Part 22

That night the little girl stood at the gate, watching for her father to jump off the car. She could hardly wait for him to kiss her. She took his hand and led him to the canna-bed.

"Look!" she cried eagerly.

She was pointing excitedly to a hole beside the roots of a fresh, green canna plant.

"That hole again," said her father. "There's a stone in it now, isn't there?"

"No, that's what I thought; stoop down and look close, papa!" cried Chuckie Wuckie.

It was the head of a fat hop-toad, but all that could be seen was its mouth and bright eyes. It was staring at them. Papa poked it with the point of his umbrella. It scrambled deeper into the hole, until there was nothing to be seen but the dirt. It was slowly changing to the color of the black earth.

"I watched him," cried Chuckie Wuckie, excitedly--"oh, for an hour! When I found him he was just hopping on the canna-bed. He was looking for his house. He acted as if the door had been shut in his face. Then he began to open it. He crawled and scrambled round and round, and threw up the dirt, and poked and pushed. At last he had the hole made, just as it is every morning, and he crawled in. Then he lay and blinked at me."

"Clever fellow," said papa. "Well, we won't grudge him a home, and we won't shut the door again in his face, will we, Chuckie Wuckie?"

The cannas have grown very tall now--almost as tall as Chuckie Wuckie's papa--and so thick that you cannot see where the roots are; but a fat, brown hop-toad has a snug, cool, safe little nest there, and he gratefully crawls into it when the sun grows very hot.

The Conceited Mouse

BY ELLA FOSTER CASE

Once upon a time there was a very small mouse with a very, very large opinion of himself. What he didn't know his own grandmother couldn't tell him.

"You'd better keep a bright eye in your head, these days," said she, one chilly afternoon. "Your gran'ther has smelled a trap."

"Scat!" answered the small mouse--"'s if I don't know a trap when I see it!" And that was all the thanks she got for her good advice.

"Go your own way, for you will go no other," the wise old mouse said to herself; and she scratched her nose slowly and sadly as she watched her grandson scamper up the cellar stairs.

"Ah!" sniffed he, poking his whiskers into a crack of the dining-room cupboard, "cheese--as I'm alive!" Scuttle--scuttle. "I'll be squizzled, if it isn't in that cunning little house; I know what that is--a cheese-house, of course. What a very snug hall! That's the way with cheese-houses. I know, 'cause I've heard the dairymaid talk about 'em. It must be rather inconvenient, though, to carry milk up that step and through an iron door. I know why it's so open--to let in fresh air. I tell you, that cheese is good! Kind of a reception-room in there--guess I know a reception-room from a hole in the wall. No trouble at all about getting in, either. Wouldn't grandmother open her eyes to see me here! Guess I'll take another nibble at that cheese, and go out. What's that noise? What in squeaks is the matter with the door? This is a cheese-house, I know it is--but what if it should turn out to be a--O-o-o-eeee!" And that's just what it did turn out to be.

[Illustration: End of ye Tale]

#RHYMES CONCERNING "MOTHER"#

A BOY'S MOTHER[O]

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

My mother she's so good to me, Ef I was good as I could be, I couldn't be as good--no, sir!-- Can't any boy be good as her.

She loves me when I'm glad er sad; She loves me when I'm good er bad; An', what's a funniest thing, she says She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me-- That don't hurt--but it hurts to see Her cryin'.--Nen _I_ cry; an' nen We both cry an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an' sews My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes; An' when my Pa comes home to tea, She loves him 'most as much as me.

She laughs an' tells him all I said, An' grabs me up an' pats my head; An' I hug _her_, an' hug my Pa, An' love him purt' nigh much as Ma.

[O] From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley. Used by special permission of the publishers. The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

MOTHER

BY ROSE FYLEMAN

When mother comes each morning She wears her oldest things, She doesn't make a rustle, She hasn't any rings; She says, "Good-morning, chickies, It's such a lovely day, Let's go into the garden And have a game of play!"

When mother comes at tea-time Her dress goes shoo-shoo-shoo, She always has a little bag, Sometimes a sunshade too; She says, "I am so hoping There's something left for me; Please hurry up, dear Nanna, I'm dying for my tea."

When mother comes at bed-time Her evening dress she wears, She tells us each a story When we have said our prayers; And if there is a party She looks so shiny bright It's like a lovely fairy Dropped in to say good-night.

THE GOODEST MOTHER

Evening was falling, cold and dark, And people hurried along the way As if they were longing soon to mark Their own home candle's cheering ray.

Before me toiled in the whirling wind A woman with bundles great and small, And after her tugged, a step behind, The Bundle she loved the best of all.

A dear little roly-poly boy With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, Laughing and chattering full of joy, And here's what he said--I tell you true:

"You're the goodest mother that ever was." A voice as clear as a forest bird's; And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause To utter the sweet of the lovely words.

Perhaps the woman had worked all day Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed; I knew, by her weary footfall's way That life for her was an uphill road.

But here was a comfort. Children dear, Think what a comfort you might give To the very best friend you can have here, The lady fair in whose house you live,

If once in a while you'd stop and say,-- In task or play for a moment pause, And tell her in sweet and winning way, "You're the GOODEST mother that ever was."

MOTHER'S WAY

BY CARRIE WILLIAMS

Nowadays girls go to cooking-school And learn to cook just so by rule; But all I know, I'm glad to say, My mother taught me day by day.

She did not need a great cook-book; She knew how much and what it took To make things good and sweet and light. What Mother does is always right.

WHO IS IT?

BY ETHEL M. KELLEY

Whose hair is all curly, an' eyes "baby-blue"? Who wakes up too early 'fore night-time is fru? Who dresses her pillow all up in the clo'es, An' counts all her piggies when nobody knows? An' who's des' as _quiet_ as _quiet_ can be? Muvver says--_me_.

Who w'ites wif a pencil all over a book? An' who gets the ink when nobody does look? An' who gets her fingies all blacker than black? An' who gets 'em spatted when Muvver comes back? An' who's des' as _sorry_ as _sorry_ can be? Muvver says--_me_.

Who goes down to dinner on Sundays at two, All dressed in w'ite frillies, an' tied up in blue? An' who waits for Father to cut up her meat, When she is _so_ hungry an' nuffin' to eat? An' who's des' as "_patient_" as "_patient_" can be? Muvver says--_me_.

Who gets on her nightie an' says all her prayers? An' then comes a-stealin' an' creepin' down-stairs? Who cuddles up comfy an' teases to stay? An' who is so spoiled 'at she _won't_ go away, Even when she's as _sleepy_ as _sleepy_ can be? Muvver says--_me_.

MY DEAREST IS A LADY

BY MIRIAM S. CLARK

My dearest is a lady, she wears a gown of blue, She sits beside the window where the yellow sun comes through; The light is shining on her hair, and all the time she sews, She sings a song about a knight, a dear, brave knight she knows.

My dearest is a lady--and oh, I love her well! Full five and twenty times a day this very tale I tell; For I'm the knight in armor, a shield and sword I wear, And Mother is my lady, with the light upon her hair.

HOW MANY LUMPS!

How many lumps of sugar Ought a little girl to use To sweeten a cup of chocolate? I can take just what I choose.

Five make it just like candy, And four are most as good-- There's no one to say I mustn't, Now I wonder if I should.

Three is what Nurse allows me, So that would be surely right. Uncle Jack takes two lumps always And says it is "out of sight."

Five, four, three, two--I wonder-- Or none, just like Papa? Well, after all, I'll take but one And copy my dear Mama.

[Illustration: From the painting by H. Morisset. By permission of the artist.]

When Mother Goes Away

BY CLARA ODELL LYON

Says Bobby to Mother: "I'll be good as I can." "I _know_ you will, Bobby; You're Mother's little man."

BUT--

His mother then takes every match from the box; The door of the pantry securely she locks; Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink In the best hiding places of which she can think And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on, What mischief her Bobby will do while she's gone!

AN OLD SONG--"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!"

When people ask me where I live, I hate to have to go and give A name like Smithville, plain. I'd rather say:--"Sir, if you please, My home is in the Hebrides," Or, "High up in the Pyrenees," Or, "At Gibraltar, Spain."

"Constantinople," too, sounds fine, And "Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine," And "Madagascar," too; And "Yokohama" sounds so great, And "Hindustan" is just first-rate; I rather like even "Bering Strait," And "Cuzco" in Peru.

And yet, I would not be at night, Alone upon the "Isle of Wight," Or on the "Zuyder Zee." At "Nova Zembla," in a gale, I know that I should just turn pale; For fear of earthquakes, I should quail In "sunny Italy."

A place that sounds nice on the map, May have a little too much snap To keep within its wall, And so, though many names I see, That sound as stylish as can be, There's no place quite so good for me, As Smithville, after all!

_Blanche Elizabeth Wade._

#UNCLES AND AUNTS AND OTHER RELATIVES#

GRANDMOTHER'S MEMORIES

BY HELEN A. BYROM

[Illustration: "STANDS WATCHING THE SETTING SUN."]

Grandmother sits in her easy-chair, In the ruddy sunlight's glow; Her thoughts are wandering far away In the land of Long Ago. Again she dwells in her father's home, And before her loving eyes In the light of a glorious summer day The gray old farm-house lies.

She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel And the spinner's happy song; She sees the bundles of flax that hang From the rafters, dark and long; She sees the sunbeams glide and dance Across the sanded floor; And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze That steals through the open door.

Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall; And up from the glen comes the musical roar Of the distant waterfall. The cows roam lazily to and fro Along the shady lane; The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far From the fields of golden grain.

And grandma herself, a happy girl, Stands watching the setting sun, While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease, And the long day's work is done; Then something wakes her--the room is dark, And vanished the sunset glow, And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise, From the dreams of long ago.

Great-Aunt Lucy Lee

By Cora Walker Hayes

Sometimes when I am tired of play My mother says to me, "Come, daughter, we will call to-day On Great-aunt Lucy Lee."

And soon, by mother's side, I skip Along the quiet street, Where tall old trees, on either side, Throw shadows at my feet.

The houses stand in solemn rows, And not a child is seen; The blinds are drawn, the doors are shut, The walks are span and clean.

Then when we come to number three, I stretch my hand up--so! And find the old brass knocker's ring; I rap, and in we go.

There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim, Sits by the chimney-piece; Her knitting-needles clicking go, And never seem to cease.

Aunt Lucy's eyes are blue and kind, Her wrinkled face is fair; She hides with cap or snowy lace Her pretty silver hair.

Aunt Lucy's voice is sweet and low, Her smile is quick and bright; She wears a gown of lavender, And kerchief soft and white.

I fold my hands in front of me And sit quite still and staid, Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says, "Come hither, little maid!"

There Great-aunt Lucy small and prim Sits by the chimney-piece Her knitting needles clicking go And never seem to cease]

[Illustration: Pale roses of a hundred leaves Sweet-William, Four-o'clocks Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things All bordered round with box]

And from her silken bag she takes A peppermint or two, And questions me about my play, My school, my dolls, the Zoo.

And then she rings for Hannah, who Comes hobbling stiffly in, With sugared cakes and jelly-tarts Upon a shining tin.

When I have eaten all I can, Aunt Lucy bids me go Into the garden, where all kinds Of lovely flowers grow.

Pale roses of a hundred leaves, Sweet-william, four-o'clocks, Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things All bordered 'round with box.

And there's an arbor, where the grapes Hang low enough to reach; A plum-tree just across the path, And by the wall a peach.

And oh! I think it very nice To come and visit here; The house, the garden and the folks All seem so very queer!

And though I am well satisfied A while to romp and play,-- A wee old lady, kind and dear, _I_ want to be some day;

And so I hope that when I, too, Have grown to eighty-three, I'll be a lovely lady like My Great-aunt Lucy Lee.

Our Visitors

By Isabel Lyndall

When grandma comes to visit, She very often brings Her satchel full of cookies, And ginger cakes and things.

Grandpa carries in his grip For Dorothy and me, One of the newest toys that moves, When wound up with a key.

Aunt Sarah says there is no need To have so many toys! She seems to think that useful things Are best for girls and boys.

Uncle Jack we're glad to see Although he is a tease. He gives us each a quarter To spend just as we please!

BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA

Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair-- Never was lady more sweet and fair! Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, And her brow its own calm story tells Of a gentle life and a peaceful even, A trust in God and a hope in heaven!

Little girl Mary sits rocking away In her own low seat, like some winsome fay; Two dolly babies her kisses share, And another one lies by the side of her chair. Mary is fair as the morning dew-- Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue!

"Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf, "Tell me a story about yourself. When you were little, what did you play? Was you good or naughty, the whole long day? Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago? And what makes your soft hair as white as snow?

"Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss? And a dolly like this, and this, and this? Did you have a pussy like my little Kate? Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight? Did you have long curls and beads like mine? And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine?"

Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, And laying aside her knitting, she said: "Go to my desk and a red box you'll see; Carefully lift it and bring it to me." So Mary put her dollies away and ran, Saying, "I'll be as careful as ever I can."

Then grandmamma opened the box: and lo! A beautiful child with a throat like snow, Lips just tinted like pink shells rare, Eyes of hazel and golden hair, Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls-- Fairest and sweetest of little girls!

"Oh, who is it?" cried winsome May; "How I wish she was here to-day! Wouldn't I love her like everything, And give her my new carnelian ring! Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be?" "Darling," said grandmamma, "that child was me!"

[Illustration: AN AFTERNOON CALL ON GRANDMOTHER]

May looked along at the dimpled grace, And then at the saint-like, fair old face, "How funny!" she cried, with a smile and a kiss, "To have such a dear little grandma as this! Still," she added, with a smiling zest, "I think, dear grandma, I like you best!"

So May climbed on the silken knee, And grandma told her her history-- What plays she played, what toys she had, How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad. "But the best thing you did," said May, "don't you see? Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me!"

THANKSGIVING DAY

BY LYDIA MARIA CHILD

Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood-- Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play; Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!" Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting hound! For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barn-yard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow-- It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood-- Now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

GRANDMA'S MINUET

Grandma told me all about it; Told me so I couldn't doubt it; How she danced--my grandma danced, Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, How she turned her little toes, Smiling little human rose! Long ago.

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny, Dimpled cheeks, too--ah, how funny! Really, quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her! Why, she wears a cap, Grandma, does, and takes a nap, Every single day, and yet, Grandma danced a minuet, Long ago.

No--they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place; Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again, Long ago. Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says; but boys were charming-- Girls and boys, I mean, of course-- Long ago.

Bravely modest, grandly shy-- Now she sits there rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking, Every girl was taught to knit, Long ago. Yet her figure is so neat, And her smile so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow, Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping, Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping Would have shocked the gentlefolk, Long ago. What if all of us should try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet, Long ago?

With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion? All would wear the calm they wore, Long ago. In time to come, if I perchance Should tell my grandchild of our dance I should really like to say: "We did, dear, in some such way, Long ago."

AUNT JAN

BY NORMAN GALE

When Aunt Jan's coming there's such romping in the house, She's sweeter than a daffodil and softer than a mouse! She sings about the passages, and never wants to rest, And father says it's all because a bird is in her breast.

When Aunt Jan's kissing there's such a crowding round her knees, Such clambers to her bosom, and such battles for a squeeze! We dirty both her snowy cuffs, we trample on her gown, And sometimes all her yellow hair comes tumbling, tumbling down.

When Aunt Jan's dancing we all watch her as she goes, With in-and-out and round-about upon her shiny toes; And when her merry breath is tired she stops the fun and stands To curtsy saucily to us, or kiss her pretty hands.

When Aunt Jan's playing, the piano seems alive, With all the notes as busy as the bees are in a hive; And when it's time for Bedfordshire, as sweetly as a lark She sings that God is waiting to protect us in the dark.

When Aunt Jan's leaving we are not ashamed to cry, A-kissing at the station and a-waving her good-by; But springtime brings the crocus after winter, rain and frost So dear Aunt Jan will come again. She isn't really lost.

AFTER TEA

Very often in the evening, Shortly after tea, Father, when he's read the paper, Takes me on his knee.

There I fix myself "quite comfy," In his arms so strong, While he makes up lovely stories As he goes along.

Mother near us with her sewing, Rocking to and fro, Smiles and listens to the stories, Likes them too, I know.

And I'm sure that she is thinking, What perhaps you've guessed, That the stories Father tells us Are the very best.

#AMUSING ALPHABETS#

TINGLE, TANGLE TITMOUSE

"Come hither, little puppy-dog, I'll give you a new collar, If you will learn to read your book, And be a clever scholar."

"No! no!" replied the puppy-dog, "I've other fish to fry; For I must learn to guard your house, And bark when thieves come nigh."

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, Robin knows great A, And B, and C, and D, and E, F, G, H, I, J, K.

"Come hither, pretty cockatoo, Come and learn your letters; And you shall have a knife and fork To eat with, like your betters."

"No! no!" the cockatoo replied, "My beak will do as well; I'd rather eat my victuals thus Than go and learn to spell."

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, Robin knows great A, And B, and C, and D, and E, F, G, H, I, J, K.

"Come hither, little pussy-cat, If you'll your grammar study, I'll give you silver clogs to wear, Whene'er the gutter's muddy."

"No! whilst I grammar learn," says puss, "Your house will in a trice Be overrun from top to toe With flocks of rats and mice."

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, Robin knows great A, And B, and C, and D, and E, F, G, H, I, J, K.

"Come hither, then, good little boy, And learn your alphabet, And you a pair of boots and spurs, Like your papa's, shall get."

"Oh, yes! I'll learn my alphabet, And when I've learned to read, Perhaps papa will give me, too, A pretty, long-tailed steed."

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, Robin knows great A, And B, and C, and D, and E, F, G, H, I, J, K.

AN ENGLISH ALPHABET

Ale, A is for Apple, Artichoke, and Ann;

Brown Bear, B is for Black Bear, and Bran;