THE
NURSERY

A Monthly Magazine

For Youngest Readers.

IN PROSE.

IN VERSE.

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VOL. XXIX.—NO. 3.

TELLING A STORY.

"When I was a girl, and wanted to hear a story, and the grown-up people didn't feel like telling me one, they would say,—

"Now, every time this was said to me, I would think that I really should hear the story about Jack O'Nory, or the other one about Jack and his brother. But it was always the same; just as I thought the story was coming, I would hear, instead, 'And now my story's done.'

"One day, when I begged for one of the stories, my aunt told me that I couldn't hear about Jack O'Nory or his brother, because Mother Goose never told the stories about them; that she just began, and then thought better of it. After that I didn't ask any more; but I said to myself, 'If ever I get big, I'll find out those stories.' And so, sure enough, I did. And I am going to tell one of them now,—the one about Jack O'Nory himself.

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"So this is the story of Jack O'Nory. Some day 'I'll tell you another about Jack and his brother, and now my story is done!'"

TO THE SNOW-DROP.

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TURTLES.

When I put him on the floor or ground, he would stay quite still, and draw in his head and legs, until I turned away, or busied myself with something else; then he would make off as fast as his little legs would carry him.

I once lost one in that way: so, now that I know their tricks, I am more careful. But certainly that turtle must have had some sense to be able to tell when my back was turned, or even when I was not looking.

Their habits are quite peculiar. In summer they stay in the water most of the time, coming out only now and then to sun themselves on some log or branch. In the winter they bury themselves in the mud, or remain in a torpid state. When spring comes, they lay their eggs.

They live chiefly on bugs; but I have heard of one living a whole year without any thing to eat. They are very patient, and I have seen one try for hours to get over a wall that one would think he could never get over; and yet he would succeed.

I have a turtle now that will have a funny story to tell his friends, if he ever reaches his native home again. This is it: I once took him to school with me, and left him in a box, with the cover half open, on a table in the dressing-room. In about an hour I heard a suppressed laugh from one of the girls, and, looking up, I saw Mr. Turtle calmly walking into school. He wanted to learn something as well as the rest of us.

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RATHER BASHFUL!

Under this great sunbonnet Is hid a pretty face, Belonging to a little girl Whose name, they say, is Grace. She is a merry little girl, As good as good can be; But she is rather bashful, As any one may see. W.

FEEDING THE SWANS IN WINTER.

The swans are often fed by girls and boys in the summer; but in winter they have few visitors: so they are glad to see Mary, and waddle up on the ice to meet her.

She feeds them with something that looks to me like a[73] banana, and they eat it greedily. Pug looks on fiercely, as though he did not quite approve of their doings, and had half a mind to interfere.

Take care, Pug: you had better keep in the background. A blow from a swan's wing would not be good fun to a small dog. Let the swans eat their luncheon in peace.

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TWO FRIENDS.

Jane and Ann were good friends, but one morning they had a quarrel. They soon made it up. Jane put her arms round Ann's neck, and said, "I am sorry." Ann gave her a kiss, and they were friends again.

Here you see them taking a walk. They have on good warm coats, for it is a very cold day. Just see how lovingly they clasp each other. They are having a nice little chat. I wonder what they are saying.

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THE SWALLOWS' NEST.

There were no playmates for Charley at grandpa's; but with a calf at the barn, several broods of chickens, and four[77] kittens, he found enough to occupy his mind. He was up very early in the morning, and it was after ten o'clock when he came into the kitchen rather hungry.

"Look under the cloth on the table, Charley," called his grandma from the sitting-room. "You'll find a little cake I baked for you. Don't you see it?" she asked, coming into the kitchen. "There, that one."

"Oh!" said Charley, "I thought that was a loaf."

Then, taking the cake in his hand, he sat on a rock at the foot of a tree a little distance from the house, and began to eat with great relish.

Not far from him, and a little way from the other buildings, was the corn-barn, and at one end of its roof was a bird-house, which had been taken by two little birds for their home. Charley saw one bird come out and fly away. While she was gone, her mate kept watch at a short distance to see that no harm came to the eggs that were within.[78]

Charley noticed, that, in flying, these birds had different motions from the sparrows and robins which lived about his own home in the city, and, when he went nearer, he saw that they were swallows.

As he watched them pass in and out of their house, he observed that there was something inside that opened and shut like a door. It was pressed back when the birds went in, and sprang into place again as soon as they were inside. Charley could not make out what it was, and ran to the house to ask about it.

"Grandma," he said, "is there a real door to the swallows' house?"

"They make one for themselves," she answered: "there is no door to the box. You know their house stands where it is exposed to all the winds, and, on some days since they came, they must have felt the cold very much. But I saw one come flying home one day with a turkey's feather in his beak, and they worked away at it very busily until they had placed it as you see. It keeps out the wind, and makes the house much more comfortable."

Charley went back to look at the door again, and wished he could be small enough, for a few minutes, to go inside the bird-house, and see just how it was fastened. But he could not have his wish, and the swallows kept their secret.

THE GENTLEMAN IN GRAY.

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THE LITTLE SCHOLARS.

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DRAWING-LESSON.
VOL. XXIX.—NO. 3.

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THE THREE DOLLS.

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THE FAITHFUL SENTINEL.

It was more than a hundred years ago that this trusted guard did duty; and when he died, not a drum was heard, and no soldiers fired a volley over his grave. You cannot find his name on the roll of enlisted men; and yet no soldier was ever more faithful.

There was war with the Indians at the time of which I write, and a family of settlers lived in what is now the State of Maine, on the bank of the River Androscoggin. One day the children of the family went down by the river to pick berries.

With the little party of boys and girls went the family dog. He was trained to follow the trail of Indians, and to give warning of their approach. The watchful dog took his place, like a sentinel, near the children, while they ran about from bush to bush, eating more berries than went into the pail.

Suddenly the dog gave a low growl, and looked angrily toward a heap of brush at the edge of the woods. The children knew what that meant, and, without waiting to see what the danger was, they ran at once towards the block-house.

The faithful dog did not run, but stood on guard to meet the Indian whom he had seen coming from the thicket. It was not far to the house; and the children were soon in a place of safety, while the Indian skulked back to the woods.

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Several years after, when the war was all over, this very same Indian came that way, and talked with the children. They treated him kindly, and he became their good friend. But he often told them of the danger they all were in, that afternoon, when the good dog gave them such timely warning.

The dog lived to a good old age, and was loved and petted by the family as long as he lived; and to this day the descendants of Enoch and Esther, Martha and Samuel, the children saved by the dog, tell the story that I have related, and speak gratefully of the faithful sentinel.

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BRUCE AND OLD SHEEPY.

In the basement of the farm-house was a huge churn, the handle of which was attached to a large barrel made of slats, in such a way, that, when the barrel revolved, the churn was worked. When the dairy-maid was ready to churn, she would lock Bruce, their great dog, into this barrel, and say to him, "Go on, Bruce." If he went on, at every step he turned the barrel. The faster the barrel turned, the faster the churn-handle moved up and down, and the sooner the butter came.

Bruce did not like this kind of work; and who of us would? He often tried to shirk it by running away; but when John, the farmer's son, perceived this trick, he took care to secure the dog over night. The farmer and his son were very good to their animals: so, in order that Bruce might rest, they selected a sheep to perform a part of the labor. This sheep, though quite young, was never called by any other name than "Old Sheepy."

The dog and the sheep took turns in the churning thus: Bruce worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; Old Sheepy worked the other three days of the six. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, Old Sheepy could never be found without much hunting. The other three mornings she would leisurely wander near the house, nibbling the grass near the doorstep.

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So John was obliged to drive her into an enclosure, and there confine her for the night, previous to her churning, as it took too much time to find her in the morning.

One Monday evening, Bruce, having done his day's work, was lying on a rug in the sitting-room, where the farmer's children and myself were having a quiet game of "Come, d'ye come?" At eight o'clock, Priscilla and John, as if with one thought, started up from the game with the words, "Has any one shut up Old Sheepy?" No one knew. So off John ran to get the animal, but soon returned, not able to find her.

"No matter," said Priscilla, "Bruce has had an easy time to-day. We'll put him on to-morrow; for we never had more cream ready than now." Bruce pricked up his ears, as if to say, "Catch me churning Old Sheepy's butter!"

When bed-time came, Priscilla said, "I will not let old Bruce out to-night. I will put him in the wash-room." Priscilla didn't quite know Bruce, if she thought he was simple enough to be caught napping after hearing that. He got out, no one knew how; and there was nothing to to be done but to wait patiently till morning.

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Bruce had no idea of allowing Old Sheepy to get clear of her task. At midnight a terrible barking and bleating and growling and scampering, was heard some little distance from the house. John went out to see what the noise was about. He found that Bruce had spied Old Sheepy in her hiding-place, had routed her out, and driven her into the enclosure; but, as he could not bar the gate, he stood guard against the opening, and was barking loudly to awaken the household.

As soon as John appeared upon the scene, Bruce returned to his rug as if nothing had happened.

When Old Sheepy was marched into the barrel the next morning, you ought to have seen Bruce strutting about the basement! If Old Sheepy slackened her pace at all, Bruce would growl; if she didn't mind that, he would bark, and would not stop until he had succeeded in calling the dairy-maid to threaten Old Sheepy with the whip.

Priscilla and John thought these little acts of the dog very wise; but I think a sheep that could tell the days of the week, as this one was able to do, and knew enough to run away the night before her turn came, was just as wise as the dog.

The family were loud in their praise of Bruce, however, and, as a reward for his shrewdness, talked of relieving him from further work as soon as they could succeed in training another sheep.

I left the farm-house before this took place: so I cannot say how Bruce bore his laurels. But, if I had had my way, I would have rewarded Old Sheepy too.

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"RIGHT OF WAY."

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ELFRIDA'S PRESENT.

"You have been saving up your money for some time," said her mother. "For what have you been saving it?"

"To buy one of those beautiful dolls that can walk without being touched: I do so long to have one!" said the little girl. "But why do you ask, mamma?"

"It was only a passing thought," said mamma.

"But I want to know your passing thought," said Elfrida.

"Well, dear, I thought that one-quarter of the money you will have to pay for a doll would buy you a nice English-German dictionary, by help of which you could learn to read those stories in 'The Nursery.'"

"Let me buy it at once, mamma!" cried Elfrida. "Dolls are nice; but I would rather have a dictionary. May I not go to the bookstore, and buy the book now?"

"Yes, dear: your choice is a wise one. You may go."

Elfrida ran up stairs, put on her cape and bonnet, ran out to the bookstore, and bought the book.

It was hard at first to find out the meaning of some of the words. But the stories were simple, and some of the words were so like the same words in German, that she did not have to look them out.

One day she came running home from school, and said, "O mamma! a little American girl named Clara now comes to our school. She says she will teach me to read."

The little American girl kept her promise. First she[93] would give Elfrida a lesson in English, and then Elfrida would give her a lesson in German. And so they both grew to be nice little scholars. Elfrida would talk to Clara in English, and Clara would answer her in German. Soon they could each talk both languages quite well.

"PARLEY-VOO."

His aunt laughed at him too, sometimes. She was rather[94] a queer aunt, and not at all like the aunts we read of in story-books. But his father was just the best father that anybody ever heard of.

They lived in Sunland, a little town not many miles from Boston; and every morning Parley-voo would hurry down to give his father a kiss before he went away to his business in the city. Then, when the train went by, he would stand at the window, and wave his little white handkerchief, and then his father would wave back at him, as if to say, "Good-by, once more, my dear little Parley-voo, good-by!"

But one morning he was so very sleepy, that he could not open his eyes when his nurse told him it was time to get up. He called the nurse a bonne, as they do in Paris. He pushed her away, and went to sleep again, and the first thing he heard was the train going by with a "choo, choo, choo," and his father was gone without a kiss.

Then Parley-voo cried, and said it was his bonne's fault. He went to the window, and there he stood crying. He could not eat the nice breakfast that his nurse brought him, and would not let her dress him. So she went away, and shut the door, and left him to dress himself.

In his hurry he put on one red stocking and one blue one. His little kilt suit hung so high up in the closet, that he could not reach it: so he drew on an old faded dress a good deal too short, and it made him look just like a girl.

In this rig he went down stairs, and his aunt laughed so that she almost cried when she saw him. That made him feel worse than ever, and he grew worse than ever. I am sorry to tell it; but he flew at her, and kicked her. His mother could not stop him, and his aunt had to run away.

But before long Parley-voo began to be sorry; for he was not a bad child, only thoughtless and wilful. And when his mother whispered to him to go and tell his aunt how sorry[95] he was, the little red and blue legs flew across the room, and up the stairs to find his aunt.

She sat in her room at her small table, and was taking a cup of tea. She did not look up when she heard him coming, and he hardly dared to go in. But he had a brave little heart; and calling out, "Aunty, I'm sorry," he ran up to her, and clasping her neck with his little loving arms, "I am very sorry, aunty," he said again. And they made it all up.

His aunt told him that she thought it would be a good plan to write to his papa, and tell him how it happened that his little boy was too late to kiss him good-by. Then she took out of her desk a sheet of paper; and Parley-voo, with his aunt's help, printed this letter:—

After this, Parley-voo and his aunt Tib were the best of friends. It was a long time before he was too late again to say good-by to his father, or had any trouble with his bonne.

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WINTER.