Chapter M: A. C

AN EXCITING SCENE.

Early last spring, Mistress Jenny Wren took possession of the little box nailed to a tree immediately in front of Mr. Philip's house. She had not really moved in, when who should peep in but Mr. English-Sparrow.

He was abroad house hunting, and never mistrusted that any one had got this house before him. He was thinking how well it would suit himself and mate, when _whir-r-r-r_! _whir-r-r-r_! up came Mrs. Jenny; and before he could offer a word of excuse, she began with, "Fie, fie! I took you for a gentleman! What business have you here?"

"My dear madam," began Mr. Sparrow; but Jenny would not hear him. "Out, out with you, you saucebox, you interloper!" she screamed; and she dashed at him and pecked him till he beat a speedy retreat.

The next day, however, he came round again; whether to express his regrets in due form, or to buy her off, I cannot say; but Mrs. Jenny was unwilling to accept anything but the most humble apology.

One look convinced her that he didn't want her pardon, but her house; and out she flew at his very eyes, and on she chased as far as Mr. Philip, who was sitting at the window, could see. But Mr. Sparrow was seen no more.

I knew Jenny Wren was spirited; but I should hardly have thought that of her; should you!

MR. PERIWINKLE.

"MAKE A PIE."

The summer before our Mary was two years old, she and her brother used to make pies in the sand, cutting them out with the cover of a little tin pail, always using water to mix them, if they could obtain it.

About this time, Bertie was learning,--

"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land."

One day, Mary thought she would say it with him, so she began,--

"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make _a pie_."

"Make the mighty ocean, Mary," said her brother.

"No, _make a pie_," said Mary; and she could not be induced to say it right till months afterwards.

MARY'S MAMMA.

A BIG DOG.

I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from the baby's hand.

For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of sight.

Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps, when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly; for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk together; then he takes himself off.

By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him. Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm, and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off.

Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him.

I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of

BOUNCER.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Again, beside the roadside, blows The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose; Its purple head the clover raises; And all the fields are full of daisies; And in the sunshine flutters by A little white-winged butterfly.

From flower to flower I watch him go; He seems a floating flake of snow: Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging; There on a buttercup he's swinging; And now he makes a little stop Upon a scented thistle-top.

Could we change places, he and I, And I should turn a butterfly, How gayly, then, I'd hover over The elder-flowers and tufts of clover! I'd feast on honey all the day, With nobody to say me nay.

But, could I only honey eat, 'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet: The pretty flowers would quickly wither; And, all day flying hither, thither, My wings would ache: I'm glad that I Am not that little butterfly.

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

THE YOUNG CRITIC.

Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.

Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in the building.

Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for a quarter of an hour at a time.

One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton," said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than the other?"

Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."

Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one. He thinks it must be a charming occupation to make molasses-candy, and be able to eat as much as he wants. He must live and learn.

ARTHUR SELWYN.

PLAYING HORSE.

Among Ellen's playthings, there is none that pleases her more than the bright worsted reins which her aunt bought for her at the May fair.

"Reins!--what does a girl do with reins?" I think I hear somebody ask. Why, she plays horse with them, to be sure. She has a brother Charles. He is the horse sometimes; and sometimes he is the driver, and Ellen is the horse. Either way, it is good fun.

One fine June day, her elder brother, Ned, took part in the play. He said there should be a span of horses. He and Charles would be the span, and Ellen should drive. "No," said Ellen, "I would rather be one of the horses."

So Nelly and Ned were harnessed together, and Charley took the reins. "Get up!" said he, and away they went. As they crossed the lawn, they passed a lawn-mower, and the horse Ned shied badly. If he had not had such a steady horse as Nell by his side, there might have been an accident.

As it was, Charles held him in with a tight rein, and the two horses came trotting back to the starting-point at full speed. If Charles had had a watch to time them by, I think he would have found that they made a mile in less than three minutes.

A. B. C.

JACK.

Jack was not a handsome dog. His best friends could not call him a beauty; but as he was a very wise, good dog, we were all very fond of him.

One afternoon, some of the younger members of the family were sitting on the piazza, waiting for papa, who was expected home on the five-o'clock train. Jack was lying beside them.

At last, the whistle sounded in the distance; and the little four-year-old "flower of the family" said, "Run, Jack, to meet papa at the station." Jack looked up, listened intently for a moment, and then lay down again with a sigh of disappointment.

"Oh, what a lazy fellow!" said six-year-old Annie. "If mamma would only trust us to go to the station, we would not wait, or play sleepy." But the train passed on, and papa had not come.

In a little while, another whistle sounded; and this time, without a word of command, Jack sprung off the steps, dashed down the street, and returned in a few moments, escorting his master.

How did Jack know that the time-table had been changed that day, and a freight-train had taken the place of his master's train?

Another time, an uncle, who was visiting the family, had occasion to stay in town until the last train. Jack refused to be shut up, and, at eleven o'clock at night, went in the dark to the station, and escorted our guest up to the house.

How did he know what train to meet? and what instinct impelled him to do his part towards keeping up the courtesy of the family?

A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA.

Here we are in Santa Cruz, in a hotel right on the beach. We had such a lovely stage-ride over the mountains, and enjoyed the mountain air so much, that I was almost sorry when we arrived. I wish you could see the great madroña-trees on the mountains with their dark-red wood and beautiful green leaves. I do not believe you have any Eastern trees so beautiful.

On the top of the Santa Cruz mountains, where we stopped to water the horses, there is a little house, and while we waited there, out from the house came a man whose face was all scarred and seamed. After we drove away, the stage-driver told us that the man was a hunter, known as "Mountain Charley," and that his scars were made by a grisly-bear.

Well, we have now been at Santa Cruz a week, and I have had a good time. Every morning we go in bathing. It is a funny sight to see everybody racing down into the waves, and catching hold of a big rope that is stretched from the shore a good distance into the water. The undertow here is so strong, that it is not safe to venture away from the rope.

Yesterday we all went to Moore's Beach to have a "clam-bake." We rode in a big wagon; and the first thing we did, when we got to the beach, was to pull off our shoes and stockings, and wade in the water. Papa and Uncle John dug the clams; while the rest of us ran about hunting for sea-urchins and shells.

As soon as the clams were boiled, we sat down on the beach, and unpacked the lunch-baskets. Oh, how hungry we were! and how good every thing tasted.

There was one lady in the party, who sat up high on the rocks, with her kid gloves on, and her sunshade over her, while the rest of us were running about with bare feet, and skirts tucked up. But at lunch-time she came down from her high place, and I saw her eating clams with as good a relish as any of us.

Next week we are going to Pescadero, and, perhaps, I will write to you again from there.

DAISY.

THE PARROT WHO PLAYED THE MASTER.

A STORY WITH A MORAL.

The master of the house had gone out on business. As he shut the door, the parrot, whose place was on a perch in the room, thought to himself, "Hi! Now I am master in this house, and I'll let people know it."

He thereupon threw his head proudly on one side, and spread himself in a very pompous manner; then, as he had seen his master do, broke the finest rose from the bush, and put the stem in his bill; then looked at his gay-colored coat in the glass, and felt as grand as a born nobleman.

Near by, on the rug, two dogs, Ami and Finette, lay asleep. They were well-trained, obedient dogs, clean-limbed and civil, expert in many clever tricks, but not quite a match for the parrot in cleverness and cunning.

As soon as the latter spied them, he cried out, imitating his master's tones, "Finette, attention! Ami, make ready!" Whereupon Ami stood up on his hind-legs, straight as a sentinel; while Finette hurried up, expecting to have something thrown for him to bring back.

There stood and stood the poor simpletons, steadfastly looking up, while Master Poll cried sternly all the while, "Ami, make ready! Finette, attention!" Finette became almost wild with eagerness; and poor Ami could hardly stand on his hind-legs any longer.

At last the master came home, and put an end to the torture of the poor dogs.

The moral of my story is this: whenever a simpleton puts on airs and plays the master, there are always other simpletons ready to obey his commands.

VICTOR BLUTHGEN.

CATSKILL-MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

My little friend Mabel is passing the summer amid the Catskill Mountains. These mountains are in the State of New York, on the west side of the Hudson River.

Round Top and High Peak, two of the highest summits, are about thirty-eight hundred feet above the level of the sea. They are well covered with forests, and in autumn, when the leaves begin to change, they make a very brilliant show.

The Catskill-Mountain House is finely situated on a rocky terrace, twenty-two hundred feet above the river. It is twelve miles from the village of Catskill, and is much resorted to in the summer season.

The prospect from this house is quite extensive. Mabel writes me that the view of the sunrise is grand; the air is cool and bracing; and the sight of the tops of trees rolling below, like a sea, for miles and miles, is a thing to remember.

ANNA LIVINGSTON.

SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE.

Words by MATTHIAS BARR. Music by ROBERT MILLS.

1.

Sleeping in the sunshine,
Fie, fie, fie!
While the birds are soar-ing,
High, high, high!
While the birds are op'-ning sweet
And the blossoms at your feet,
Look a smil-ing face to greet.
Fie, fie, fie!

2.

Sleeping in the sunshine,
Fie, fie, fie!
While the bee goes humming,
By, by, by!
Is there no small task for you,--
Nought for lit-tle hands to do;
Shame to sleep the morning through!
Fie, fie, fie!

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