Part 3
Bee takes the honey home To the Queen bee; Bird seeks a nest that hides High in the tree; I seek a little house Where sweet vines grow. What in God’s world is best— Trees, flowers, home, and rest— Three of us know.
—MARIE VAN VORST
THE DANDELION
gyp sy
gild
idle
Little Gypsy dandelion, Dancing in the sun, Have you any curls to sell? “Not a single one!”
Little idle dandelion Then I’ll mow you down. What is it you’re good for, pray, With your golden crown?
“Ah! I gild the fields so green In the pleasant spring, Shining like the morning star With the light I bring.”
THE MAGPIE’S LESSON
ma ple
mean
learn
hooted
ea gle
(en ough) r ough
(gr owl) owl
pa tient
(h ome) d ome
(l eaves) eaves w eave
o ri ole
cov er
troub le
moun tain
(b ud) m ud
yon der
choose
roofs
build
(afr aid) p aid
Years and years ago—ever so many years ago—only one bird in the whole world knew how to build a nest. That wise bird was the magpie.
One day all the other birds came to the magpie. They wanted to learn how to build nests. They begged the magpie to teach them.
“Indeed, I am glad to teach you,” said Mrs. Magpie. “Just listen and watch me. First, you must choose a tall tree, like this great maple. Then take sticks—”
“A tree,” broke in the bold eagle, “a tree here in this valley! No trees nor valleys for me! My nest shall be on the highest cliff of yonder mountain.”
And away flew the eagle without waiting to hear more of the magpie’s lesson. To this day he puts together a few rough sticks on a rocky mountain cliff, and calls them a nest.
The magpie began again. “Take sticks like these,” she said, “to a high branch.”
“Are you a fool?” cried the lark. “Don’t you know that the first strong wind will blow your nest to the ground?” “And the first boy who comes this way will throw stones at it,” put in Mrs. Bob-o-link.
“No high branches for us,” sang the lark and the bob-o-link together. And down they flew into the tall grass of the meadow. There they have made their nests ever since.
Mrs. Magpie didn’t even look at the birds flying away. “Weave the sticks together so, in and out,” said she cheerfully. “That will make the bottom of the nest.”
“I don’t mean to set my nest on a branch like that,” spoke up the oriole. “The wind surely would blow it off, as the lark just said.”
And the oriole flew away and hung her nest from little twigs. There you may see it to-day swinging in the wind far out at the end of a long branch.
“Plaster the inside of your nest with mud,” Mrs. Magpie went on again. “Then line it with soft grass, so.”
“Dear, dear, so much work to make a nest!” yawned the whip-poor-will. “I’m not going to take the trouble.” And that lazy bird hasn’t made a nest from that day to this. She just lays her eggs in a hollow on the ground, or perhaps on a log.
“Who, who, who would go to all that trouble!” hooted the owl. “I think I have a better plan.”
She looked very wise, but said no more. You can guess what her plan was when you find her eggs in a crow’s or a hawk’s old nest.
“Now take more mud and sticks,” began the patient magpie once more. “You need to build a dome over your nest. That is to hide the little ones and to keep out the rain.”
“Oh, never mind the dome,” said the robin. “I will cover my little ones with my wings. I can hide them and keep off the rain.”
“You are right, Mrs. Robin,” said the crow. “We have no use for domes.” And to this day neither robins nor crows have built domes over their nests.
Mrs. Magpie paid no more heed to these birds than to the others who had already left her. She went quietly on building her nest, just as she knew it ought to be built. Soon it was done, dome and all.
“Indeed, Mrs. Magpie,” said the swallows, “we like your nest. The dome is a fine thing, but why should we build it? There are plenty of domes already built; we need only to make our nests under them.”
Ever since then some swallows have made their nests under banks. Others have made theirs under roofs of open barns; and still others under eaves.
So all the birds flew away and left Mrs. Magpie with never a “thank you.” Each one built her nest as she pleased. And each one thought her way so much better than the magpie’s.
But the magpie still builds her nest in the top of a high tree. She makes it of mud and sticks and covers it with a dome.
THE BLUEBIRD
cro cus
mer ry
daf fo dils
I know the song that the bluebird is singing— Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary; Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat. Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen a while and you’ll hear what he’s saying Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying:
“Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer: Summer is coming, and springtime is here.
Little white snowdrops! I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! come, open your eyes; Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear? Summer is coming, and springtime is here!”
—MRS. EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
THE WOLF AND THE STORK
A greedy wolf got a bone stuck in his throat. Try as he would, he could not get the bone out. At last he lay down to die, as he thought. But just then a stork came that way.
“Good day, Mr. Wolf,” said the stork, kindly.
But the wolf could not answer a word.
The stork soon saw what the matter was, and with his long beak pulled the bone out of the wolf’s throat. Without a word, the greedy wolf sprang up and went on with his dinner.
The stork, who was very hungry, began to pick up a few morsels of meat.
“Be off with you!” snapped the wolf. “How dare you touch my meat!”
“Is that the thanks I get for saving your life?” said the stork.
“Thanks!” answered the wolf, “did I not let you draw your bill out of my jaws in safety? It is you who should be thankful.”
THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LULLABY
roe buck
pap poose
Man i tou
slum ber ing
breezes
prai rie
Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, little pappoose, The stars come into the sky; The whip-po’-will’s crying, the daylight is dying, The river runs murmuring by.
The pine trees are slumbering, little pappoose, The squirrel has gone to his nest; The robins are sleeping, the mother bird’s keeping The little ones warm with her breast.
The roebuck is dreaming, my little pappoose, His mate lies asleep at his side; The breezes are pining, the moonbeams are shining All over the prairies wide.
Then hush-a-by, rock-a-by, little pappoose, You sail on the river of dreams; Dear Manitou loves you, and watches above you, Till time when the morning light gleams.
—CHARLES MYALL.
HOW MRS. WHITE HEN HELPED ROSE
(y ond er) p ond
(c atch) scr atch
ques tion
sur prised
(p ush) b ush
(ever) cl ever
si lent ly
sud den ly
(h ard) y ard
(for ward)
earth
worm
chirped
A beautiful rose tree grew in the garden. Every morning she smiled up at the golden sun. But one morning when the sun rose, he was surprised to see that his friend, the rose, drooped sadly. He sent one of his warm rays down to earth to find out what the matter was.
“Dear Rose,” said the bright sunbeam, “why do you droop and look so sad?”
“Ah, me!” sighed the rose, “I am so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating my leaves, and he will not crawl away.”
The sun felt very sorry for the rose. “I will not shine,” he said, “until Rose is happy.” So he hid behind a dark cloud.
The wind came hurrying along. “Father Sun,” he cried, “why are you not shining to-day?”
“Ah, me!” answered the sun, “dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. I will shine no more until Rose is happy.”
“I, too, am so sorry,” whispered the wind. “I will blow no more until Rose is happy.” So saying he dropped to the earth and was still.
A bird was surprised when the wind stopped.
“Mr. Wind,” he called, “why have you stopped blowing?”
“Ah, me!” sighed the wind. “Dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. So Sun will shine no more and I will blow no more until Rose is happy.”
“I, also, love Rose,” sang the bird; “and I will sing no more until Rose is happy.” He flew away silently to his nest in the oak tree.
“It is not night,” said the old tree; “why are you not flying and singing, little bird?”
“Ah, me!” chirped the bird. “Dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. So Sun will shine no more, Wind will blow no more, and I will sing no more until Rose is happy.”
“That is all very sad,” whispered the tree. “I shall drop no more acorns until Rose is happy.”
Soon the squirrel came to gather some nuts. But he could find very few.
“Dear Tree,” he chattered, “please drop down some acorns.”
“No,” answered the tree. “I cannot, now.”
“Why not?” asked the squirrel.
“Ah, me!” rustled the tree. “Dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. So Sun will shine no more, Wind will blow no more, Bird will sing no more, and I will drop no more acorns until Rose is happy again.”
“And I will work no more,” chirped the squirrel. “I will run away to my nest in the old hollow tree.”
On the way to his home the squirrel met Mrs. Brown Duck.
“Good morning, Mr. Squirrel,” quacked the duck. “Why are you not working this morning?”
“Ah, me!” replied the squirrel. “Dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. So Sun will shine no more, Wind will blow no more, Bird will sing no more, Oak Tree will drop no more acorns, and I will work no more till Rose is happy.”
“Then I will swim no more,” said Mrs. Brown Duck. And she waddled off to the barnyard. There she met Mrs. White Hen.
“Why do you look so sad, Mrs. Duck?” said the hen.
“Ah, me!” quacked the duck. “Dear Rose is so unhappy! An ugly worm is eating her leaves, and he will not crawl away. So Sun will shine no more, Wind will blow no more, Bird will sing no more, Oak Tree will drop no more acorns, Squirrel will work no more, and I will swim no more until Rose is happy again.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” cackled Mrs. White Hen. “Pray tell me how stopping your work will help Rose. If you wish Rose to be happy, you must do something for her. Come with me.”
Away hurried the hen and the duck until they came to the rose. The old hen asked no questions. She did not even take time to say “Good morning.” But she cocked her head first on one side, then on the other, searching through the leaves of the rosebush with her bright little eyes. Suddenly she darted forward. “Snap!” went her bill, and the worm was swallowed.
“There, Mrs. Duck,” clucked the hen, “see how I have helped Rose and at the same time got a nice breakfast for myself.”
At once the rose looked up toward the sun and smiled. Thereupon the sun began to shine.
“If I had only thought,” said the sun, “I might have burned that worm with my hot rays.”
“And I might have blown him away,” whistled the wind, springing up suddenly.
“If I had only thought,” sang the bird, “I might have had a nice fat worm for breakfast.”
“And so might I,” quacked the duck as she waddled away toward the pond.
The oak tree shook down a great shower of acorns, and the squirrel hastened to gather them. They, too, wished they had thought of some way to help Rose.
But the clever old white hen said nothing at all.
THE SANDMAN
truth
shoes
(oak) cl oak
The Sandman comes across the land, At evening, when the sun is low: Upon his back a bag of sand— His step is soft and low. I never hear his gentle tread, But when I bend my sleepy head, “The Sandman’s coming!” mother says, And mother tells the truth, always!
I guess he’s old, with silver hair, He’s up so late! He has to go To lots of children, everywhere, At evening, when the sun is low. His cloak is long, and green and old, With pretty dreams in every fold— His shoes are silken, mother says, And mother tells the truth, always!
He glides across the sunset hill, To seek each little child, like me: Our all-day-tired eyes to fill With sands of sleep, from slumber’s sea. I try my best awake to stay, But I am tired out with play; “I’ll never see him!” mother says, And mother tells the truth—always!
—MARIE VAN VORST
BILLY BINKS
(d art) st art le
c ast les
h urr y p urr
(f elt) m elt
pres ent ly
en tered
blazed
di rect ly
ter ri ble
dis ap peared
(pl ace) f ace
(eight) n eigh ed
(sm ile) m ile
waul
trav eled
fin ished
hor ri ble
front
ter ri fied
re mem ber
(d ance) pr ance
(st ar) f ar ther
(r oof) h oof
(r oar) s oar
en e mies
for tune
sau cers
prom ise
broom
Once upon a time a little boy named Billy Binks set out to seek his fortune. He traveled alone for many a weary mile, but at last he met a little gray pony.
“Where are you going, Billy Binks?” neighed the pony.
“I am going to seek my fortune,” said Billy Binks.
“May I go, too?”
“If I take you, will you help me win my fortune?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I will carry you on my back and kick all your enemies with my hard hoofs.”
“Very well, you may come along.”
Then they went on a little farther and met a cow.
“Where are you going, Billy Binks?” mooed the cow.
“I am going to seek my fortune,” answered Billy Binks.
“May I go, too?”
“If I take you, will you help me win my fortune?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I will moo, and toss your enemies on my sharp horns.”
“Very well, you may come.”
When they had walked on a little farther they met a dog.
“Where are you going, Billy Binks?” barked the dog.
“I am going to seek my fortune,” answered Billy Binks.
“May I go, too?”
“If I take you, will you help me win my fortune?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I will bark, and bite your enemies with my sharp teeth.”
“Very well, you may come.”
After walking a little farther they met a cat.
“Where are you going, Billy Binks?” mewed the cat.
“I am going to seek my fortune,” answered Billy Binks.
“May I go, too?”
“If I take you, will you help me win my fortune?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I will purr, and scratch your enemies with my sharp claws.”
“Very well, you may come.”
They continued their journey and presently met a raven.
“Where are you going, Billy Binks?” croaked the raven.
“I am going to seek my fortune.”
“May I go, too?”
“If I take you, will you help me win my fortune?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I will croak, and peck your enemies’ eyes out with my sharp beak.”
“Very well, you may come.”
On and on they walked till at last they entered a deep, dark wood. All day they journeyed through this forest, which grew denser and darker as night came on.
“We are near a clearing in this wood,” croaked the raven, who had been soaring above the treetops. “Let us keep right on.”
Suddenly all were startled by a bright light, the brightest any of them had ever seen. It flashed out through the trees directly in front of them. It fairly dazzled and blinded them. Then it as suddenly disappeared, and left them standing terrified in the pitch-black darkness of the night.
Again the light flashed out, and again disappeared.
“What can it be?” asked Billy Binks, hoarsely, as soon as he could find his voice.
“Perhaps it is a lamp,” mewed the cat.
“No, it is too bright for a lamp,” answered Billy Binks.
“It might be a house on fire,” barked the dog.
“No, if it were, we could see the light all the time; and besides, there is no house here. I have flown this way before,” answered the raven.
“It may be a lighthouse,” said Billy Binks.
“No,” replied the raven, “the sea is miles from here. You all keep still while I fly over the treetops and find out what it is.”
Billy Binks and his animal friends kept ever so quiet, while the raven flew up and quickly disappeared in the darkness. It seemed hours before he returned.
“Oh, my friends,” croaked the raven, alighting in their midst at last, “you never saw such a sight! There’s the most horrible, monstrous hob-goblin over there in the clearing. He has a nose as long as a broomstick—”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Billy Binks and his friends.
“—Eyes as big as saucers and as green as the sea—”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Billy Binks and his friends.
“—And a mouth big enough to swallow us all!”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Billy Binks and his friends.
“He has a great fire blazing among some rocks. That is the light you saw. When he walks in front of it you cannot see the light. That is why you thought it disappeared.”
“I see! I see! I see!” said Billy Binks and his friends.
“He is busy melting gold, and he has piles of gold and jewels hidden in his cave—”
“Ah, ha!” laughed Billy Binks, as he climbed bravely upon his gray pony.
“His cave is full of nice plump field mice—”
“Mew! Mew!” cried the cat, as she scrambled up behind Billy Binks.
“In the bushes back of the cave live many rabbits—”
“Bow-wow!” barked the dog, as he bounded toward Billy Binks.
“Near the cave is a large green meadow, with the sweetest grass and the coolest brook in the world—”
“Moo! Moo!” lowed the cow, as she, too, hurried up beside Billy Binks.
“And there is a tall tree that will make a fine home for me,” finished the raven, as she flew over Billy Binks’s head.
“Come on, friends,” whispered Billy Binks, boldly. “It is time to win my fortune. Remember you have all promised to help me.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll help. And I think I see my fortune, too,” answered each of the animals, now as bold as Billy Binks.
Softly, quietly, and slowly they crept through the forest. Presently they came to the clearing. There stood the ugly, black hob-goblin, bending over his fire. His back was turned toward them.
“Now!” shouted Billy Binks, and they all rushed at the terrible monster.
The raven dashed into his face and pecked at his large green eyes.
The cat scratched great gashes in his long nose.
The dog bit him, and the horse kicked him.
The enraged cow rushed upon him with lowered head, caught him on her horns, and tossed him as high as the treetops.
Then the cow began to bellow.
The dog began to howl.
The cat began to waul.
The raven began to caw.
The pony began to prance.
And Billy Binks began to shout with all his might.
Such a frightful din that old hob-goblin had never heard! He picked himself up from the sharp rocks where he had fallen, and dashed away with might and main through the forest. If he hasn’t stopped, he is running still.
“Ho, ho!” cried Billy Binks, springing from the gray pony and running to the mouth of the cave. “This heap of gold and this pile of jewels will do for my fortune. If you carry them safely home for me, Pony, I will build you a beautiful stable, and you shall have a full crib of oats before you all the rest of your life. That will be your fortune.”
“This cave, full of good, plump mice, is my fortune,” called the cat, as she pounced on the first unlucky mouse.
“All these rabbits shall be my fortune,” barked the dog, as he set off in hot haste after a fleeing bunny.
“And this green meadow is my fortune,” mooed the cow, as she began to crop the sweet grass.
“Who could have a better fortune than this?” croaked the raven, flying to the top of a tall tree.
So Billy Binks said “Good-by” to his friends, and left them each with his fortune. He quickly bagged the gold and jewels, threw them across the pony’s back, and mounting, hurried off homeward.
The pony smelled oats all the way, while Billy Binks saw castles and lands on all sides.
WHEN THE LITTLE BOY RAN AWAY
(s ist er) tw ist ed
wan der ed
aw ful
(r oam) f oam ing
ech o
(under) th under
par ents
trun dle
When the little boy ran away from home, The birds in the tree-top knew, And they all sang, “Stay!” but he wandered away Under the skies of blue. And the wind came whispering from the tree, “Follow me, follow me!” And it sang him a song that was soft and sweet And scattered the roses before his feet That day, that day, When the little boy ran away.
The violets whispered, “Your eyes are blue And lovely and bright to see, And so are mine, and I’m kin to you, So dwell in the light with me.” But the little boy laughed, while the wind in glee Sang, “Follow, follow me!” And the wind called the clouds from their home in the skies And said to the violet, “Shut your eyes!” That day, that day, When the little boy ran away.
Then the wind played leapfrog over the hills And twisted each leaf and limb; And all the rivers and all the rills Were foaming mad with him; And ’twas dark as the darkest night could be, But still came the wind’s voice, “Follow me!” And over the mountain and up from the hollow Came echoing voices with, “Follow him; follow!” That awful day, When the little boy ran away.
Then the little boy cried, “Let me go, let me go!” For a scared, scared boy was he. But the thunder growled from a black cloud, “No!” And the wind roared, “Follow me!” And an old gray owl from a tree-top flew, Saying: “Who are you-oo? Who are you-oo?” And the little boy sobbed, “I’m lost away! And I want to go home where my parents stay.” O, the awful day When the little boy ran away!
Then the moon looked out from a cloud and said: “Are you sorry you ran away? If I light you home to your trundle bed, Will you stay, little boy, will you stay?” And the little boy promised—and cried and cried— He never would leave his mother’s side, And the moonlight led him over the plain; And his mother welcomed him home again. But, O, what a day When the little boy ran away!
HOW THE BEAN GOT ITS BLACK SEAM
(ea gle) ea ger
(h ush) cr ush
mo ment
quar rel
coun try
(r ope) h ope
(m ean) b ean
gur gling
four
pour ing
sew ed
hul lo
cru el
tor rent
both er
a las
in stant ly
Once upon a time there was a poor old woman living in a village of a far country. She had gathered some beans and was making ready to cook them. She built a fire of sticks, but, as these were damp, they did not burn well. So she thrust in a handful of dry straw. Now the flames leaped up, and the sticks snapped and crackled in the blaze.
A live red coal flew out of the fire, fell on the ground beside a straw, and lay there smoking. Just then a bean dropped from the pot which the old woman was filling, rolled away, and came to rest close to the coal and the straw.
“Hullo, Mr. Coal,” said the straw. “How you smoke! Are you frightened? Where did you come from?”
“I just sprang out of that fire,” answered the coal. “Had I not jumped just as I did, I should now be nothing but ashes. My, look at that blaze!”
“I, too, jumped in the nick of time,” spoke up the bean. “That cruel old woman was just pouring me into the pot when I leaped over the edge, and here I am.”