Chapter II (1)

After a while the dogs stopped running and began to trot, and Ahmow looked about over the vast fields of ice.

Not a tree, not a house, not a person was in sight. As far as he could see there was nothing but ice and snow. Everything was still and white in the dim light.

When they had nearly reached the island, what did they see but a huge polar bear! He was prowling around the oil casks, looking for something to eat.

Nannook unharnessed the dogs at once. “Go,” he cried, and they raced across the ice after the bear.

The bear was so big and clumsy that he could not run fast. The dogs soon surrounded him, and held him until Nannook came running up to shoot him.

Ahmow helped his father skin the bear and cut up the meat. Then they loaded the sledge with a cask of oil, some walrus meat, the bearskin, and part of the bear meat.

After eating their luncheon, Ahmow was again rolled up in the bear rug, and they started for home. Nannook walked beside the sledge. The dogs walked too, because the load was so heavy.

When they were nearly halfway home, Nannook saw some reindeer.

“Watch the dogs, Ahmow,” he said, “and I will try to shoot one of those reindeer. Then we can have a fine dinner.”

So he took the gun and ran swiftly over the snow. Soon he was out of sight, and Ahmow was alone with the dogs.

The little boy played with the dogs at first, but after a while they curled up and went to sleep.

Ahmow was sleepy, too, and it was so warm in the bear rug that he almost went to sleep.

All at once he heard a growl, then a dog barked. Ahmow was wide awake and listening. “What is it, Naka?” he said to the dog that barked.

Naka barked again, and the hair stood up straight on his back.

Ahmow stood up and looked about. There was a fierce, hungry-looking wolf coming toward him! He looked again! One, two, three, four wolves were leaping over the snow!

The boy threw off the rug, and seized his father’s whip and walrus spear. “Come here,” he called to the dogs. “Come here to the sledge.”

Then, as the wolves came nearer, he jumped into the cask of meat.

One big wolf ran up to the sledge. Ahmow leaned over and struck him with the whip with all his might. The wolf howled and turned back.

Another wolf would have killed one of the dogs, but Ahmow threw out a big piece of bear meat. The wolf seized the meat and began to eat it.

Now a third wolf came up to the sledge. Just then Ahmow saw his father running toward him.

“He will drive the wolves away,” he thought, “but I should like to kill one if I can.”

So he held the spear as he had seen his father hold it. As the wolf came nearer, he raised it. As the wolf jumped, he threw it with all his might right into the wide-open mouth. There was a howl, a growl, and then the wolf tried to run away. But Ahmow wound the spear line around the sledge post and held it tight.

Nannook shot two of the wolves, but the one that had the meat got away with it.

Then as he ran to the sledge, “Look, father,” cried Ahmow. “See this fine wolf, with the sharp nose, and the bushy tail. He is held fast with the walrus line, and he has eaten the walrus spear.”

“Well done, lad,” said his father. “You will be a good hunter. Now, you shall have a spear of your own and you shall go with me on the big hunts.”

So from that day the boy was a hunter, and the people in the village called him “Ahmow,” which means, “little wolf.”

—_Frederick Schwatka._

ESKIMO CHILDREN

The Eskimos live in Greenland. I am sure you would wonder why it is called “Greenland,” for it is almost never “green.” Nearly all the year round the ground is covered with ice and snow, so that it seems as if “Whiteland” would be a better name.

It is so cold in Greenland that the Eskimos have to wear very warm clothing. The boys and girls and men and women dress very much alike. They wear trousers made of bearskin and coats made of sealskin. Their stockings are like leggings and are made of birdskin, with soft feathers inside to keep their feet warm. Over these they wear sealskin boots, which are long enough to cover their knees.

It is so cold in Greenland that trees cannot grow. If you think of all the ways in which we use the wood from our forest trees you will wonder what the Eskimos can do without them.

We build houses of wood, but the Eskimos make theirs of blocks of ice and snow.

We burn wood in our stoves. The Eskimos burn oil and fat which they get from the walrus and the seal. They burn this oil in a lamp which gives them all the light and heat they have.

Our beds, chairs and tables are made of wood. The Eskimos have no beds. They sleep on bearskin rugs.

They have no tables and no chairs. A big bowl made of bone is set on the floor, and the family sit around the bowl on bearskins, and eat out of it.

There are no stores in Greenland, no churches, and no schools. Everything that a family needs has to be provided by the father or the mother. The father goes hunting and fishing, to get food to eat, and oil to burn, and skins to wear. He catches fish, and kills bears, seals, walrus, and reindeer. Sometimes in the summer he kills a few birds.

The mother helps cut up the meat, and sometimes she cooks it, but much of the meat and fat is eaten raw. From the skins and furs she makes all the clothing for her family.

As there are no schools the Eskimo children never learn to read or write, but they like to hear their mother and father tell stories, and they learn these stories so that they can tell them to their children.

Every one in Greenland has a sled. The runners are made of bone, and the top is made of sealskin. Dogs draw these sleds over the snow, and they can run very fast and very far.

The boys and girls have very few toys, but they like to play games, and they have many good times.

The girls have dolls made of bone, and the boys play a game with a ball and stick made of bone.

But the boys like to hunt and fish. They have small boats made of bone and sealskin, and paddles made of bone. Of course they can use these boats only in the short summer time, as the water is frozen the rest of the year. When they go hunting they carry spears, and a bow and arrows.

* * * * *

Do you think you would like to live in Greenland?

Name ten things that you have that the Eskimo children have never seen.

Tell five things that you can do that the little Eskimos cannot do.

What do we have to eat that the Eskimos cannot have?

Why do the Eskimos build their houses of snow? How is the house heated?

Of what is their clothing made?

How do they cook and eat their food?

What do the Eskimo children do for fun?

THE DREAM-SHIP

The Dream-ship minds no stormy gales,
Her masts are all of gold,
With splendor of wide silken sails,
Red-rosy, fold on fold.
They spread below, they spread aloft,
They’re never reefed nor furled,
And they will bear us safe and soft,
The other side the world.

We shall not see the shadow crew
That work among the spars,
But watch the topmast sailing through
The shoals of shining stars.
From point to point of silver light,
Through purple gulfs and bays,
As we below a-gliding go
Along the water-ways.
—_Blanche M. Channing._

A TRIP TO JAPAN

There are so many things to tell you about “Nippon,” as the Japanese call their country, that I do not know where to begin.

But first of all I must tell you how we landed. There were six of us,—Charlotte and Alice and Fred, their father and mother, and I,—and we had come all the way across the Pacific Ocean in a big ship.

Our ship was anchored out in the harbor, and we were told we might go ashore.

We wondered if we were expected to swim, but it seemed too far for that.

You can imagine how glad we were when we looked over the side of the ship and saw a great many little boats waiting for us.

A stairway was hung out over the side of the ship, and we walked down into the little boats, just as we walk down stairs in our houses.

Then the trunks were lowered by ropes into little Japanese rowboats, called sampans, and we waved “good-by” to the captain and all our friends on the ship.

Did you ever go to sleep and dream you were in a doll’s country, where you seemed like a giant? Alice said she knew now just how that other Alice felt in her visit to Wonderland, for she never saw such tiny little people, and such tiny little houses, and even such tiny little trees.

When we got on shore we found queer little two-wheeled carriages, drawn by men instead of horses. The carriages are called jinrikishas, and are just big enough for one person.

We each got into one of these carriages and the jinrikisha boys picked up the shafts and trotted off like nice little ponies.

These boys wear dark-blue trousers that fit their legs very tightly, and a short blue jacket with flowing sleeves, and on their back is a Chinese letter painted in white, which is their employer’s name.

On their feet they wear straw sandals which they kick off, when they are worn out, as a horse casts his shoe. The hat is a funny round straw disk, covered with white, which makes them look like toadstools.

The houses, as I said, are very tiny, not much larger than your playhouses, and the walls are all made of sliding screens that can be pushed aside, leaving the house open.

The floors are covered with matting, which is as soft as cushions, but there is no furniture anywhere to be seen, for the Japanese sit on the floor and sleep on the floor, and their tables are tiny little trays.

The houses are spotlessly clean, for no Japanese would think of going into a house with his shoes on, any more than you would walk over your mother’s chairs and cushions in your shoes.

One day we went to see a wonderful image. We rode out to it in jinrikishas, and we each had two ’rikisha boys to pull us. We sped along at a rapid pace, for the boys are so well trained that they make nearly as good time as a horse, and a day’s run is sometimes as much as forty miles.

We had a regular Japanese “tiffin,” or lunch, at a little Japanese inn that had a pretty garden all around it. We took off our shoes at the door just as the Japanese do, and walked across the soft, matted floor.

A screen was drawn aside for us to enter, and then closed again, leaving us in a little room. Here we all squatted on our heels, as nearly like a Japanese as our stiff muscles would let us, for, without being trained, it is hard to shut up like a jackknife.

Then pretty little Japanese girls stole in noiselessly, bringing us trays of food, one for each person, and knelt down beside us to uncover our dishes and wait on us.

In one tiny bowl was some vegetable soup, in another some rice, and in a third some fish, which was cooked for us, though to have been truly Japanese we should have eaten it raw.

Of course there was tea. Everywhere you go they give you tea in wee cups without handles; just about a thimbleful, without cream and without sugar; not at all as we drink it at home.

But with all this feast before us, there was nothing to eat it with but two funny little chopsticks, and terrible times we had trying to manage those little sticks that serve the Japanese so well, but which seemed bewitched the minute we got them between our fingers.

After trying a long time we would get a mouthful, as we thought, firmly fixed between the chopsticks, but just as we would open our mouths to take it in, the bewitched chopsticks would give a twitch, and down the whole thing would fall again.

So, though we spent much time over it, we ate very little, and we all agreed that it is better to eat with forks as we do in America.

After tiffin we went to a silk factory, for a great deal of silk is manufactured in Japan. There we found over three thousand girls and women busy unrolling the cocoons. The silk is woven in another place, and rolled in neat rolls, ready for sale.

Most of the way we rode along the beach, where we could see the fishermen in their boats, and in one boat was a boy we called Urashima, for when we looked for him a second time he had disappeared.

—_Charlotte Chaffee Gibson._

* * * * *

What do the Japanese call their country?

Where was the big ship anchored?

How did the passengers get from the ship to the shore?

What is a jinrikisha? How is it drawn?

Describe a Japanese house.

What is the Japanese word for lunch?

What did the children have to eat at the inn?

What did they have to eat it with?

Where did they go after “tiffin?”

What would you like to do if you should go to Japan?

URASHIMA

Urashima was a fisher-boy who lived long ago in Japan.

One day he went out in his boat, and after he had been fishing a little while, he felt something very heavy tugging at his line.

He gave a hard pull and got it up into his boat. Then he found that it was a big tortoise with such a funny old wrinkled face that he burst out laughing when he saw it.

In Japan a tortoise lives a thousand years, so Urashima thought it would be a shame to kill this funny old fellow, when he might have so long to live. Besides, a small fish would suit him just as well for dinner, so he threw the tortoise back into the sea, and meant to go on fishing.

But somehow the air seemed too heavy and drowsy, just as it does on a summer’s day, and Urashima fell asleep.

While he was sleeping a beautiful maiden rose out of the water and got into the boat with him. Urashima waked, and when he saw her he thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

The maiden spoke to him. “Urashima,” she said, “you thought you caught a tortoise a little while ago, but it was really me. My father had sent me in disguise to see if you were a good, kind boy.

“We know now that you are kind-hearted, as you spared the life of the old tortoise. So I am going to take you with me to the Dragon Palace, where my father, the Sea King, and I live. There you shall marry me, and we shall be very happy.”

Urashima gladly consented, and they floated away till they came to a wonderful palace at the bottom of the sea.

This palace was all built of the most beautiful pink and white coral, and was studded with diamonds and pearls.

The leaves of the trees were emeralds, with berries of rubies and sapphires; and the fishes’ scales were of pure silver and gold.

All this was given to Urashima, and the beautiful princess became his wife. Any boy would be happy in such a palace, and Urashima was happy for three years.

Then he said to the princess, “I must go to see my father and mother, and my brothers and sisters, but I will return again to you.”

This made the poor princess very sad, for she did not wish to have Urashima go away.

But when she saw how much he wished to go, she gave him a little box to take with him, telling him under no conditions to open it, for if he did he could never return to her.

So Urashima started off, and soon found himself on the shore where he had lived. But everything seemed strangely different. Even the people were different and looked at him in a curious way.

He could not seem to find his way home, so he asked two men whom he met if they could tell him how to reach the house of Urashima’s parents.

“Urashima!” they cried. “Why, he was drowned out fishing about four hundred years ago, and not even his body was found. His father and mother are buried over there.”

Then they moved away hastily, for they thought he must be insane.

Poor Urashima could not think what to do. He began to think that the Dragon Palace must be a part of Fairyland, where a day is the same as a year on earth, and he wished to return to it. But how could he find the way?

He could not remember how he had come.

Suddenly he thought of the box that the princess had given him, and forgetting that he had promised not to open it, he pulled open the lid, hoping to learn the way back.

There was nothing in the box but a fleecy white cloud that floated softly up into the blue sky.

Then, too late, he remembered what the princess had said, and he called and called the cloud to come back. He even ran along the beach trying to catch it.

But soon he could not call, for his breath came shorter and shorter, his hair turned white, and his back became weak and bent.

Finally he fell down on the beach, crushed by the weight of his four hundred years.

—_Charlotte Chaffee Gibson._

A DAY

I’ll tell you how the sun rose,—
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun,
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

* * * * *

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while.

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
—_Emily Dickinson._

THE ANTS’ MONDAY DINNER

How did I know what the ants had for dinner last Monday? It is odd that I should have known, but I’ll tell you how it happened.

I was sitting under a big pine tree, high up on a hillside. The hillside was more than seven thousand feet above the sea, and that is higher than many mountains which people travel hundreds of miles to look at. But this hillside was in Colorado, so there was nothing wonderful in being up so high.

I had been watching the great mountains with snow on them, and the great forests of pine trees—miles and miles of them—so close together that it looks as if you could lie down on their tops and not fall through; and my eyes were tired with looking at such great, grand things, so many miles off.

So I looked down on the ground where I was sitting, and watched the ants which were running about everywhere, as busy and restless as if they had the whole world on their shoulders.

Suddenly I saw a tiny caterpillar, which seemed to be bounding along in a very strange way. In a second more I saw an ant seize hold of him and begin to drag him off.

The caterpillar was three times as long as the ant, and his body was more than twice as large round as the biggest part of the ant’s body.

“Ho! ho! Mr. Ant,” said I, “you needn’t think you’re going to be strong enough to drag that fellow very far.”

Why, it was about the same thing as if you or I should drag off a calf, which was kicking and struggling all the time; only that the calf hasn’t half so many legs to catch hold of things with as the caterpillar had.

Poor caterpillar! how he did try to get away! But the ant never gave him a second’s time to take a good grip of anything; and he was cunning enough, too, to drag him on his side, so that he couldn’t use his legs very well.

Up and down, and under and over stones and sticks; in and out of tufts of grass; up to the very top of the tallest blades, and then down again; over gravel and sand, and across bridges of pine needles from stone to stone; backward all the way ran that ant, dragging the caterpillar after him.

I watched him very closely, thinking, of course, he must be going toward his house. Presently he darted up the trunk of a pine tree.

“Dear me!” said I, “ants don’t live in trees! What does this mean?”

The bark of the tree was all broken and jagged, and full of seams twenty times as deep as the height of the ant’s body. But he didn’t mind; down one side and up the other he went.

They must have been awful chasms to him, and yet he never once stopped or went a bit slower. I had to watch the ant very closely, not to lose sight of him altogether.

I began to think that he was merely trying to kill the caterpillar; that, perhaps, he didn’t mean to eat him, after all. How did I know but some ants might hunt caterpillars, just as some men hunt deer, for fun, and not at all because they need food?

If I had been sure of this, I would have spoiled Mr. Ant’s sport for him very soon, you may be sure, and set the poor caterpillar free. But I never heard of an ant’s being cruel; and if it were really for dinner for his family that he was working so hard, I thought he ought to be helped, and not hindered.

Just then I heard a sharp cry overhead. I looked up, and there was an enormous hawk, sailing round in circles, with two small birds flying after him. They were pouncing down on his head, and then darting away, and all the time making shrill cries of fright and hatred.

I knew very well what that meant. Mr. Hawk was also out trying to do some marketing for his dinner. He had his eye on some little birds in their nest, and there were the father and mother birds driving him away.

You wouldn’t have believed that two such little birds could drive off such a big creature as the hawk, but they did. They seemed to fairly buzz round his head just as flies buzz round a horse’s head.

At last he gave up the quest and flew off so far that he vanished in the blue sky, and the little birds came skimming home again into the forest.

“Well, well,” said I, “the little people are stronger than the big ones, after all! Where has my ant gone?”

Sure enough! It hadn’t been two minutes that I had been watching the hawk and the birds, but in that two minutes the ant and the caterpillar had disappeared. At last I found them,—where do you think? In a fold of my coat, on which I was sitting!

The ant was running round and round the caterpillar. I shook the fold out, and as soon as the cloth lay straight and smooth, the ant fastened his nippers into his prey and started off as fast as ever.

I suppose if I could have seen his face, and had understood the language of ants’ features, I should have seen plainly written there, “Dear me, what sort of a country was that I tumbled into?”

By this time the caterpillar had had the breath pretty well knocked out of his body, and was so limp and helpless that the ant was not afraid of his getting away from him. So he stopped now and then to rest.

Sometimes he would spring on the caterpillar’s back, and stretch himself out there; sometimes he would stand still on one side and look at him sharply, keeping one nipper on his head.

All the time he was working steadily in one direction; he was headed for home I felt certain.

It astonished me very much, at first, that none of the ants he met took any notice of him; they all went on their own way, and never took so much as a sniff at the caterpillar.

But pretty soon I said to myself, “You stupid woman, not to suppose that ants can be as well behaved as people! When you passed Mr. Jones yesterday, you didn’t peep into his market-basket, nor touch the cabbage he had under his arm.”

Presently the ant dropped the caterpillar, and ran on a few steps—I mean inches—to meet another ant who was coming towards him. They put their heads close together for a second.

I could not hear what they said, but I could easily imagine, for they both ran quickly back to the caterpillar, and one took him by the head and the other by the tail, and then they lugged him along finely. It was only a few steps, however, to the ant’s house; that was the reason he happened to meet this friend just coming out.

The door was a round hole in the ground, about as big as my little finger. Several ants were standing in the doorway, watching these two come up with the caterpillar. They all took hold as soon as the caterpillar was on the doorstep, and almost before I knew he was there, they had tumbled him down, heels over head, into the ground, and that was the last I saw of him.

The oddest thing was, how the ants came running home from all directions. I don’t believe there was any dinner bell rung, though there might have been one too fine for my ears to hear; but in a minute, I counted thirty-three ants running down that hole. I fancied they looked as hungry as wolves.

I had a great mind to dig down into the hole with a stick, and see what had become of the caterpillar. But I thought it wasn’t quite fair to take the roof off a man’s house to find out how he cooks his beef for dinner; so I sat still and wondered whether they would eat him all up or whether they would leave any for Tuesday; then I went home to my own dinner.

—_Helen Hunt Jackson._

MY ANT’S COW

My Ant lives in the country and keeps a cow. I am ashamed to say that, although I have always known she was a most interesting person, I never went to see her until last week.

I am afraid I should not have gone then, if I had not found an account of her, and her house, and her cow, in a book which I was reading.

“Dear me,” said I, “and there she has been living so near me all this time, and I never have been to call on her.”

To tell the truth, it was much worse than that; I had often met her in the street, and had taken such a dislike to her looks that I always brushed by as quickly as possible without speaking to her.

I had great difficulty in finding her house, though it is quite large. She belongs to a very peculiar family; they prefer to live in the dark; so they have no windows in their houses, only doors; and the doors are nothing but holes in the roof.

The houses are built in the shape of a mound, and are not more than ten inches high. They are built out of old bits of wood, dead leaves, straw, old bones; in short, every sort of old thing that they find, they stick in the walls of their houses. Their best rooms are all down cellar; and dark enough they must be on a rainy day, when the doors are always kept shut tight.

But I ought to have told you about my Ant herself before I told you about her house. When you hear what an odd person she is, you will not be surprised that she lives in such an outlandish house.

To begin with, I must tell you that she belongs to a family that never does any work.

You’d never suppose so, to see her. I really think she is the queerest-looking creature I ever met.

In the first place, her skin is of a dark brown color, darker than an Indian’s, and she has six legs. Of course she can walk three times as fast as if she had only two,—but I would rather go slower and be more like other people.

She has frightful jaws, with which she does all sorts of things besides eating. She uses them for scissors, tweezers, pickaxes, knife and fork, and in case of a battle, for swords.

Then she has growing out of the front part of her head two long slender horns, which she keeps moving about all the time, and with which she touches everything she wishes to understand.

The first thing she does, when she meets you, is to bend both these horns straight towards you, and feel of you. It is quite disagreeable,—almost as bad as shaking hands with strangers.

My Ant’s name is Fornica Rufa. If I knew her better I should call her Ant Ru, for short. But I do not expect ever to know her very well. She evidently does not like to be intimate with anybody but her own family; and I am not surprised, for I was never in any house so overrun with people as hers is. I wondered how they knew themselves apart.

When I went to see her last week I found her just going out, and I thought perhaps that was one reason that she didn’t take any more notice of me.

“How do you do, Ant?” said I. “I am spending the summer near by, and thought I would like to become acquainted with you. I hear you have a very curious cow, and I have a great desire to see it.”

“Humph!” said she, and snapped her horns up and down, as she always does when she is displeased, I find.

“I hope it will not give you any trouble to show her to me. You must be very proud of having such a fine cow. Perhaps you are on the way to milking now, and if so I should be most happy to go with you.”

“Humph!” said my Ant again. At least I think that was what she said. It looked like it, but I can’t say that I heard any sound.

But she turned short on her heels (I suppose she has heels), and plunged into the woods at the right, stopping and looking back at me as if she expected me to follow. So I stepped along after her as fast as I could, and said, “Thank you; I suppose this is the way to the pasture.”

My Ant said nothing, but went ahead, snapping her horns furiously.

“Oh, well,” thought I to myself, “you are an uncivil Ant. Even if I have come simply out of curiosity, you might be a little more polite in your own house, or at least on your own grounds, which is the same thing. I sha’n’t speak to you again.”

That’s about all the conversation I have ever had with my Ant. But she took me to the pasture, and I saw her cow.

I am almost afraid to tell you where the pasture was, and what the cow was; but if you don’t believe me, you can look in books written about such things, and they will prove to you that every word I say is true.

The pasture was the stalk of a green brier; and there stood, not only my Ant’s cow, but as many as five hundred others, all feeding away upon it. You have seen millions of them in your lives, for you must know that they are nothing but little green plant-lice, like those that we find on our rosebushes, and that we try in every possible way to get rid of.

Who would ever suppose there could be anything for which these little green plant-lice could serve as cows! I assure you it is true, and if you live in the country you can see it for yourself; but you will have to look through a magnifying glass to see them milked.

Think of looking through a magnifying glass at anybody’s cow! I looked at my Ant’s for an hour, and it seemed to me I hardly winked, I was so much interested in the curious sight.

Its skin was smooth as satin and of a most beautiful light green color. It had six legs, and little hooks at the end, instead of hoofs. The oddest thing of all was that the horns were not on its head, but at the other end of its body, where the tail would have been if it had had a tail like any other cow.

The horns were hollow tubes, and it is out of them that the milk comes, a drop at a time. The milk is meant for the little plant-lice to drink before they are old enough to hook their six legs on to stalks and leaves, and feed on sap.

But I think that in any place where there are many of my Ant’s race, the little plant-lice must fare badly, for the Ants are so fond of this milk that sometimes they carry off whole herds of the plant-lice and shut them up in chambers in their houses. There they feed them as we do cows in barns, and go and milk them whenever they please.

“Oh, dear Ant,” said I to my Ant, “do pray milk your cow! I have such a desire to see how you do it.”

She did not appear to understand me, and I dare say if she had she would not have done it any sooner. But presently I saw her go up behind her cow, and begin to tap her gently on her back, just at the place where the horns grew out.

The cow did not look round nor stop eating, but in a moment out came a tiny drop of liquid from the tip of each tube. My Ant picked it up with her wonderful horns and whisked it into her mouth as quickly as you would a sugarplum.

Then she went on to the next cow and milked that in the same manner, and then to a third one. She took only two drops from each one. Perhaps that is all that this kind of a cow can give at a time.

There were several of her friends there at the same time doing their milking; and I could not help thinking how easy it would be for the great herd of cows to kill my Ant and all her race, if they chose. But it is thought by wise people who have studied these wonderful things that the cows are fond of being milked in this way, and would be sorry to be left alone by themselves.

After my Ant had finished her supper, she stood still watching the cows for some time. I thought perhaps she would be in a better humor after having had so much to eat, and might possibly feel like talking with me. But she never once opened her mouth, though I sat there an hour and a half.

At last it began to grow dark, and as I had quite a long walk to take, I knew I must go, or I should not get home in time for my own supper of milk.

“Good-night, Ant,” said I. “I have had a charming visit. I am very much obliged to you for showing me your cow. I think she is the most wonderful creature I ever saw. I should be very happy to see you at my house.”

“Humph!” said my Ant.

—_Helen Hunt Jackson._

COLORADO SNOW-BIRDS

I’ll tell you how the snow-birds come,
Here in our Winter days;
They make me think of chickens,
With their cunning little ways.

We go to bed at night, and leave
The ground all bare and brown,
And not a single snow-bird
To be seen in all the town.

But when we wake at morning
The ground with snow is white,
And with the snow, the snow-birds
Must have travelled all the night;

For the streets and yards are full of them,
The dainty little things,
With snow-white breasts, and soft brown heads,
And speckled russet wings.

Not here and there a snow-bird,
As we see them at the East,
But in great flocks, like grasshoppers,
By hundreds, at the least,

They push and crowd and jostle,
And twitter as they feed,
And hardly lift their heads up,
For fear to miss a seed.

What ’tis they eat, nobody seems
To know or understand;
The seeds are much too fine to see,
All sifted in the sand.

But winds last Summer scattered them,
All thickly on these plains;
The little snow-birds have no barns,
But God protects their grains.

. . . . . . .

Some flocks count up to thousands,
I know, and when they fly,
Their tiny wings make rustle,
As if a wind went by.

They go as quickly as they come,
Go in a night or day;
Soon as the snow has melted off,
The darlings fly away,

But come again, again, again,
All winter with each snow;
Brave little armies, through the cold;
Swift back and forth they go.

I always wondered where they lived
In summer, till last year
I stumbled on them in their home,
High in the upper air;

’Way up among the clouds it was,
A many thousand feet,
But on the mountain-side gay flowers
Were blooming fresh and sweet.

Great pine trees’ swaying branches
Gave cool and fragrant shade;
And here, we found, the snow-birds
Their summer home had made.

“Oh, lucky little snow-birds!”
We said, “to know so well,
In summer time and winter time,
Your destined place to dwell—

“To journey, nothing doubting,
Down to the barren plains,
Where harvests are all over,
To find your garnered grains!

“Oh, precious little snow-birds!
If we were half as wise,
If we were half as trusting
To the Father in the skies,—

“He would feed us, though the harvests
Had ceased throughout the land,
And hold us, all our lifetime,
In the hollow of his hand!”
—_Helen Hunt Jackson._

THE PETERKINS’ EXCURSION AFTER MAPLE SYRUP

The Peterkins had decided not to go to Egypt.

Of course the little boys were very much disappointed, so Mr. Peterkin said that he would take them out into the woods to get some maple syrup instead. But it was almost as difficult to arrange an excursion for maple sugar as to arrange for a trip to Egypt.

You see, sugar can not be made until it is warm enough to make the sap run. On the other hand, it must be cold enough for snow, as you can only reach the woods on snow-sleds.

Now, if there were sun enough for the sap to rise, it would melt the snow; and if it were cold enough for sledding, it must be too cold for the syrup. The little boys, however, said there always had been maple sugar every spring,—they had eaten it; why shouldn’t there be this spring?

Elizabeth Eliza said that this was probably old sugar they had eaten,—you never could tell in the shops.

Mrs. Peterkin thought there must be fresh sugar once in a while, as the old sugar would be eaten up. She felt the same about chickens. She never could understand why there were only the old, tough ones in the market, when there were certainly fresh young broods to be seen around the farmhouses every year.

She supposed the market-men had begun with the old, tough fowls, and so they had to go on so. She wished they had begun the other way; and she had done her best to have the family eat up the old fowls, hoping they might, some day, get down to the young ones.

As to the weather, she suggested they should go to Grandfather’s the day before. But how can you go the day before, when you don’t know the day?

All were much delighted, therefore, when Hiram appeared with the wood-sled, one evening, to take them, as early as possible the next day, to their grandfather’s.

He said that the sap had started, the kettles had been on some time, there had been a slight snow for sleighing, and to-morrow promised to be a fine day.

It was decided that he should take the little boys and Elizabeth Eliza in the wood-sled; the others would follow later, in the carryall.

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would be safer to have some of the party go on wheels, in case of a thaw the next day.

A brilliant sun awoke them in the morning. The wood-sled was filled with hay, to make it warm and comfortable, and an armchair was tied in for Elizabeth Eliza.

The little boys put on their India-rubber boots and their red mittens. Elizabeth Eliza took a shawl, a hot brick, and a big bag of cookies, and they started off.

In passing the school-house the little boys saw five of their friends, who had reached the school door a full hour before the time. They asked these five boys to go with them, but Elizabeth Eliza thought they ought to inquire if their parents would be willing they should go, as they all expected to spend the night at Grandfather’s.

Hiram thought it would take too much time to ask all the parents; if the sun kept on shining so brightly, the snow would be gone before they would reach the woods.

But the little boys said that most of these boys lived in a row, and Elizabeth Eliza felt she ought not to take the boys away for all night without asking their parents.

At each place they were obliged to stop for tippets and great-coats and India-rubber boots for the little boys. At the Harrimans’, too, the Harriman girls insisted on dressing up the wood-sled with evergreens, and made one of the boys bring the Christmas tree that was leaning up against the barn, to set it up in the back of the sled, over Elizabeth Eliza.

All this took a good deal of time; and when they reached the highroad again, the snow was indeed fast melting. Elizabeth Eliza thought they ought to turn back, but Hiram said they would find the sleighing better farther up among the hills.

The armchair joggled about a good deal, and the Christmas tree creaked and swayed, and Hiram was obliged to stop once in a while and tie in the chair and the tree more firmly.

But the warm sun was very pleasant, the eight little boys were very lively, and the sleigh bells jingled gaily as they went on.

It was so late when they reached the wood-road that Hiram decided they had better not go up the hill to their grandfather’s, but turn off into the woods.

“Your grandfather will be up at the sugar camp by this time,” he declared.

Elizabeth Eliza was afraid the carryall would miss them, and thought they had better wait. Hiram did not like to wait longer, and said that one or two of the little boys could stop to show the way.

But it was so difficult to decide which little boys should stay that he gave it up. So he explained that there was a lunch hidden somewhere in the straw; and the little boys thought this was a good time to eat it, so they decided to stop in the sun at the corner of the road.

Elizabeth Eliza felt a little jounced in the armchair, and was glad of a rest; and the boys soon discovered a good lunch,—just what might have been expected from Grandfather’s,—apple pie and doughnuts, and plenty of them! “It is lucky we brought so many little boys!” they exclaimed.

Hiram, however, began to grow impatient. “There’ll be no snow left,” he exclaimed, “and no afternoon for the syrup!”

But far in the distance the Peterkin carryall was seen slowly approaching through the snow, Solomon John waving a red handkerchief. The little boys waved back, and Hiram turned the sled into the wood-road, but he drove slowly, as Elizabeth Eliza still feared that by some accident the family might miss them.

It was difficult for the carryall to follow in the deep but soft snow, in among the trunks of the trees and over piles of leaves hidden in the snow.

At last they reached the edge of a meadow. On the high bank above it stood a row of maples, and back of which was a little shanty with smoke coming out of its chimney. The little boys screamed with delight, but there was no reply. Nobody there!

“The folks all gone!” exclaimed Hiram; “then we must be late.” And he proceeded to pull out a large silver watch from a side pocket. It was so large that he seldom was at the pains to pull it out, as it took time; but when he had succeeded at last, and looked at it, he started.

“Late, indeed! It is four o’clock, and we were to have been here by eleven; they have given you up.”

The little boys wanted to force in the door; but Hiram said it was no use,—they wouldn’t understand what to do, and he should have to see to the horses,—and it was too late, and very likely the men had carried off all the syrup.

But he thought a minute, as they all stood in silence and gloom; and then he guessed they might find some sugar at Deacon Spear’s, close by, on the back road, and that would be better than nothing.

Mrs. Peterkin was pretty cold, and glad not to wait in the darkening wood; so the eight little boys walked through the wood-path, Hiram leading the way; and slowly the carryall followed.

They reached Deacon Spear’s at length; but only Mrs. Spear was at home. She was very deaf, but could explain that the family had taken all their syrup to the sugar festival.

“We might go to the festival,” exclaimed the boys.

“It would be very well,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “to eat our fresh syrup there.”

But Mrs. Spear could not tell where the festival was to be, as she had not heard; perhaps they might know at Squire Ramsay’s.

Squire Ramsay’s was on their way to Grandfather’s, so they stopped there. They were told that the “Squire’s folks” had all gone with their syrup to the festival. The man who was chopping wood did not know where the festival was to be.

“They’ll know at your grandfather’s,” said Mrs. Peterkin, from the carryall.

“Yes, go on to your grandfather’s,” advised Mr. Peterkin, “for I think I felt a drop of rain.” So they made the best of their way to Grandfather’s.

At the moment they reached the door of the house, a party of young people whom Elizabeth Eliza knew came by in sleighs. She had met them all when visiting at her grandfather’s.

“Come along with us,” they shouted; “we are all going down to the sugar festival.”

“That is what we have come for,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“Where is it?” asked Solomon John.

“It is down your way,” was the reply.

“It is in your own New Hall,” said another. “We have sent down all our syrup. The Spears and Ramsays and Doolittles have gone on with theirs. No time to stop; there’s good sleighing on the old road.”

Hiram said he could take them back with the wood-sled, when he heard there was sleighing on the old road. So it was decided that the whole party should go in the wood-sled, with the exception of Mr. Peterkin, who would follow on with the carryall.

Mrs. Peterkin would take the armchair, and cushions were put in for Elizabeth Eliza, and more apple pie for all. No more drops of rain appeared, though the clouds were thickening over the setting sun.

“All the way back again,” sighed Mrs. Peterkin, “when we might have stayed at home all day, and gone quietly out to the New Hall!” But the little boys thought the sledding was great fun,—and the apple pie! “And we did see the kettle through the cracks of the shanty!”

—_Lucretia P. Hale._

THE GRASS

The grass so little has to do,—
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap,
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,—
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away,—
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay.
—_Emily Dickinson._

SUNSET

Where ships of purple gently toss
On seas of daffodil,
Fantastic sailors mingle,
And then—the wharf is still.
—_Emily Dickinson._

THE BABY SQUIRRELS

The four baby squirrels were tired of staying in their soft nest in the hollow tree. They wanted to find out what was going on in the world outside.

As they cuddled together in the shadowy hole they could hear the queerest sounds. They cocked their heads curiously at the rustling and whispering of the wind among the leaves. They heard chirping and singing, and a silvery tinkle, tinkle from the brook.

Once a bee flew buzzing right over their heads, and made them clutch one another in terror.

One morning, when the old mother squirrel was away hunting for birds’ eggs to eat, the smallest baby crept to the mouth of the hole and peeped out with his round bright eyes.

All around and above him there were wonderful green things flickering and fluttering. Twinkles of sunlight danced through the leaves and dazzled him. Something soft and cool blew back the new bristles on his lips and ruffled his satiny red fur.

He was so much interested that he sat there, staring and staring, till the other little ones began to squeak and scold him for shutting out the light.

After he crept down again to the nest the others climbed up, one by one, and looked out. They blinked and winked at each wonderful sight; they sniffed the strange odors, and twitched their eager little heads at every new sound.

The scream of a blue jay in the tree-top above them sent them scampering inside again, to cuddle close together in the darkest corner. It was fun to see something new and exciting, even if it did make them shiver all over.

Soon the mother squirrel came springing from branch to branch to reach the hollow.

How the babies squeaked and chattered in welcome! Very likely they told her about the wonderful sights and sounds in the strange world outside the hole.

The smallest one clasped his fore paws around her neck, and coaxed her to let them all go out to find more interesting things. It was stupid there in the dark nest, with nothing to watch except the patch of light across the opening above them.

The old squirrel knew that the little ones were not strong enough yet to leave the nest.

To be sure, they had grown and changed very much since the first days. Then they had been ugly little creatures, like tiny pug dogs, with big heads, no fur, and their eyes tight shut.

Now they were half as big as she was herself. Their eyes were like jewels, and their red fur was smooth as satin.

But their tails, with only fringes of hair along the sides, were not nearly so fluffy as the mother’s. Her tail was long and plumy. It curved so gracefully over her back that she seemed to be sitting in its shadow. One name of the squirrel is “shadow-tail.”