Part 2
But once our Polly was naughty, And struck her baby at last; When, lo! it jumped out of the cradle, And scampered from danger fast. Do you think that was strange for a baby-- For Polly's wee baby--to do? Why, children, 'twas only a kitty, Brimful of mischief--and mew!
M. D. BRINE.
HICKORY, DICKORY, DOCK!
WEEZY was so eager to help that she made it hard for herself and for the family. She burned her fingers in stirring hot apple-sauce for Bridget. She woke the baby in trying to curl the few hairs on his little bald head. She meddled with mamma's knitting-work till she had lost every needle. Papa Haynes laughed at these things; but when Weezy learned to open his writing-desk he looked grave.
[Illustration]
"This'll never do," said he to mamma. "The child will be tearing my papers next."
So he locked the desk, and hung the key above the tall clock beside it.
"There, my young squirrel, you won't reach that in a hurry," he said to himself, kissing his little daughter good-by.
After he was gone mamma stepped into the kitchen to tell Bridget about dinner. Weezy stayed in the sitting-room to sing Sambo to sleep. Every time she rocked back in her small chair she could see the key shining over the clock. It looked very much out of place. She wondered why her papa had put it there. She wanted to whistle with it. Oh hum! if she was a little speck of a bird she would fly against it and brush it down with her wings. Or if Sambo was only an angel! She danced across the floor, and threw him up as high as she could. Instead of knocking down the key she knocked poor Sambo's stocking-yarn head against the wall, and he fell flat upon the top of the desk.
[Illustration]
"Lie still, Sambo," cried Weezy, mounting a chair. From the chair she easily climbed to the broad shelf of the desk. There she rested a moment, leaning her chin on the top of the desk and patting Sambo. But she did not take him in her arms, for not far above him hung the key. She had set her little heart on getting it.
What do you think the little sprite did next? All by herself she scrambled to the very top of that big desk. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to reach over the clock! Even then she was not quite tall enough to grasp the key with her chubby little fingers; but by perching upon Sambo she got it at last.
By the time mamma came back Weezy had opened the desk, and cut one of papa's deeds into paper dolls.
Papa was vexed enough, at noon, when he saw them.
"The loss of that deed will give me a great deal of trouble," said he to mamma. "How _did_ Weezy come by the key of my desk?"
"'Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock!'"
answered mamma, laughing.
"Why, why, is it possible!" said papa, turning pale. "I'm thankful she didn't break her neck,--our little mouse of a Weezy."
PENN SHIRLEY.
[Illustration]
A MEADOW SONG.
A LITTLE daisy in a meadow grew, Kissed by the sunshine, and fed by the dew; And gayly she sang to the passers-by, "Was ever a daisy so happy as I?"
Then the clover, hearing the daisy's voice, Began, in her own sweet way, to rejoice; And softly sang, to the prettiest tune, "What bliss to live and to grow in June!"
The violet peeped from her mossy bed, And round her the sweetest fragrance shed, Till far and near, on the summer air, Floated the perfume, fresh and rare.
[Illustration]
And the buttercup waked from a golden dream To join in the grateful and joyous theme, As daintily over the grass she stepped, The fresher and sweeter from having slept.
The wild blue flag, with a laughing toss, Spanned her color the green across; "Ho! ho!" she cried. "Oh, how merry are we!" Skipping along in her flowery glee.
The sweet-brier, growing beside the wall, Quickly blossomed to hear the call, And bent, with a gracious and royal mien, At the jubilant cries of "Our queen! our queen!"
Then dandelion, golden head, To follow where the others led, Sung till the echoes, loud and long, Resounded with her joyous song.
The cowslip rose, with a pleased surprise, And, donning a robe of gorgeous dyes, Sang in a voice so rich and sweet The concert now was quite complete.
The meadow-lark, as he heard the song, Sprung from his nest to greet the throng; And, thrilled to his heart by the joyous lay, Flew, singing, aloft, in the merriest way.
So, in the dewy meadow-grass, Where all may listen as they pass, Both bird and flower, in sweet attune, Make happier all the days of June.
ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.
[Illustration: OUR MOCKING BIRD.]
A MOCKING-BIRD made his home in a honeysuckle in front of our cosey house. In Arkansas, where we live, this sweet shrub is evergreen. Last year the honeysuckle died, and the bird lost his home; but he liked the place, and he went with his family to the lattice-room, in the rear of the house.
In this apartment he found an old travelling-bag, or gripsack, hanging on a nail. Inside of it was an old soft hat. This seemed to be what the bird wanted, and he made his nest in it. This was his home all winter, and he was happy there. When the cold weather, which we sometimes have in Arkansas, came, he went to the water bucket to drink, and we fed him with crumbs from the porch.
We started the honeysuckle anew, and when it had climbed to the top of the cedar pole it spread out its foliage like an umbrella. The mocking-bird liked his old home, and he moved back to its branches in the spring. He has a nice family in his nest, and they give us music at all times, night and day.
The father bird was as brave as a soldier. His special aversion is a large Newfoundland dog, who is one of our pets. The bird will dart down upon the dog's back, and make war upon him with a peculiar noise, until he drives him away. He does this because he thinks the dog will hurt the young in the nest. When there are no little ones he takes no notice of the dog.
We think this is a great deal better than keeping the birds in a cage. They are tame, and stay with us all the time; but they will not allow themselves to be caught.
VAN BUREN.
[Illustration]
TROTTIE'S DOINGS.
TROTTIE is a cunning little boy, not quite three years old. His cradle is a little netted hammock. It is fastened at one end to his mamma's sewing-machine, and at the other to a hook in the wall. When Trottie grows tired he does not trouble his mamma, but gets into the little hammock and rocks himself to sleep.
One day the door-bell rang. The little fellow picked up his mother's best bonnet, which she had placed upon the bed. Crushing it down over his little golden curly head he hastened to the door.
[Illustration]
He found the minister there, a tall, stately gentleman, wearing a stove-pipe hat. Trottie's strange appearance made the gentleman laugh, and he asked, "Where are you going, my little man?"
Trottie made no answer, but, after a prolonged stare at the stove-pipe hat, asked, "Are you Mr. Yankee Doodle?" Mamma came down just then. Laughing, she invited the visitor in.
Not long afterwards Trottie thought he would like to churn. When his mother's back was turned he put his two dear little kittens, "Starry Eyes" and "Bluebell," into the churn, and poured a cup of water over them. He was just lifting the dasher when his mother heard the kittens mewing and took them out.
[Illustration]
He loves the kittens dearly, and would not hurt them for anything.
JENNIE JUDSON.
[Illustration: "Seventeen, Eighteen, Maids in Waiting"]
By Margaret Johnson:
WHEN the western light is fading, And the deepening shadows fall, When the night winds through the branches Softly to each other call;
When in grassy country meadows Heavy hang the clovers red, And the stars begin to twinkle In the dusky arch o'erhead;
[Illustration]
When within the crowded city Spring the dark lamps into flame, And long rows of lighted windows Set the street as in a frame;
When the busy hours are over, Cares and worries put away, And the evening enters softly After the retreating day;
When the sound of homeward footsteps Echoes through the quiet street, Or the wayside grass is trampled By the tread of hurrying feet,--
Then, in stately shining windows, Hung with misty laces white, Or in low-roofed cottage doorways Opening out into the night;
With their merry voices silent, And their playthings put aside, Bright eyes, blue or black or hazel, All with eager watching wide,
Stand a hundred little maidens, Looking out beneath the stars, Waiting in a hundred households For a hundred dear papas;
And the quick, familiar footsteps Nearer through the darkness come, Till a hundred happy voices Cry at once their "Welcome home!"
THE PIGS' CHOWDER-PARTY.
DOWN at Cape Cod there lived two merry little twin brothers. Very full of fun and mischief were they, and seldom quiet except when they were asleep.
[Illustration]
One day their mamma bought some clams. She was going to have a chowder for supper. For safe, cool keeping she put her basket of clams on the grass, under a great tree.
[Illustration]
Johnnie and Willie stood by, and heard all that their mamma said about it to auntie. They just looked and heard it all. Their baby faces--for they were only a little over three years old--were as solemn as good old Deacon Pitts', who said he "didn't see why people laughed when there was no occasion."
These two baby-rogues put their bits of plump little hands into the pockets of their pretty white aprons. When mamma and auntie went into the house Nurse Jane sat down on the piazza, knitting in hand, to keep an eye on them. They began to play bo-peep behind the lilac-bushes. When Nurse Jane dropped off to sleep, as she should not have done, then it was that these two small men turned their thoughts to other matters. First, there was a wild chase after butterflies. Pretty soon they trotted down the walk to see Mistress Piggy and her three lazy, grunting children. When the pigs heard voices they, too, piped up, squealing out, as Johnnie afterwards told his mamma, "Give _us_ some! give _us_ some!"
So at that call the laddies pelted Mistress Piggy and her children with tufts of grass. Straying down the walk for more, they spied the basket of clams. In a minute they were dragging the damp basket over the grass, tugging away at the heavy load until their cheeks were scarlet. Then such a pelting as Mistress Piggy and her family had. But they were wild with the supper. They crunched and ate until all the clams were gone. A pile of shells lay by the trough where their food was usually put. "They had the chowder," Willie said.
Mamma and auntie had no chowder _that_ night!
I do not know what mamma said to her small boys, but I do know that they went very early to bed.
FRANCES P. CHAPLIN.
PUSSY'S ADOPTED CHILDREN.
WHEN I was a little girl I had a dear old pussy. She was black and white, handsome and dignified, yet a grand playfellow when she chose to put off her dignity.
[Illustration]
Great was my delight, one lovely spring morning, to find that pussy had two beautiful little babies in an old basket under the shed steps. She was so glad to have me see them, and so proud of the little soft, plump things, that she purred her loudest.
For three weeks mamma, kitty, and I nursed those babies with increasing pleasure. Whenever she wanted to take the air, or call on a friend, I was always ready to sit by the basket till she came back.
One sad night Thomas Gray, an old enemy of pussy's, broke into her house and killed both those darlings. Their mother didn't shed a tear, but my tears fell fast. The little creatures had just begun to be very cunning, and my disappointment was sore.
Over in the brick house across the street was another mamma kitty, with five nice children. They were about the same age as our kittens. Two were very like ours; so I got the idea of begging for them, and giving them to my pussy. Away I ran to ask my mamma's friend in the brick house if she would give me two of her kittens. She laughed, and said, "I wish you would take them all."
I carried home the two I wanted, and gave them to our sad pussy as she lay by the kitchen stove. At first she sniffed at them eagerly, but they didn't smell one bit like her own sweet babies. Then she was angry at the trick I seemed to be playing. Her eyes looked fierce. She rose up, growled, and spit at the little strangers, and tried to run away. But I held her while Mary, the girl, brought some milk in a saucer. Kitty was hungry, and so were the little ones; they tried to lap the milk with her, but they could only wet their bits of noses, and nearly sneezed their ears off.
Then they cried piteously, and looked at our pussy mother in such an appealing way that it seemed to touch her. In a little while she curled down on the floor and let them take her own babies' places.
Presently she began to wash their little heads, and then to sing "gray thrums" to them. At last she made up her mind that they were very nice little things, and she would be a good mother to them. And she was. Nobody would ever guess that they were not her own children.
S. D. L. H.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SEVEN TIMES ONE.
MERRY-Sunshine-Bluebell girl, All my fond thoughts fly and furl, Close their wings about your head. May dear angels round you spread Joy from morn to setting sun,-- For to-day you're "seven times one."
Winds that fly from you to me Early, gently, ceaselessly, Whisper, "We have seen her wake, Gifts and kisses shyly take; We have touched her dainty cheek, Heard her gayly, sweetly speak Of the day that makes her seven,-- Golden day from morn to even."
Down I wander to the glen, Meeting whispers there again: Leaves that shake, and waves that whirl, Murmur of my birthday girl. Soft the leaves are, like her hair, And the brook-foam is as fair. Over me the sapphire skies Shine like her own gentle eyes. Break, O brook, in bubbling laughter! Only half you copy after Her who came with morning sun,-- Her who now is "seven times one."
Little morning-glory child, Bright as morn, as morning mild, Twine and wreathe thy fragile soul,-- Delicate as the waves that roll Here in rainbows to my feet,-- Twine and wreathe thee in our hearts, Sheltered be from storm and smarts; Cover us with dainty bloom; In our love find sunny room For thy dreams, songs, sallies mild, Blessed morning-glory child!
DAY NOBLE.
[Illustration]
WHAT KATY DID.
"KATY-DID-IT! Katy-did-it!" sang the katy-dids in the trees. Who was Katy, and what did she do, that all night long the insects sang about her?
[Illustration]
Who was Katy? Why, a pretty little girl, six years old. Such a merry little girl that every one loved her. Katy had come out to stay with Grandma Lee. Mamma's sister was very sick, and mamma had gone to nurse her. Papa sent Katy and little Tom, with their nurse, to grandma's.
Grandma Lee lived in the country, in a large house, with a beautiful garden to it. Back of the garden was the barn, where Katy liked to hunt for eggs, and play in the hay. So Katy played from morning till night at grandma's, and was very happy.
One warm afternoon she thought she would go into the parlor and get a book that had beautiful pictures in it. It was on a table that had a scarf hanging over the edge. When Katy reached to get it she pulled the table-scarf off. Down fell the book and a large vase, which was broken all to pieces.
"Oh, dear!" said Katy, "grandma will be so angry. I am afraid to tell her."
Little Tom had followed Katy in, and now stood beside her. Just then Katy heard grandma coming, and ran out on the porch.
She heard grandma say, "You naughty boy, to break grandma's pretty vase!"
[Illustration]
Then Katy thought grandma will never know it was I who did it; for Tom cannot talk, and he is always breaking things. I won't tell her I did it. So she ran away, and did not come in till grandma called her. Then grandma told her that Tom had gone into the parlor, and had broken the vase by pulling the scarf off the table.
Katy did not say a word, but she could hardly eat her supper. When little Tom came up to kiss her "Good-night," before nurse put him to bed, she almost cried. But she thought it would not do to tell then. She was glad when bed-time came, she felt so unhappy.
Katy slept in a little room that opened into grandma's. In the middle of the night she heard a noise and waked up. The moon was shining into the room, and it was almost as light as day. She heard something which sounded like "Katy-did-it! Katy-did-it! Katy-did-it!"
She pulled the sheet over her head to shut out the noise; but still she heard the singing, "Katy-did-it!"
"They mean me," said Katy. "I wish they would stop." But they only sang the louder.
Katy could stand it no longer. She jumped out of bed and ran into grandma's room, crying, "O grandma, grandma, Katy did it!"
Grandma jumped up, saying, "Why, child! what's the matter?"
"O grandma," sobbed Katy, "Tom did not do it; Katy did it."
"Did what?" asked grandma.
"I broke the vase," replied Katy, "and then let you think Tom did it."
Then Katy told grandma how the Katy-dids would not let her sleep till she had told her all about it. Grandma said she hoped Katy would never be afraid again to say "Katy did it," when she had done wrong. I think, after that, she never was.
AUNT FANNY.
PULL THE WEEDS.
PULL the weeds, my little maid, That's good work to do; Better drop the ugly spade,-- It's too big for you. In the onion bed, you see, Weeds with onions don't agree; Pull the weeds and set them free, Onions then will grow.
[Illustration]
Do you want to help me, dear, Very, very much? Careful walk along right here, And you must not touch; You must learn to keep the row; Pull the weeds where'er they grow; Soon you'll learn to use the hoe, Rake, and spade, and such.
M. E. McKEE.
[Illustration: THISTLE DOWN.
Words by JENNIE JOY.[A]
Music by T. CRAMPTON
VOICE.
1. "Dear little Fly-a-way, may I inquire, Whither so fast you are going? See not before you, the creek and the mire, What if the wind should stop blowing, You cannot curb in the windsteeds; and tho' Firm on their necks you're now lying, If they should pause once, away you would go Into the mud and lie dying.
2. "Wee, winsome trouble-heart, can you not see, Home on these windsteeds I'm going? There to sleep sweetly, 'till Spring calls to me? Then a fair flow'r I'll be growing, Tho' but a weak little waif I appear, Purposes wise I'm fulfiling, Nothing that God rules is hopeless, my dear, Speed then winds, blow if you're willing."]
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Composed for "Our little Ones."
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[Illustration]
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[Illustration: New England
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[Illustration]
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[Illustration: THE WATERBURY WATCH.
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