Chapter L: S. H

THE TOAD.

WHAT a curious thing is the little brown toad;
Do come and look at it, pray!
It sits in the grass, and, when we come near,
Just hops along out of our way.

It does not know how to sing like a bird,
Nor honey to make like a bee;
'Tis not joyous and bright like a butterfly;
Oh, say, of what use can it be?

But, since God made it, and placed it here,
He must have meant it to stay:
So we will be kind to you, little brown toad,
And you need not hop out of our way.

E. A. B.

TRUE STORY OF A BIRD.

ONE day last spring, in looking over the contents of some boxes which had long been stowed away in the attic, I found some pieces of lace, which, though old-fashioned, seemed to me very pretty. But they were yellow with age,--quite too yellow for use.

I took them to the kitchen, and, after a nice washing, spread them on the grass to bleach. I knew that the bright sun would soon take away their yellow hue.

A day or two after, Johnnie came running in, and said, "Auntie, the birds are carrying off all your old rags out there," pointing to the place where the laces were spread. Out I went to see about my "old rags," as he called them; and I found that several pieces were missing. We knew that the birds must have taken them; but, where to look for them, we could not tell.

That afternoon, Johnny invited me and his cousins to take a row with him in his boat to Rocky Island, of which the readers of "The Nursery" have heard before. We were all glad to go. As we were passing some bushes on the bank of the river, one of us spied something white among them. We wondered what it could be.

Johnny rowed nearer; and we could see that it was a piece of lace. Rowing nearer still, we saw another piece, and another, and at the same time heard the flutter of wings. We then asked to be landed, and our boatman soon brought us to shore in fine style.

On parting the bushes, we saw a nest just begun, and a piece of lace near it, but not woven in. Close by were four other pieces; but they were all caught by the little twigs, so that the bird could not get them to the nest. We took the lace off carefully, leaving the nest as it was, and brought it away with us.

On returning to the house, the children measured the lace, and found nearly six yards, the largest piece being about two yards. It seemed quite a lift for the little birds; and it was too bad that after all they did not get the use of it. But do you think they were discouraged?

Oh, no! for they soon had a nice nest built; and one day Johnny found an egg in the nest, which, from its bright hue, he knew to be a robin's egg. This was followed by other eggs, and, in due time, by a whole brood of young birds.

AUNT ABBIE.

A ROUGH SKETCH.

HERE is a boy drawing on a wall. He is a shoemaker's boy. His name is Bob.

Tom, the baker's boy, and a little girl named Ann are looking on. "What is it?" asks Ann at sight of the picture.

"It's a fine lady, of course," says Tom. "Don't you see her head-dress and her sun-shade?" Bob is so busy that he cannot stop to talk.

He is well pleased with his work. But the man who is looking around the corner of the wall does not look pleased in the least.

It is plain that he has no love for the fine arts. Or it may be that he does not like to see such a rough sketch on his wall.

Perhaps he thinks that when boys are sent on an errand, they ought not to loiter by the way.

A. B. C.

PETER'S PETS.

"HOW old are they, Peter?" asked Ralph Lamson, pointing to two little guinea-pigs on a rude cage which Peter had himself made.

"I've had them about six weeks," said Peter. "I don't know how old they were then; but they were only little things: they've grown twice as big since I've had them."

"What do you give them to eat?" asked Edwin Moore.

"Oh! all sorts of things," replied Peter. "They're fond of carrots, apples, and all sorts of green leaves, and, what is queer, they are fond of tea-leaves."

"Fond of tea-leaves!" cried Ralph and Edwin.

"Yes," said Peter, "they like tea-leaves very much. I give them oats too, and bits of bread."

"And what do they drink?" asked Edwin.

"They don't want much to drink, if they get plenty of green stuff and tea-leaves," said Peter; "but they like a drop of milk now and then, if they can get it."

"Where do these animals come from?" asked Ralph.

"From Brazil and Paraguay in South America. It is thought that their odor drives away rats; and that is one reason why we keep them."

"What will you sell them for?" asked Ralph.

"Oh, I can't sell them!" said Peter. "They are my pets. Funny little fellows they are, and not so stupid as they seem. This white one I call Daisy; and the other I call Dozy, because he sleeps a good deal."

UNCLE CHARLES.

THE STROLLING BEAR.

IN St. Paul, one day last winter, a big black bear was seen strolling along on the sidewalk on Third Street. He seemed to be quite at his ease, and would stop now and then, and look in at the shop-windows.

Half a dozen men and boys soon gathered behind him, following him at a safe distance. Others, going up and down the street, would stop to learn the cause of the crowd, and perhaps join it, so that they might see the end of the fun.

For a while, Bruin did not seem to care much for the crowd. But they grew to be pretty free in their speech, calling out to him, "Does your mother know you're out?" "Will you take a glass of whiskey?" and making other rude remarks. Bruin stood it for a while, then turned fiercely upon the crowd, who scattered at once, some running into shops, and others down the side-streets.

This free-and-easy bear then continued his stroll. But the crowd behind him grew larger and larger, and he again turned upon them, and made them run, all laughing and shouting, in various directions.

At last, as if he had had enough of this kind of fun, he quickened his pace, driving five or six fellows into a saloon, while he followed close at their heels. The boys on the other side of the street laughed at this: so he crossed the street quickly, and put them to flight; and the way they all ran was fun for those near the saloon, who were now the laughers, in their turn.

At last, a man with whom Bruin was well acquainted, and on good terms, came up, with a chain in his hand, and threw it about the bear's neck; and then, as if he had had quite enough of a stroll, Bruin quietly followed his guide, and was led back to his owner.

ALFRED SELWYN.

THE PARROT AND THE SPARROW.

AT the "Jardin des Plantes," a famous garden and museum in Paris, there was once a parrot that took a great fancy to a little wild sparrow.

Every morning, the little bird would fly to the parrot's perch; and there it would sit almost all day by the side of its great friend. Sometimes the parrot would raise his unchained claw, and the sparrow would perch upon it.

Jacquot,--that was the parrot's name,--holding the sparrow at the end of his claw, would turn his head on one side, and gaze fondly on the little bird, which would flap its wings in answer to this sign of friendship. Then Jacquot would slide down to his food-tin, as if to invite the sparrow to share his breakfast.

Once the parrot was ill for some days. He did not eat: he trembled with fever, and looked very sad. The sparrow tried in vain to cheer him up. Then the little bird flew out into the garden, and soon returned, holding in his beak some blades of grass. The parrot with great effort managed to eat them. The sparrow kept him supplied with grass; and in a few days he was cured.

Once, when the sparrow was hopping about on the grassplot near the parrot's perch, a cat sprang out from some bushes. At this sight, Jacquot raised a loud cry, and broke his chain to fly to the aid of his friend. The cat ran away in terror; and the little bird was saved.

UNCLE CHARLES.

THAT FOX!

A LITTLE gray fox
Had a home in the rocks,
And most of his naps and his leisure took there;
But, one frosty eve,
He decided to leave,
And for a short absence began to prepare.

A letter he wrote;
And he brushed up his coat;
And he shook out his tail, which was plumy and fine:
At first break of day
He galloped away,
At some distant farm-house intending to dine.

How gay he did look,
As he frisked to the brook,
And gazed at himself in the water so clear!
He looked with delight
At the beautiful sight;
For all was so perfect, from tail-tip to ear!

That noon, our gray fox
Called on good Farmer Knox,
Where some of the fattest of poultry was kept,
And, sly as a mouse,
Lay in wait by the house;
Or, peeping and watching, he stealthily crept.

He felt very sure
He should shortly secure
A fat little chicken, or turkey, or goose;
And his eyes were as bright
As the stars are at night,
As he tried to decide which his foxship should choose.

From his sharp-pointed nose
To the tip of his toes,
He was all expectation!--when, suddenly "_Snap!_"
With a "_click_" and a "_clack_;"
And, before he could wink,
This smart little fox was caught fast in a trap.

And now that gray fox
Does not live in the rocks;
And just what his fate was I never have learned:
This only I know,
That, a long time ago,
He left there one morning--and never returned.

FLETA F.

GRASSHOPPER GREEN.

T. CRAMPTON.

1.
Grasshopper Green is a comical chap;
He lives on the best of fare;
Bright little jacket and breeches and cap,
These are his summer wear.
Out in the meadows he loves to go,
Playing away in the sun;
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,
Summer's the time for fun.

2.
Grasshopper Green has a dozen wee boys,
And soon as their legs grow strong,
All of them join in his frolicsome joys,
Humming his merry song.
Under the leaves in a happy row,
Soon as the day has begun;
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,
Summer's the time for fun.

3.
Grasshopper Green has a quaint little house,
It's under a hedge so gay,
Grandmother spider as still as a mouse,
Envies him o'er the way.
Little folks always he calls I know,
Out in the beautiful sun:
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,
Summer's the time for fun.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for this number.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Nursery, May 1877, Vol. XXI. No. 5, by Various