Chapter I: TOLD my story first, as mammas usually do; and it was all about a

naughty little pig, who did not mind his mother when she bade him stay in the sty, but crawled through a hole in the wall.

Of course this pig got into the garden, and was whipped by the farmer, and bitten by the dog, and had all sorts of unpleasant things happen to him, till he was glad to get back again to the sty.

"Now I'll tell you a pig story," said Birdie, with a very wise look.

"Once there was a big mother-pig, and she had
_lots_ of children-pigs. One was spotted, and his
name was Spotty; one's tail curled, and he was
Curly; another was white, and he was Whitey;
another was Browny; and another was Greeny."

"Oh, dear! the idea of a _green_ pig!" said I.

But Birdie's eyes were fixed on the floor. He was too busy thinking of his story to notice my remark. He went on,--

"One day the pigs found a hole in the wall, and
they crawled through,--all of 'em, the mother-pig
and all; and, when they got out, they ran off,
grunting with--with joy. And when the farmer saw
them, he went after them on a horse; but he
couldn't catch them, for they all ran down under a
bridge where there had been a brook; but the water
was all dried up.

"Then the farmer got a long pole, and poked under
the bridge; but he couldn't reach them. He put
some potatoes down there too, but the pigs weren't
going to be coaxed out. And when they had staid as
long as they wanted to, they came out themselves,
and got home before the farmer did."

That was the story, and I forgot to ask how they got home before the farmer did unless he drove them; but I think they must have gone home across the field, because it is plain that Birdie's pigs did just as they liked all through. What I did ask was, "Well, what was the good of it all?" for I thought nobody ought to tell a story without meaning some good by it.

"_Why, they got some fresh air!_" cried Birdie, triumphantly; and considering that most farmers keep their pig-sties in a filthy condition, which can't be healthy for the pigs, nor for those who eat them, I thought Birdie's story had a very good moral, which is only another way of saying that it had a good lesson in it.

BIRDIE'S MAMMA.

OUR FRIEND THE ROBIN.

ONE very hard winter, a robin came, day after day, to our window-sill. He was fed with crumbs, and soon became tame enough not to fly away when we opened the window. One cold day we found the little thing hopping about the kitchen. He had flown in at the window, and did not attempt to fly out again when we came near.

We did not like to drive him out in the bitter cold: so we put him in a cage, in which he soon made himself quite at home. Sometimes we would let him out in the room, and he would perch on our finger, and eat from our hand without the least sign of fear.

When the spring came on, we opened the cage-door and let him go. At first he was not at all inclined to leave us; but after a while he flew off, and we thought we should never see him again.

All through the summer and autumn, the cage stood on a table in a corner of the kitchen. We often thought of the little robin, and were rather sorry that the cage was empty.

When the winter set in, we fancied we saw our old friend again hopping about outside the window. We were by no means sure that it was the same robin; but, just to see what he would do, we opened the window, and set the cage in its old place.

Then we all left the room for a few minutes. When we returned, we found, to our great delight, that the bird was in the cage. He seemed to know us as we petted him and chirruped to him; and we felt certain that it was our dear old friend.

T. C.
CHISWICK, LONDON.

FRANK'S HIGH HORSE.

FRANK wanted a high horse: so he took the sewing-chair, put the hassock on it, put the sofa-pillow on that, and mounted.

How he got seated up there so nicely I don't know; but I know just how he got down.

The horse did not mind the bridle, but he would not stand the whip. He reared, lost his balance, and fell over.

Down came Frank with sofa-pillow, hassock, and all. By good luck, he was not hurt; but he will not try to ride that horse again.

A. B. C.

SAGACITY OF A HORSE.

A YOUNG gentleman bought a hunting-mare from a farmer at Malton in England, and took her with him to Whitby, a distance of nearly sixty miles. One Wednesday morning the mare was missing from the field where her owner had placed her. A search was made for her, but with no success.

The next day the search was renewed. The owner and his groom went some ten miles, and were told that the mare had crossed the railway the morning before. At this point the trail was easy. The mare had taken the high road to her old home at Malton.

Six men had tried, but in vain, to stop her. At a place called Pickering, she jumped a load of wood and the railway gates, and then, finding herself in her old hunting country, made a bee-line for home. In doing this, she had to swim two rivers, and cross a railway.

She was found at her old home, rather lame, and with one shoe off, but otherwise no worse for her gallop of nearly sixty miles across the country,--all done in one day; for her old owner found her on Wednesday night, standing at the gate of the field where she had grazed for two previous years. Was she not a pretty clever horse?

UNCLE CHARLES.

PHANTOM.

WE have a little white dog whose name is Phantom. This is his portrait. I hope you are glad to meet him. Ask him to shake hands. He would do so at once if you could only see him in reality.

When he was only a few months old, he followed us all to church without our knowing it; nor did we see him, till, in the most solemn part of the service, we heard a patter, patter, patter, coming up the aisle, and there stood Phantom at the door of our pew. In his mouth was a long-handled feather duster, which he had found in some obscure corner of the building, and where it had been put (as it was supposed) carefully out of everybody's way.

Phantom is very intelligent, and has learned a number of tricks. He can understand what is said to him better than any dog I ever knew; but he is best known among the children here for his love of music and singing.

He has only learned one song yet; but he knows that as soon as he hears it. Wherever he may be,--up stairs, or down stairs, or out of doors,--if he hears that song, he will sit up, throw his head back, and you will hear his voice taking part in the music.

You may sing a dozen songs, all in about the same tone; but he will take no notice till he hears the tune he has learned, and then he will sing with you--not in a bark or a yelp, but in a pure, clear voice, as if he enjoyed it.

If you could see him sitting up, with his nose in the air, his mouth open, and his fore-paws moving as if playing the piano, and could hear his music, I am sure you would laugh till the tears came into your eyes.

UNCLE TIFFY.
CARONDELET, MO.

CHRISTMAS.

Words by ALFRED SELWYN.[A] Music by T. CRAMPTON.

Treble clef lyrics: Bass clef lyrics:
Hark! the bells are sounding, Welcome to our pleasures
Christmas draweth nigh; And our Christmas cheer!
Now let joy abounding, We'll not stint the measures,
Bid all sorrow fly. Would you all were here!

Ye who pine in sorrow, Boys and girls together--
Come be cheer'd to-day; From all parts and climes,
Of our gladness borrow, To enjoy this weather,
As you freely may. And these Christmas times!

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Nursery, 1876.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number.

The notes about treble and bass clef lyrics were added to indicate what the original music score represented.

Page 176, period added to end of paragraph (in both hands.)