Chapter 21

Finally, she stood up and made her pets stand up, too. Then she had more trouble, for Gyp wanted to stand next to her, and so did Banty, and so did Blackie, but she told them if they were not good and did not stand just where she put them, they could not have their pictures taken at all. She even said she would get the little pig that could not find his way home, and would have her picture taken with _him_. They did not like that, so they promised to be good. She stood Banty on one side of her, and Gyp on the other side, and then she put Blackie on one end next to Banty. But Gyp and Blackie jumped around so lively that Brother Ned ran into the house and brought out Polly's toy cow, and stood her next to Blackie, and that kept _him_ quiet, because he was afraid the cow would hook him with her horns--he did not know it was not a _real_ cow. Then Ned brought out Polly's toy lion and put him next to Gyp, and that kept _him_ quiet, because he thought the lion would eat him up,--he did not know it was not a _real_ lion.

So, after they were all nice and quiet, Ned called out:

"Ready! Look pleasant! One, two, three--all over!"

And here is the way they looked in the picture that Ned took that morning:

IDLE BEN

Idle Ben was a naughty boy (If you please, this story's true), He caused his teachers great annoy, And his worthy parents, too.

Idle Ben, in a boastful way To his anxious parents told That while he was young he thought he'd play, And he'd learn when he grew old.

"Ah, Ben," said his mother, and dropped a tear, "You'll be sorry for this, by-and-by" Says Ben, "To me that's not very clear, But at any rate I'll try."

So idle Ben, he refused to learn, Thinking that he could wait; But when he had his living to earn, He found it was just too late.

Little girls, little boys, don't delay your work, Some day you'll be women and men. Whenever your task you're inclined to shirk, Take warning by idle Ben.

THE HOLE IN THE CANNA-BED

BY ISABEL GORDON CURTIS

One evening in May, Chuckie Wuckie's papa finished setting out the plants in the front yard. Into one large bed he put a dozen fine cannas. They looked like fresh young shoots of corn. He told Chuckie Wuckie that when summer came they would grow tall, with great spreading leaves and beautiful red-and-yellow blossoms.

"Taller than me, papa?" asked the little girl, trying to imagine what they would look like.

"Much taller; as tall as I am."

Chuckie Wuckie listened gravely while papa told her she must be very careful about the canna-bed. She must not throw her ball into it, or dig there, or set a foot in the black, smooth earth. She nodded her head solemnly, and made a faithful promise. Then she gathered up her tiny rake and hoe and spade, and carried them to the vine-covered shed to put beside her father's tools.

Next morning, when papa went to look at the canna-bed, he discovered close beside one of the largest plants a snug, round hole. It looked like a little nest. He found Chuckie Wuckie digging with an iron spoon in the ground beside the fence.

"Dearie," he said, "do you remember I told you, last night, that you must not dig in the canna-bed?"

"Yes," said the little girl.

"Come and see the hole I found there."

So Chuckie Wuckie trotted along at her father's heels. She stood watching him as he filled in the hole and smoothed down the earth.

"I did not dig it," said Chuckie Wuckie. "I just came and looked to see if the canna had grown any through the night, but I did not dig it."

"Really?" asked her papa, very gravely.

"Really and truly, I did not put my foot on there," said Chuckie Wuckie.

Papa did not say another word. But he could not help thinking that the hole looked as if the iron spoon had neatly scooped it out.

Next morning he found the hole dug there again, and Chuckie Wuckie was still busy in her corner by the fence. He did not speak of it, however. There were prints of small feet on the edge. He only smoothed down the earth and raked the bed. He did this for three mornings, then he led Chuckie Wuckie again to the canna-bed.

"Papa," she said earnestly, "I did not dig there. Truly, I didn't. The hole is there every morning. I found it to-day before you came out, but I did not dig it." There were tears in her brown eyes.

"I believe you, Chuckie Wuckie dear," said her father, earnestly.

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.

#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.

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

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]

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!"

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.