Chapter I: COULD not have been quite six years old when I became the possessor of

a canary-bird, to which I gave the name of Cherry.

There were three children of us,--myself (the oldest), Arthur, and baby. My father was at sea; and my mother had charge of us all in her little house near the ocean.

Well do I remember one cold day in winter when we were all gathered in the one little apartment that served us for nursery, dining-room, and sitting-room. Arthur, who had overslept himself, was at his breakfast; mother was feeding baby; and I was looking at my dear Cherry in his cage.

Pots of hyacinths in bloom were on the table; Mr. Punch, Arthur's Christmas present, lay as if watching the cat on baby's pillow in the basket; and Muff, the old cat, with Fair-Star her kitten, were lapping milk from a basin on the floor.

My dear mother had taught Muff to be good to Cherry; and Muff seemed to have overcome her natural propensities so far as to let Cherry even light on her head, and there sing a few notes of a song.

So, on the day I am speaking of, I let Cherry out of his cage; and he flew round, and at last lighted on the kitten's head. At this Muff seemed much pleased; and Fair-Star herself was not disturbed by the liberty the little bird took.

But all at once Muff sprang upon Cherry, and, seizing him in her mouth, jumped up on the bureau. At last it would seem as if the old cat had chosen her time to kill and eat my poor little bird.

No such thing! Our good Muff was all right. A neighbor, who had come to borrow our axe, had left the back-door open; and a hungry old stray cat had suddenly made her appearance. Muff saw that Cherry was in danger, and seized him so that the strange cat should not harm him.

Cherry was not only not hurt, but not frightened. Well do I remember how my mother placed baby on the pillows, drove out the strange cat, and then took up Muff, and petted and praised her till Muff's purr of pleasure was loud as the noise of a spinning-wheel.

After that adventure, Cherry and Muff and Fair-Star were all better friends than ever.

LUCY KORNER.

THE FAT LITTLE PIGGIES.

SAID a sow to her piggies so white,
"Oh! the chilly winds whistle around,
There is ice on the old miller's dam,
And there's snow on the hard frozen ground;
But a warm, sheltered stackyard have we,
Where all day you may play hide-and-seek:
So away, little piggies, my white little piggies,
For a gambol and scramble and squeak.

"You have all had your breakfasts, I know;
For your trough was full, up to the top,
Of the sweetest potatoes and milk;
And you've not left a bit or a drop;
But, though an old sow, I'll not grunt:
So begone round the barn for a freak,
And I'll watch you, dear piggies, fat, curly-tailed piggies,
As you hurry and scurry and squeak."

So at once, 'mid the fresh-sprinkled straw,
The young pettitoes scampered away;
And they rooted and burrowed and hid,
Then all quiet a minute they lay:
Soon their pink-pointed, noses peeped out;
Then their bodies, so plump and so sleek.
Oh the glad little piggies, the mad little piggies--
How they snuffle and scuffle and squeak!

GEORGE BENNETT.

A SONG OF NOSES.

UNCAN has a nose,
Points my finger at it:

Has a nose the hare,
He will let you pat it.

Has a nose the bull,
Soon he will be lowing.

Has a nose the fox,
He is very knowing.

Peacock has a nose,
Very proud he's feeling.

Has a nose the hog,
Soon he will be squealing.

Tell me which of all these noses
Duncan now the best supposes.

ABOUT SOME INDIANS.

LAST summer a party of Indians,--men, women, and children,--in nine little birch canoes, came paddling down the Mississippi River, and landed at our village in Illinois. They were of the Chickasaw tribe from Minnesota, who are half-civilized, and speak our language imperfectly.

Indians, you must know, do not live in good warm houses as we do. They live in wigwams, as they call their houses, which are merely a few poles stuck in the ground, and covered with skins or blankets.

They do not provide regular meals, but live from hand to mouth by hunting and fishing. Sometimes they have to go without food a long time. The men are too lazy to work. They like better to strut about with their faces painted all the colors of the rainbow.

The Indians who came to our village were very good specimens of their race. Of course, their visit made quite a sensation, especially among our young folks. As soon as they landed, the squaws (women) threw their blankets over their shoulders, swung their pappooses (babies) on their backs, and, with their little boys and girls, came up into town.

The Indian boys made some money by shooting arrows at cents stuck in a stake. They were quite skilful. The squaws offered for sale slippers, moccasons, and bags, which they had worked themselves with sinews and porcupine-quills.

Their chief, a large man, whose face was painted bright red, got the use of our town hall, and in the evening gathered his party there, and showed us some of their dances. Two of the men beat a "tum-tum" on their rude drums (which looked like nail-kegs); and the little and big Indians danced or hopped around in a circle, singing, "Ye, ye! yu, yu! hi, yi! ye, ye!"

Now and then the chief would pull out a long knife, and swing it around his head; and another Indian would draw up his bow, as if he were going to shoot. This was the war-dance.

We were all much amused; and our little boys and girls laughed heartily. We gave the Indians some money to buy their breakfast, and they said, "Yank, yank!"

When they, or a like party, come again, I will tell you more about them.

CARLOS.

PLAYING TABLEAUX.

THE picture of "Miss Jones" in the February "Nursery" reminded me of two other little girls who are as fond of "playing people" as Edith May.

Nearly every day in winter, when they cannot play out of doors, these little girls dress up to represent different characters. They call this "Playing Tableaux;" but their _tableaux_ are something more than pictures, as they act their parts as well as dress them.

Sometimes, for instance, one of the little girls appears as a peddler, who is quite as hard to get rid of as a real one.

Sometimes a washerwoman comes in, and gets about tubs and clothes, and makes all the confusion of washing-day.

Sometimes papa's great shaggy black coat covers what pretends to be "your good old dog Tiger," who is very kind to his friends, but has loud, fierce "bow-wow-wows" and sharp bites for those who are not good to him.

Sometimes poor little lame Jimmy, who can only walk on crutches, comes in to sell shoe-strings, "because," he says, "you know I can do nothing else to help my poor mother."

Sometimes a ring at the door-bell calls our attention to the wants of a deaf-and-dumb beggar, who makes fearful gestures till he is fed, and then forgets that he cannot speak, and says, "Thank you!" in a very familiar voice.

When these little girls have company, they often fit out travelling parties for California, or a trip to Europe; and the baggage they make out to collect would serve very well if they were "really and truly going," as they tell us they are.

Their good-bys are very affecting as they kiss us all, and beg us write by the first mail.

AUNT MERCY.

A-MAYING.

WHEN the wild March winds were blowing,
Not so very long ago,
And it still kept snowing, snowing,
Piling, drifting,
Heaping, sifting,
Snow on snow,
Faithless Fanny said, "Spring never
Will be here; 'twill snow forever;
And I don't believe I ever
Shall again a-Maying go!"

April pleased her little better:
Now 'twas rain as well as snow;
Every day was wet and wetter,
Drifting, dropping,
Soaking, sopping,
Raining so,
That poor Fanny feared the showers
Would quite drown her precious flowers;
And for what, in May's bright hours,
Could she then a-Maying go?

Now the gay May sun is shining,
Pink and sweet the Mayflowers blow;
And forgetting her repining,
Her complaining
Of the raining
And the snow,
With its fitful, frosty flurries,
Fanny lingers not, nor worries,
But to field and greenwood hurries;
For she must a-Maying go.

FENNO HAYES.

LITTLE MISCHIEF.