Chapter I: AM Katie Sinclair, and Waif is my dog. Now, as everybody who knows him

says he is the nicest dog in the world, I will tell my "Nursery" friends why people think so.

First I must tell you how I got him, and how he came to have such an odd name. One cold, rainy day, about three years ago, I heard a strange noise under the window, and ran to the door to see what it was. There stood a homely little puppy, dripping wet, shivering from the cold, and crying, oh, so mournfully!

I took him in, and held him before the fire till he was dry and warm. Then I got him some nice fresh milk, which he drank eagerly; and he looked up in my face in such a thankful way, that he quite won my heart.

"Poor little dog!" said I. "He hasn't had a very nice time in this world so far; but I will ask mamma to let him stay and be my dog." Mamma consented; and, if that dog has not enjoyed himself since then, it is not my fault.

I was bothered not a little to find a name for him. I wanted one, you see, that would remind me always of the way he came to me,--not a common name, such as other little dogs have. No; I did not want a "Carlo," or a "Rover," or a "Watch." After trying in vain to think of a name fit for him, I asked mamma to help me.

She said, "Call him Waif." I was such a little goose then (that was over three years ago, you know), that I had to ask her what "Waif" meant.

"A waif," said she, "is something found, of which nobody knows the owner. On that account 'Waif' would be a good name for your puppy." So I gave him that name, and he soon got to know and answer to it.

Waif grew fast, and we taught him ever so many tricks. He has learned to be very useful too, as I shall show you.

On a shelf in the kitchen stands a small basket, with his name, in red letters, printed upon it. To this basket he goes every morning, and barks. When Ellen the cook hears him, she takes the basket down, and places the handle in his mouth. Then he goes to mamma, and waits patiently till she is ready, when he goes down town with her, and brings back the meat for dinner.

When papa gets through dinner, he always pushes back his chair, and says, "Now, Waif:" and Waif knows what that means; for he jumps up from where he has been lying,--and, oh! such fun as we have with him then! He walks on his hind-feet, speaks for meat, and catches crumbs.

Last summer I went out to Lafayette to visit grandma. Mamma says, that, while I was away, Waif would go to my room, and sniff at the bed-clothes, and go away whining and crying bitterly. When I came back, he was nearly beside himself with delight.

We never found out where he came from that rainy day. But I don't love him a bit the less because he was a poor, friendless puppy; and when I look into his good, honest brown eyes, and think what a true friend he is, I put my arms around his neck, and whisper in his ear, that I would not change him for the handsomest dog in the country.

S. E. R.

AMY AND ROBERT IN CHINA.

AMY and Robert, with their papa and mamma, live in China, in a place called Foochow. They came here last January, when Amy was just three years old, and Robert a little over one year. They came all the way from Boston by water.

They have a good grandma at home, who sends Amy "The Nursery" every month, and she is never tired of hearing the nice stories.

Out here, the children see many things that you little folks in America know nothing about. When they go to ride, they do not go in a carriage drawn by horses, but in a chair resting on two long poles, carried by some Chinamen called _coolies_. When it is pleasant, and the sun is not too hot, the chair is open; but, if it rains, there is a close cover to fit over it.

It is so warm here, that flowers blossom in the garden all winter; and Amy is very fond of picking them, and putting them into vases. When it is too warm to go into the garden, she has a pot of earth on the shady piazza, and the cooly picks her flowers, to plant in it.

Foochow is on a large river; and the children like much to go out in the sail-boats, called "house-boats." These boats are fitted up just like a house, with a dining-room, sleeping-room, bath-room, and pantry.

The night before Fourth of July, Amy and Robert started with their papa, mamma, and Amah (their colored nurse), and went to Sharp Peak, on the seashore, twenty-five miles from here. They found the boat very nice to sleep in, but were glad enough to get into their own beds the next night.

I am afraid you would not know what these little children say, if you should hear them talk; for they pick up words from their Amah, and do not speak like little American girls and boys.

By and by I shall have more to tell you about them.

AMY'S MAMMA.

ABOUT TWO OLD HORSES.

IN my great-great-grandfather's barn-yard stood an old-fashioned well, with a long sweep or pole, by which the bucket was pulled up. This well was used entirely for the horses and cattle.

Grandfather had a horse named Pete, who would walk out of his stall every morning, go to the well, take the pole, by which the bucket was attached to the well-sweep, between his teeth, and thus pull up the bucket until it rested on the shelf made for it. Then old Pete would drink the water which he had taken so much pains to get.

But one of my uncles had a horse even more knowing than old Pete. This horse was named Whitey. Every Sunday morning, when the church-bell rang, Uncle George would lead Whitey out of his stall, harness him, drive him to church, and tie him in a certain shed, where he would stand quietly till church was done.

After a while, Whitey grew so used to this weekly performance, that, when the bells rang, he would walk out of his stall, and wait to be harnessed. One Sunday morning, Old Whitey, on hearing the bells, walked out of his stall as usual, and patiently waited for Uncle George. But it happened that uncle was sick that morning, and none of the family felt like going to church.

I do not really know what Whitey's thoughts were; but I have no doubt that they were something like this: "Well, well! I guess my master is not going to church this morning; but that is no reason why I should not go. I must go now, or I shall be late."

Whitey had waited so long, that he was rather late; but he jogged steadily along to his post in the shed, and there took his stand, as usual.

As soon as old Mr. Lane, who sat in one of the back-pews and always came out of church before anybody else, appeared at the door, Whitey started for home. At the door of the house he was greeted by several members of the family, who had just discovered his absence, and who learned the next day, from Mr. Lane, that old Whitey had merely been attending strictly to his church-duties.

K. H. S.

FOR ETHEL.

"GOOD-BY! little Ethel, good-by!" says the Light;
For what does my sleepy one need but the night?--
The soft quiet night, like a great downy wing,
To shelter the wee ones, too tired to sing.

Good-by till the dawning:
Some bright star will keep
Its watch o'er your pillow
When you are asleep!

"Good-by, little Ethel," so many things say,--
The wind, that has played in the grasses all day,
The pretty red squirrels you never can catch,
And the kitten, that tries all your playthings to snatch.

When bird, bee, and blossom
Their bright eyes must close,
Is Ethel awake?
Go to sleep like a rose.

CHARLOTTE M. PACKARD.

BABY'S EXPLOIT.

IN the first place baby had her bath. Such a time! Mamma talked as fast and as funny as could be; and the baby crowed and kicked as if she understood every word.

Presently came the clean clothes,--a nice, dainty pile, fresh from yesterday's ironing. Baby Lila was seven months old that very May morning; but not a sign had she given yet of trying to creep: so the long white dresses still went on, though mamma said every day, "I must make some short dresses for this child. She's too old to wear these dragging things any longer."

When baby had been dressed and kissed, she was set down in the middle of the clean kitchen-floor, on her own rug, hedged in by soft white pillows. There she sat, serene and happy, surveying her playthings with quizzical eyes; while her mamma gathered up bath-tub, towel, and cast-off clothes, and went up stairs to put them away.

Left to herself, Lila first made a careful review of her treasures. The feather duster was certainly present. So was the old rattle. Was the door-knob there? and the string of spools? Yes; and so was the little red pincushion, dear to baby's color-loving eyes.

She was slowly poking over the things in her lap, when mamma came back, bringing a pot of yeast to set by the open fire-place, where a small fire burned leisurely on this cool May morning. She put a little tin plate on the top of the pot, kissed the precious baby, and then went out again. Baby Lila was used to being left alone, though seldom out of mamma's hearing. At such times she would sit among the pillows, tossing her trinkets all about, and crowing at her own performances. Sometimes she would drop over against a pillow, and go to sleep.

But this morning Lila had no intention of going to sleep. She flourished the duster, and laughed at the pincushion; then gazed meditatively at the bright window, and reflected gravely on the broad belt of sunshine lying across the floor. That speculation over, she fell to hugging the cherished duster, rocking back and forth as if it were another baby.

A smart little snap of the fire,--a "How-do-you-do?" from the fire-place,--made the baby twist her little body to look at it. She watched the small flames dancing in and out, as long as her neck could bear the twist.

As she turned back again, her eyes fell on the pot of yeast. Oh! wasn't that her own tin plate shining in the sunlight? Didn't she make music on it with a spoon every meal-time? and hadn't her little gums felt of every A, B, C, around its edge? Didn't she want it now? And wouldn't she have it too?

How she ever did it, nobody knows. How she ever got over the pillows, and made her way across to the fire-place in her long, hindering skirts, nobody can tell.

Mamma was busy in another room, when she heard the little plate clatter on the kitchen-floor. Not a thought of the real mischief-maker entered her head. She only said to herself,--

"I didn't know the cat was in there. Well, she'll find out her mistake. I'm not going in till I get this pie done, any way. The baby's all right, and that's enough."

As soon as mamma's hands were at liberty, she thought she would just look in and see what kept the darling so quiet. "All right," indeed! What a spectacle she beheld!

On the bricks before the fire, her pretty white skirts much too near the ashes, sat Baby Lila, having a glorious time. She had found her dear little plate empty; but the brown pitcher was full enough. She had dropped the plate, dipped the feather-duster into the yeast, and proceeded to spread it about, on her clean clothes, on the bricks, on the floor, everywhere.

So, when mamma opened the door, she saw this wee daughter besmeared from head to foot, the yeast dripping over her head and face as she held the duster aloft in both hands.

Just then papa came in by another door. "O John! do you see this child! What if she had put the duster into the fire instead of the yeast!" Mamma shuddered as she took little Lila into her lap for another bath and change of clothes. Papa standing by said,--

"You don't seem to mind having all that to do again."

"Indeed I don't. To think how near she was to that fire! I can never be thankful enough that she dusted the yeast instead of the coals. But how do you suppose she ever got over there?"

S. D. L. H.

THE FOX AND THE CROW.

A CROW, one day, stole a nice bit of cheese,
And flew up in a tree to eat it at her ease.
A sly young Fox, who was passing below,
Saw her as she flew, and he said, "Oh, ho!
Madam Crow."

"What a fine bird you are, with your feathers so gay!
As brilliant as the rainbow, and fairer than the day.
If your voice is as sweet as your form would show,
Then sing me a song: pray don't say 'No,'
Madam Crow."

The crow began her song, when down fell the cheese:
The fox sprang and caught it as quickly as you please;
And as he trotted off, he said, "Oh, ho!
That is just what I wanted. I'll go,
Madam Crow."

ANNIE MOORE.

THE SWALLOWS AND THE ROBIN.

THE woods were showing autumn tints
Of crimson and of gold;
The sunny days were growing short,
The evenings long and cold:
So the swallows held a parliament,
And voted it was time
To bid farewell to northern skies,
And seek a warmer clime.

Southward with glad and rapid flight
They flew for many a mile,
Till in a quiet woodland glen
They stopped to rest a while:
A streamlet rippled in the dell;
And on a hawthorn-tree
A robin-redbreast sat alone,
And carolled merrily.

The wandering swallows listened,
And eagerly said they,
"O pretty bird! your notes are sweet:
Come, fly with us away.
We're following the sunshine,
For it is bright and warm:
We're leaving winter far behind
With all its cold and storm.

"The iron ground will yield no food,
The berries will be few;
Half-starved with hunger and with cold,
Poor bird, what will you do?"
"Nay, nay," said he, "when frost is hard,
And all the leaves are dead,
I know that kindly little hands
Will give me crumbs of bread."

C.

BIRDIE'S PIG STORY.