall,
This bird that never flew,
Is an hourly comfort, with his call,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!"

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

DAVY'S GIRL.

ALEX. DUKE BAILIE.

She was only five years old, hardly that, but a stout, healthy little creature, full of love and fun, but often hard to manage.

Maggie was her name, but she would call herself nothing but "Davy's girl."

Davy, her brother, a brave, good boy, about fifteen years of age, was all she had to cling to, and she was his only treasure. They were orphans; their father had been drowned, with many other poor fishermen, when Maggie was a wee baby, and the mother, soon after, died, from worry and hard work.

So these two were all alone in the world, but they did not feel lonely, for each one was all the world to the other.

They lived with an old fisherman and his wife, on the shores of the ocean, in New Jersey; and in the inlets and about outside, Davy used to go with the men, in the boats, and help them fish; sometimes he would work in-shore, for the truck farmers; sometimes help to gather the salt hay from the marshes. He would work hard at any thing so as to make money to keep his little sister comfortable and to give her all it was well for her to have.

In winter he would tramp through cold and snow and storms, several miles, to the little town where the school was, and so, every year, he gained a few weeks of instruction.

The people among whom these orphans lived were rough, but kind-hearted, and Davy always had enough work to enable him to earn money sufficient to keep Maggie and himself in the simple way in which every body about them lived.

Whenever he had an idle half-day, or even a few hours, he would take the little girl and his books, and go down to the shore, and getting into one of the boats always to be found drawn up on the sand, he would study hard to learn, for he was anxious to get on in the world, not only for his own, but his sister's sake, and Maggie would take one of the books, and open it, and run her little fat finger over the page, and move her lips, and make believe that she, too, was studying her lessons and she would keep still as a little mouse, until, after a few minutes of nodding, her eyes would close, then her head would drop on Davy's knee, and she would be off--sound asleep, until it was time for him to go.

It happened, one afternoon, as Davy, with Maggie, was going to the boat, which was his favorite place of study, a farmer drove along and asked him if he could not go and help with some work.

They were very near home yet, and when Davy said, "Maggie, will you run right home?" she answered, "'Es;" so the brother saw her start off towards the house, which was in sight, then jumped in beside the farmer, and they drove off.

It was several hours before the boy returned. He went directly home, and as soon as he entered, called, "Maggie!"

"Maggie aint here," said Mrs. Baker, who was busy cleaning up the floor, "she hasn't been here since you took her out with you."

If ever there was a frightened boy, it was Davy, then. He knew how careless his little sister was, and how she loved to go down and splash in the water, and play around the deep pools. He could look, from the door, all along the beach and out on the sea, and there was no sign of his little girl. Mrs. Baker was frightened, too, when he told her all. They ran to the few houses about, and while some of the children had seen Maggie, it was hours before; since then she had disappeared entirely.

It was a terrible blow to the poor boy, and he blamed himself as he thought that perhaps his dear little sister was dead under the great waves, or her body was being washed away far beyond his reach. He ran up and down, everywhere calling her name as loudly as he could, but no answer came.

Almost blind, with the tears in his eyes, he stood still for a moment to think, when he caught sight of a little paper book. He knew it at once; he had made it for Maggie so that she would not soil or tear his own. In a moment he was running as fast as his feet would carry him to the boat on the sand, a considerable distance off; quickly he reached it, and climbed up the side. No Maggie yet.

The great sail lay in a heap before him; he walked around it, and there, all curled up, fast asleep, was his runaway girl.

How his heart did jump for joy as he picked her up, and kissed and petted her.

But Maggie cried, and said he hurt her.

Then he found that in climbing into the boat to "study her lessons," she had sprained her ankle, and she had been very miserable all by herself, and cried and called for him until she fell asleep.

The books, all but one, were lying on the other side of the boat, on the sand. Davy never minded them, precious as they were to him, but taking his little sister on his strong back, he carried her home, her arms about his neck and her cheek close to his; and Maggie had to stay in the house, with her foot bandaged, for a week. But Davy never forgot that fright nor left her to herself again until she was much older; and the little girl never thought of disobeying his orders after that. They had both learned a hard lesson.

EARLY TEA.

Five little pussies
Sitting down to tea;
Pretty little pussies,
Happy as can be!

Three little pussies,
All in a row,
Ranged on the table,
Two down below.

Five little pussies,
Dressed all in silk,
Waiting for the sugar,
Waiting for the milk.

Dear little pussies,
If you would thrive,
Breakfast at nine o'clock,
Take tea at five.

BONEY.

Boney was not a thin cat by any means, as his name would suggest. He was very stout for his age; this could be explained by the fact that he had always looked out for number one, and had managed to secure a great many nice things to eat in the course of his short life.

His coat, which was striped, gray and black, had an infinite number of shades in it and was so beautiful, that more than one lady wanted to buy him.

Boney was not his whole name. A lovely romance could be written, I've no doubt, out of the adventures of this cat, before Fannie found him, one cold morning, in the summer-house. He was covered with dust and leaves, and moaning piteously. Fannie said,--"Pussy, pussy," to him; and he tried to get up and come to her, but he couldn't make any progress, and John Henry came up at that moment, and taking up the cat by the back of the neck, looked at it critically, and said,--"That cat ain't a-going to die--he'll come out all right in a few days; he's been pelted with stones by those children that live at the cross-roads, I think."

Fannie followed her brother into the house with the cat, and he gave it some warm milk, and Fannie covered it up, snug, by the kitchen stove.

It was surprising how soon that pussy got well; and John Henry chose to call him Boneset. The name took in the household, and though Fannie called him "Boney," Boneset was his real name. John Henry bought him a collar, and Fannie would tie a beautiful scarlet ribbon on this, and away they'd go together, down the road to the village post-office. He'd look very sharply at the meadow-birds flitting over the stone fences, and the yellow butterflies on the tall mullen stalks, as if he would say,--"I'll get you any of those you'd like to have, my dear mistress."

But Fannie would say, "Don't think of it, Boney; I would like to have them, but it would be wicked to catch them you know." Pussy did not want to give up the sport of hunting them, however, and Fannie would have to take him right up, and carry him until they had passed them.

He had such lovely coaxing ways; he knew to a minute when it was lunch time, and he had his in the kitchen, but he would steal up into the dining-room, and pass round softly to Fannie's place, and pop up into her lap--or, if she were standing up, he'd get upon the table and rub his furry cheek against her shoulder, and shut one eye.

Then Fannie would turn round, and his comical appearance, sitting there with his little pink tongue sticking out between his lips, would make Fannie just jump up and down with laughing.

Of course, he wanted some of Fannie's lunch, and he always got it, and this was the way he managed to get so fat and sleek.

One unfortunate time, Fannie was very sick; the room was darkened, and the doctor came. All the pets were not allowed to come near the room.

It was, oh, so lonesome for Boney. No one petted him like his little mistress, and they didn't put up with his tricks, or laugh at his funny pranks.

The time went by heavily enough, he had not had on any of his ribbons, and he would go and stay away from home for days together, and when he came home just before dark, he had a wild look, as if he had been in rough company.

On a lovely morning in June, Fannie was carried down stairs, to sit in the bay window, in the sunshine, and the ivy hung down its fresh, green leaves.

Boney saw her the first thing. His delight knew no bounds; he rubbed his back against her chair, turned his head around in her robe as it lay on the carpet, and jumped into her lap! And Fannie smoothed his back with her little thin hand.

After a time he went away, and nobody thought any thing about him, till dinner-time, when, what should they see coming up the piazza steps, but Boney, with a bobolink in his mouth! He walked right up to Fannie, and laid it down at her feet, and looked up at his little mistress, with such a satisfied, happy expression on his face, as if he would say,--"There, that's the best I could do, and you are welcome to it."

Fannie understood his good intentions, and laughed heartily, and that was the beginning of her recovery.

Pretty soon, she was able to go out again, and she and Boney had the best of times that summer.

CATCHING SNOW FLAKES.

BY MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Down from the sky, one winter day,
The snow-flakes tumbled and whirled in play.
White as a lily,
Light as a feather,
Some so chilly
Were clinging together.
Falling so softly on things below,
Covering all with beautiful snow.

Drifting about with the winds at play,
Hiding in hollows along the way,
White as a lily,
Light as a feather,
Coming so stilly
In cold winter weather.
Touching so lightly the snow-bird's wing,
Silently covering every thing.

Every flake is a falling star,
Gently falling, who knows how far?
White as a lily,
Light as a feather,
Hosts so stilly
Are falling together.
Every star that comes fluttering down,
Falls, I know, from the Frost King's crown.

A MISCHIEVOUS MONKEY.

Jocko was hardly more than a baby monkey, but he was so full of mischief that he often made his mother very sad. Jocko's father used to get angry with him; sometimes he used to give Jocko a good spanking; only he hadn't a slipper as the father of little boys have! Jocko's father and mother used to try to teach him that it was very bad manners to snatch any thing from the visitors who came up to the cage. That was a very hard lesson for Jocko to learn. One day he snatched a pair of spectacles from an old lady, who was looking into the cage and laughing; the old lady screamed with fright. Jocko tried to put the spectacles on himself; but the keeper made him give them up. When the old lady got her glasses again, she didn't care to look at the monkeys any more.

Another day Jocko was taken very sick; he laid down in one corner of the cage, and could not be made to move. His mother thought he was going to die, and she was quite sure that some of his monkey cousins had hurt him. "Not so," chattered Jocko's father, "I found some pieces of gloves among the hay; I think the bad fellow has snatched them from somebody, and partly eaten them."

"Dear, dear," chattered mother monkey, "I think you are right." When she turned Jocko over, he was so afraid of being punished, that he pretended to be fast asleep; but he heard all that his father and mother had said, and knew that they guessed right.

"They're just like boys," said George Bliss one day, as he stood looking at the monkeys in Central park. George is a boy, and he ought to know. But there is a great difference after all. Boys can learn, better than monkeys, not to get into mischief, and bother their parents, and other people who come where they are. Some boys do not behave better than monkeys.

THE AFRICAN SLAVE BOY.

There are few who have not heard or read of the great traveler, Sir Samuel Baker, who found his way into the heart of Africa, and whose brave wife accompanied him in all his perilous journeys. The natives, when they found how kind he was, and how interested in trying to help them, called him the Great White Man.

One day, after traveling a long distance, Sir Samuel and Lady Baker were sitting, in the cool of the evening, in front of their tent, enjoying a cup of tea in their English fashion, when a little black boy suddenly ran into the courtyard, and throwing himself at Lady Baker's feet raised his hands toward her, and gazed imploringly into her face.

The English lady thought that the little lad was hungry, and hastened to offer him food; but he refused to eat, and began, with sobs and tears, to tell his tale. He was not hungry, but he wanted to stay with the white lady and be her slave.

In broken accents he related how cruelly he had been treated by the master, who stole him from his parents when he was quite a little boy; how he made him earn money for him, and beat him because he was too small to undertake the tasks which were set him. He told how he and some other boys had crept out of the slave-hut at night and found their way to English Mission House, because they had heard of the white people, who were kind to the blacks.

Then little Saat, for that was his name, made Lady Baker understand how much he loved the white people, and how he wished to be her little slave. She told him kindly that she needed no slave-boy, and that he must go back to his rightful master. But little Saat said, "No, he had no master;" and explained that the Missionaries had taught him a great deal, and then sent him, with some other lads, to Egypt, to help in the Mission work.

Unfortunately, his companions had soon forgotten the good things they had been taught, and behaved so badly that the Missionaries in Egypt refused to keep them, and turned them out, to find their way back as best they might to their own people; but Saat had no people of his own, and he never rested until he succeeded in finding the Great White Man of whom he had heard so much.

Lady Baker's kind heart was touched. She determined to keep the little black boy and train him to be her own attendant. He accompanied the travelers upon their wonderful journey to the Source of the Nile, and his attachment to his mistress was very touching.

CLIMBING.

The ivy, while climbing, preserves its pointed leaf, but when it has reached the top of its support it spreads out into a bushy head and produces only rounded and unshapely leaves.

The ivy, climbing upward on the tower,
In vigorous life its shapely tendrils weaves,
But, resting on the summit, forms a bower,
And sleeps, a tangled mass of shapeless leaves.

So we, while striving, climb the upward way,
And shape by enterprise our inner lives;
But when, on some low rest we idly stay,
Our purpose, losing point no longer strives.

ELLIOT STOCK.

LITTLE ELSIE.

FAITH LATIMER.

"I don't thee ath a Chineth baby lookth any differenth from any other folkth baby, do you, Perthy?"

"That's what I am trying to find out," said Percy, whom his little sister May called her "big brother;" for only that morning she had said to her mother,--"I will athk Perthy, he ith tho big, he muth know every thing."

Percy was as full of wonder as little May over the baby sleeper. He wanted to see the back of her head, but it was resting on the soft pillow, and the eyes were tightly closed. May stood at the foot of the bed longing, and yet afraid, to pull up the cover, and look at the little feet. "Do you thpect she wearth pink thatin thlipperth like thothe in the glath cathe?" she said.

The voices did not waken the baby even when Percy made May give a little scream as he pulled her braided hair, and carried off the ribbon, saying,--"You've got a Chinese pig-tail anyway." Did you ever see a big brother do any thing like that? Then Percy went out and slammed the door, and left little May thinking very hard, and the baby asleep, after all that noise. What was May thinking about? She had heard mamma talk a great deal about China, and had seen queer pictures of people with bald heads and a long braid of hair hanging down behind, and in the cabinet in the sitting-room was a pair of tiny pink satin slippers, so small that her little hand could just go into one of them. Then she had a Chinese doll with almost a bald head, and the queerest shaped eyes; and that was why she and Percy wanted this baby to wake up that they might see what she looked like. That very morning while the children were visiting their grandmother, a carriage came to their house, bringing a little baby and its mother; and by the time they got home, the child was in May's crib, fast asleep, and the two mothers were talking together as they had not done for years before. Baby Elsie was not easily wakened, for she never had a very quiet place to sleep in. She was quite used to strange noises on shipboard, creaking ropes and escaping steam, loud voices giving orders to sailors, sometimes roaring waters and stormy winds. She had been many nights in a railroad sleeping-car, and she was not disturbed by the rush of wheels, or the whistling of the locomotive. Before that, she lived part of her little life on a boat in a narrow river, and a few months in a crowded, noisy house. Does it seem as if she had been quite a traveler? She had just come all the way from China--a land on the other side of the round world--and that was the reason that May called her a Chinese baby. Percy and May had never seen Elsie's mother, although she was their own aunt, for she and her husband had been more than ten years missionaries in China, and had come on a visit to America. Don't you think the two mothers, dear sisters, who had been so long and so far apart, had a great deal to say to each other? Do you expect they wanted Elsie to sleep quite as much as her cousins wanted her to wake? She was a good child, but she knew how to cry, and after a few days Percy said,--"She's not so much after all, she can't talk and tell us anything, and when she cries, she boo-hoo's just as you do, May."

In a week, two more Chinese travelers came; the baby's father, and another cousin, Knox, a boy nine years old. Did you ever fire off a whole pack of Chinese fire-crackers at a time? That was almost the way that questions were asked by the two boys, back and forth, so quick and fast that there was hardly time to answer each one. The boy from Shanghai found as many things strange to him as the New York boy would have seen in China. Percy, and May, although she could not understand half she heard, were full of wonder as Knox told of living on a boat in the river, of so many boats around them, where people lived crowded together as closely as houses could be on land. He told of the cities, of narrow, crooked streets, all the way under awnings, to be shielded from the hot sun; of riding many miles in a wheel-barrow, with a Chinaman to push it along the road. They all laughed when Percy said they called their cousin Elsie "a Chinese baby;" and the grown folks helped to tell about the black-eyed babies over there, wrapped up in wadded comforts and placed standing, a great, round roll, in a tall basket, instead of a cradle. Percy thought the best thing he heard was of a boy in a royal family. He had to be well taught, for he must be a wise scholar in Chinese learning, but no one dared to touch or hurt him; so a poor boy of low rank was hired and kept in the house to take all the whippings for him; and whenever the young prince deserved correction, the bamboo rod was well laid on the poor boy's back. What would you think of such a plan? Elsie's father and mother were going back to China, but they were not willing that Knox should grow up there; he must go to some good school and stay in this country. Even little Elsie they dared not trust out of their sight among the Chinese.

And so for the love of the dear Master, who said,--"Go and teach all nations," they were willing to leave father and mother, and home, loving sister and friends, even their own young children, for His sake.

Don't you believe our heavenly Father will watch over Knox and Elsie, and make them grow up wise and true; ready to go back to the land where they were born, to carry on the good work their father and mother are doing in that strange, far-off country?

Do you know of any ways in which children at home can help such work in China, or in other far-off foreign lands?

KITTY STRIKER.

Little Kitty Striker saw
A handsome, fat, old goose
Out a-walking with her gosling.
And she said,--"Now what's the use,
Of letting that old waddler have
Such a pretty thing as that?
I'll run right out and get it;
I'll go without my hat."
Out she ran upon the dusty path,
On the grass, all wet with dew,
And the old goose turned round quickly,
She wished an interview.
And Kitty said,--"Oh, open your mouth
As much as ever you please;
I'm going to take your gosling,
Because I love to tease
Such a cranky, impudent squawker as you."
And she laughed right out, and stooped
To take the toddling little thing,
When down upon her swooped,
The angry goose with hisses fierce,
And wildly flapping wing,
And gave her a nip that was no joke!
On the heel of her red stocking!
Miss Kitty screamed, but tightly held
The little yellow ball,
And you know she'd not the shadow of right
To that goose's gosling at all.
Then its mother made a terrible snap
At Kitty's pretty blue dress!
And that thoughtless, mischievous little girl,
Was pretty well frightened I guess.
For she jumped and screamed, danced round like a top,
And the goose's eyes flashed red;
And she struck her wings in Kitty's eyes,
And on her little brown head!
She dropped the gosling, and ran for home,
Screaming, and crying,--"Boo! hoo!"
And learned a lesson she never forgot,
And it's as wholesome for me and for you,
That it's best to be kind to our barnyard friends,
And let them have their fun too.

MAYING.

Phil says he thinks it is a great pity when the May isn't out till June, because you can't go Maying if there isn't any May, and it's so stupid to go Maying in June. Phil is eleven months and fourteen days younger than I am, and his birthday is on the fourteenth of February and mine is on the first of March; so for fourteen days we are the same age, and when it's Leap Year we are the same age for fifteen days.

I don't understand _why_ it should be a day more some years and not others, but mother says we shall learn about it by-and-by. Phil says he will like learning all that, but I don't think I shall, because I like playing better.

Phil and I have a little dog of our own, and he belongs between us. His name is Dash. He came from the Home for Lost Dogs, and we didn't know his name, so Phil and I sat on the grass, and we called him by every name we could think of, until Phil thought of Dash, and when Dash heard that name he jumped up, and ran to Phil, and licked his face. We don't know what kind of dog he is, and father called him a 'terrier spaniel;' but he laughed as he said it, and so we're not quite sure that he wasn't in fun. But it doesn't matter what kind of dog Dash is, because we are all fond of him, and if you're fond of any one if doesn't matter what they're like, or if they have a pretty name.

Dash goes out with us when we take a walk, and I'm sure he knew yesterday when we went out without leave, because we wanted to go Maying. There's a beautiful hedge full of May blossoms down the lane and across the meadow, and we _did_ want some May very badly. So Phil and I went without asking mother, and Dash went with us.

We found the place quite easily, and had pulled down several boughs of it, when we heard a gruff voice calling to us, and the farmer came up, asking what we were doing to _his_ hedge.

I said, "Please, we didn't know it was yours, and we want some May very much, because to-morrow's the first of June, you know, and Phil says we can't go Maying then."

The farmer didn't say any thing until he caught sight of Dash, and then he called out, angrily,--"If that dog gets among my chickens, I shall have him shot!"

We were so frightened at that, that we ran away; and Dash ran too, as if he understood what the farmer said. We didn't stop for any May blossoms though we had picked them, and we did want them so, because of its being the thirty-first of May.

Phil said the farmer was calling after us, but we only ran the faster, for fear he should shoot Dash. When we got home, mother met us in the porch, and asked where we had been; then we told her all about the farmer, and how we wanted to go Maying while we could.

She laughed a little, but presently she looked quite grave, and said,--"I'm very glad to find you have told me the whole truth, because if you had not I should still have known it. Farmer Grey has been here, and he told me about your having gone across his meadow that he is keeping for hay. He has brought you all the May you left behind, and he says you may have some more if you want it, only you must not walk through the long grass, but go round the meadow by the little side-path. He said he was afraid he had frightened you, and he was sorry."

Phil and I had a splendid Maying after that. We made wreaths for ourselves, and one for Dash, only we couldn't get him to wear his, which was a pity.

But the best of all is that mother says she can always trust us, because we told the truth at once; and Phil and I think we would rather never go Maying any more (though we like it so much) than not tell her every thing. I'm sure it's a very good plan, and we mean to do it _always_, even when we're quite grown up. Mother laughs at that, and says,--"You will have your secrets then;" but Phil and I don't think we shall, because it couldn't be a really nice secret if we mightn't tell mother.

I. T.

GRACIE'S TEMPER.

"Once a gentle, snow-white birdie,
Came and built its nest,
In a spot you'd never dream of,--
In a baby's breast.

Then how happy, gentle, loving,
Grew the baby, Grace;
All the smiles and all the dimples
Brightened in her face.

But a black and ugly raven
Came one morn that way;
Came and drove the gentle birdie.
From its nest away.

Ah! how frowning and unlovely
Was our Gracie then.
Until evening brought the white dove
To its nest again.

Children, this was Gracie's raven,
This her gentle dove,--
In heart a naughty _temper_
Drove away the _love_."

Among the passengers on board a river-steamer recently was a woman, accompanied by a bright-looking nurse-girl, and a self-willed boy, about three years old.

The boy aroused the indignation of the passengers by his continued shrieks and kicks and screams, and his viciousness toward the patient nurse. He tore her bonnet, scratched her hands, without a word of remonstrance from the mother.

Whenever the nurse showed any firmness, the mother would chide her sharply, and say,--"Let him have it, Mary. Let him alone."

Finally the mother composed herself for a nap; and about the time the boy had slapped the nurse for the fiftieth time, a bee came sailing in and flew on the window of the nurse's seat. The boy at once tried to catch it.

The nurse caught his hand, and said, coaxingly:

"Harry mustn't touch. It will bite Harry."

Harry screamed savagely, and began to kick and pound the nurse.

The mother, without opening her eyes or lifting her head, cried out, sharply:

"Why will you tease that child so, Mary? Let him have what he wants at once."

"But, ma'am, it's a--"

"Let him have it, I say."

Thus encouraged, Harry clutched at the bee and caught it. The yell that followed brought tears of joy to the passengers.

The mother awoke again.

"Mary!" she cried, "let him have it."

Mary turned in her seat, and said, confusedly:--"He's got it, ma'am."

THE SWEET-GRASS HOUSE.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Two little mice went out one day
Among the scented clover;
They wandered up and down the lane,
They roamed the meadow over.
"Oh, deary me!" said Mrs. Mouse,
"I wish I had a little house!"

Said Mr. Mouse,--"I know a place
Where nice sweet grass is growing;
Where corn-flowers blue, and buttercups
And poppies red, are blowing."
"Oh, deary me!" said Mrs. Mouse,
"We'll build us there a house."

So, of some sweet and tender grass
They built their house together;
And had a happy time, through all
The pleasant summer weather.
"Oh, deary me!" said Mrs. Mouse,
"Who ever had so nice a house?"

JOHNNY'S GARDEN.

Johnny had a garden plot,
And set it all in order,
But let it run to grass and weeds,
Which covered bed and border.

Two stalking sun-flowers reared their heads,
So firmly were they rooted,
And Johnny, as he looked at them,
Was any thing but suited.

Two children small, looked up and said,
Oh, Mister, beg your pardon!
Or, if you will not answer that,
Say, sonny, where's your garden?

"What d'ye call those two large flowers?
An' what'll ye take, an' sell em?
You'd better put a ladder up,
So folks our size can smell 'em.

"We heard old Mrs. Grubber say,
'That spot ye needn't covet;
He'd better turn it into hay,
Or make a grass-plot of it.'"

But Johnny never answered back,
But went and dug it over,
And soon again, his sprouting seeds,
He plainly could discover.

He said, "I'll have a garden yet.
And make a little money;
I never liked those Podger twins,--
They try to be so funny."

BOY BILLY AND THE RABBIT.

Billy, boy! Billy, boy!
He was his mother's joy,
But he couldn't shoot an arrow worth a cent;
And a rabbit almost laughed
As she watched the flying shaft,
And the place upon the target where it went.

The rabbit passing by,
So very soft and sly,
Took Billy for a hunter gaily dressed;
But when she came anear,
She said, "'Tis very clear
It's safe enough to stay and take a rest."

Said the rabbit, "Billy, boy,
You never will annoy
Anybody, by your shooting at a mark;
With an arrow and a bow,
I just would like to show,
I can reach the bull's-eye nearer in the dark."

Just then an arrow flew,
That pierced it thro' and thro'
Which made Miss Bunny start, and jump, sky high!
She cried, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
It's safer in the rear;"
And scampered off and never said,--"Good-bye."

You see the reason why,
'Tis always best to try,
Tho' others laugh and slander all the same;
For be it late or soon,
They'll always change their tune,
When they see your arrow doesn't miss its aim.

A FISH STORY.

HOPE LEDYARD.

Six eager faces, all crowding around to "see the picture!" Four of the faces belong to girls--Edith and Mamie, Birdie and Jeanie, while Al and Dick, who are pretty big boys, "over ten," lean over the back of the chair.

"_He's_ had a good catch," says Al.

"_He's_ not caught those," says Dick, while the girls look first at the picture and then at the boys. "I guess that fellow standing up in the boat is his father. The men have caught the fish and the boy takes them to sell. Why, a fish as big as one of those fellows could pull a boy right into the water, easy!"

"My brother Dick _knows_," whispers Jeanie, proudly. "He took me fishing once and I caught two fish."

The little girls look as if they could hardly believe this, so Jeanie pulls mamma's arm and asks, "Didn't I catch two fish last summer?"

"Indeed she did," says Dick, before mamma has time to answer. "She caught two sun-fish. I never saw any one do it better. Mother fried 'em for her dinner, too."

"My sister goes to a cooking school and learns to bake fish," says Edith, "and she is teaching me at home. I know the verse about cooking fish."

We all begged Edith to say the verse, so, after a little coaxing, she repeated:

"Our lesson is fish, and in every dish
We would like to meet our teacher's wish.
But many men have many minds,
There are many fishes of many kinds;
So we only learn to boil and bake,
To broil and fry, and make a fish-cake.
And trust this knowledge will carry us through
When other fishes we have to 'do.'"

Edith is a little orphan girl who lives with her grandmother and sister Minnie. We are all so interested about the cooking class, that she tells us about how they learn to bake bread.

"I mixed the bread last Friday night and made some biscuit in the morning, and if I hadn't forgotten the salt they would have been splendid. I don't remember all the verses about bread, but one verse is:

"'Now you place it in the bread bowl,
A smooth and nice dough ball,
Last, a towel and a cover,
And at night that's all.
But when morning calls the sleeper
From her little bed,
She can make our breakfast biscuit
From that batch of bread.'"

"Well, it's girls' work to cook and boys' work to catch," said Al, who was getting tired of hearing verses.

"Jeanie did some catching before she was five years old, and you forget how nicely papa cooked the breakfast when you were camping out last summer."

"I suppose his cooking, like Jeanie's fishing, was just an accident."

"No, indeed! Good cooking has to be learned," I said, "and this picture makes me think of the first fish I had to cook, and what a foolish girl I had."

"Oh, mamma's going to tell us a story about when she was a girl," Jeanie exclaims. So all take seats--Jeanie on my lap, the boys on the two arms of my chair, and the three little sisters on chairs or footstools.

Not about when I was a girl, but about when I was a very young wife.

You boys know that I had always lived in a big house in the city, where the servants did all the cooking and such work, while I practiced music or studied or visited my Sunday-school scholars. I was just as fond of them in those days as I am now. Well! Your papa took me to a dear little house, far, far away, near Lake George. I had a very young girl to help me about the house, who did not know any thing about cooking. I thought I knew a good deal, for I had learned to bake bread, and roast meat and make a cup of tea or coffee. I had just as much fun keeping house in that little cottage as Jeanie has playing house up stairs. But one day papa went off in a hurry and forgot to ask me what I wanted for dinner. He was to bring a gentleman home that day and I hoped he would send me a good dinner.

About ten o'clock Annie, my little servant, came to me and said, "Oh, ma'am, the butcher's here with a beautiful fish the master has sent for the meat."

"A fish! Annie, do you know how to cook fish?" I said.

"No, ma'am. Only it's fried they mostly has 'em."

I went into the kitchen and there lay a beautiful trout--too pretty to eat, it seemed to me. Certainly too pretty to be spoiled by careless cooking. So I took my receipt book and after reading carefully, I stuffed the pretty fish and laid him in a pan all ready for the oven, and told Annie to put it in at eleven o'clock.

I was pretty tired, so I lay down for a little nap, and had just dropped asleep when Annie came into the room, wringing her hands and saying, "Oh, ma'am! Oh, ma'am! What'll I do in the world?"

It seems that she had taken the fish out of the safe and put it, pan and all, on the table, and then, remembering I had told her to sprinkle a little pepper on it, she went to the closet for her pepper-box, and when she came back, the pan was empty!

"The cat stole it, Annie," I said.

"Indade and she didn't. The innocent cratur was lyin' on my bed and the door shut."

I tried to quiet the girl; but I told her at last she could go home that night, only she must dry her eyes and run to the butcher's for a steak, for the master would be home with a strange gentleman in half an hour. We managed to get the steak cooked, and papa tried to laugh Annie out of the notion of a ghost stealing our beautiful fish, but the girl would not smile and was afraid to be left alone in the kitchen. So after tea she packed up her things and was to take the stage to the depot; for Annie lived a long way off.

Just before the stage came as I was standing at the gate, my eyes full of tears at losing my nice little servant all on account of a fish, I saw the lady who lived across the way open her gate and come toward our house. I saw the stage stop a few doors off as she came to our gate and bowing to me said:

"Excuse me, we are strangers, but did you lose a fine trout to-day?"

She must have thought me mad, for I rushed into the house, and called: "Annie, Annie, I've found the fish! Now put your things back in the bureau, you silly girl."

Then I went back and invited my neighbor in, telling her about Annie's fright.

"Why, it was our Nero--our great dog! I was away at my mother's or I would have brought it back, for I was sure it belonged to you. Nero must have slipped in, nabbed the fish, and brought it to our house. He laid it on the kitchen floor, as if he had done a very good deed, my girl tells me, and she, foolish thing, thought he had brought it from my mother's, and cooked it."

We had a hearty laugh at our stupid servants, and were great friends from that day, and I never see a picture of fish for sale, but I think of my first trout, which I prepared for dinner with such care, but never tasted. Annie never dared say "ghosts" after that, and lived with us till Dick was three years old. But there is papa, and these little girls must have a piece of cake and run home.

Transcriber's Note

The story SAILOR BABIES seems to end rather abruptly, and the poem following, PRETTY POLLY PRIMROSE, seems to start in the middle. Another copy of the book was checked and found to be the same, with no sign of a missing page, so this is probably a printing error.

The poem starting "Dick and Gray" was originally in the middle of the story THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS; the poem has been moved before that story for readability.

The second page of the story DIME AND BETTY, starting "I drive Betty to pasture every day," was obtained from a different copy of the book, which was identical in all aspects except the layout of the copyright page.

The story THE TOWER OF LONDON consistently refers to Anne Boleyn as Anna Boleyn. This has been preserved as printed.

Punctuation errors have been repaired. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation has been preserved as printed across different pieces, but made consistent within individual pieces, as follows:

IN THE WOODS--Molly amended to Mollie--""You were
mistaken, Mollie, I'm sure.""

HOW THE DAYS WENT AT SEA-GULL BEACH--Estelle amended to
Estella--"We put the pole through the handle and Estella
and myself took hold ..."

DINGFORD'S BABY--Hettie amended to Hetty--"That little
brother of Hetty Dingford was the funniest baby on the
coast; ..."

The following amendments have also been made:

THE LAUGHING JACKASS--rellishes amended to relishes--"He
relishes lizards very much, and there are plenty ..."

THE LAUGHING JACKASS--rotton amended to rotten--"She
lays here egss on the rotten wood at the bottom of the
hole."

TOMMY AND THE GANDER--then amended to them--"Tommy took
one of them in his hands."

FAN'S CARDS--Chrisrmas amended to Christmas--"Then they
all waved their cards and cried "Merry Christmas! ...""

WHO KILLED THE GOOSE?--alway amended to always--""People
are always saying dogs do things," ..."

MRS. GIMSON'S SUMMER BOARDERS--fricaseed amended to
fricasseed--"If coffee and fricasseed chicken would not
be just the thing ..."

MRS. GIMSON'S SUMMER BOARDERS--heir amended to
their--"... with their graceful talk, and numberless
resources of entertainment."

SMALL BEGINNINGS--close by amended to by close--"... and
by close application to his studies, ..."

AUTUMN LEAVES, AND WHAT KATIE DID--thown amended to
thrown--"... their leaves are thrown away, and they are
empty-handed."

WAIF'S ROMANCE--presented amended to prevented--"...
even if the overflowed valley had prevented her
accustomed excursions; ..."

WAIF'S ROMANCE--receeding amended to receding--"...
until he came to a good sized pond left by the receding
waters ..."

WAIF'S ROMANCE--smuggled amended to snuggled--"... the
kitten was snuggled up as close to her brute protector
..."

TWO LITTLE GIRLS--befel amended to befell--"And this is
what befell;"

THE LION AT THE "ZOO"--purs amended to purrs--"... he
lies down and purrs as good-naturedly as a pussy cat,
..."

A table of contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

Illustration captions in {curly brackets} have been added by the transcriber for the convenience of the reader.

The frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page. Illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.