Part 15

Over in the meadow, By the old mossy gate, Lived a brown mother lizard And her little lizards eight. "Bask!" said the mother; "We bask!" said the eight: So they basked in the sun By the old mossy gate.

Over in the meadow, Where the clear pools shine, Lived a green mother frog And her little froggies nine. "Croak!" said the mother; "We croak," said the nine: So they croaked and they splashed Where the clear pools shine.

Over in the meadow, In a sly little den, Lived a gray mother spider And her little spiders ten. "Spin!" said the mother; "We spin," said the ten: So they spun lace webs In their sly little den.

Over in the meadow, In the soft summer even, Lived a mother firefly And her little flies eleven. "Shine!" said the mother; "We shine," said the eleven: So they shone like stars In the soft summer even.

Over in the meadow, Where the men dig and delve, Lived a wise mother ant And her little anties twelve. "Toil!" said the mother; "We toil," said the twelve: So they toiled and were wise Where the men dig and delve.

COUNTING APPLE-SEEDS

One, I love, Two, I love, Three, I love, I say, Four, I love with all my heart, And five, I cast away; Six, he loves, Seven, she loves, Eight, they both love; Nine, he comes, Ten, he tarries, Eleven, he courts, Twelve, he marries; Thirteen, wishes, Fourteen, kisses, All the rest little witches.

TWINS

BY LUCY FITCH PERKINS

Here's a baby! Here's another! A sister and her infant brother. Which is which 'tis hard to tell, But "mother" knows them very well.

THE RHYME OF TEN LITTLE RABBITS

BY KATE N. MYTINGER

1 little rabbit, =one= went out in the field to run.

2 little rabbits, =two= Said they didn't know what to do.

3 little rabbits, =three= Said: "Let us climb a tree."

4 little rabbits, =four= Said: "Let's swing on the old barn door."

5 little rabbits, =five= Said: "We're glad just to be alive."

6 little rabbits, =six= Said: "We like to pick up sticks."

7 little rabbits, =seven= Said: "We wish we were eleven."

8 little rabbits, =eight= Said: "Come let us run through the gate."

9 little rabbits, =nine= Said: "Then let us form in line."

10 little rabbits, =ten= all got in line--and then--wasn't it fun to see them run?

IN JULY.

BY A. S. WEBBER.

10 Ten little fire crackers Standing in a line, One thought he'd light a match Then-- There were nine.

9 Nine little fire crackers Walking very straight, One caught an engine spark Then-- There were eight.

8 Eight little fire crackers Trying to spell "LEAVEN," One went too near the gas, Then-- There were seven.

7 Seven little fire crackers Cutting up tricks, One played with lighted punk Then-- There were six.

6 Six little fire crackers Glad they are alive, One went to have a smoke Then There were five.

5 Five little fire crackers Wishing there were more, One went to find a friend Then There were four.

4 Four little fire crackers Merry as could be, One played upon the hearth Then There were three.

3 Three little fire crackers Puzzled what to do, One started the kitchen fire Then There were two.

2 Two little fire crackers Looking for some fun, One met a little boy Then There was one.

1 One little fire cracker Sat him down to cry, 'Tis such a risky thing To live In July.

The Wish of Priscilla Penelope Powers

Priscilla Penelope Powers one day Took tea at a neighbor's just over the way. Two pieces of pie they urged her to take, And seven whole slices of chocolate cake! "Oh, dear," sighed Priscilla Penelope Powers, "I wish I was your little girl 'stead of ours!"

_Mrs. John T Van Sant._

Winklelman Von Winkel

Winkelman Von Winkel is the wisest man alive, He Knows that one and one make two, and two and three make five; He knows that water runs down hill, that the sun sets in the west, And that for winter weather wear, one's winter clothes are best; In fact, he does not mingle much with common folk around, Because his learning is so great--his wisdom so profound.

_Clara Odell Lyon._

TEN LITTLE COOKIES

Ten little cookies, brown and crisp and fine-- Grandma gave Baby one; then there were nine.

Nine little cookies on a china plate-- Betty took a small one; then there were eight.

Eight little cookies, nice and round and even-- The butcher boy ate one; then there were seven.

Seven little cookies, much liked by chicks-- The old hen ate one, then there were six.

Six little cookies, when grandma went to drive-- Betty had another one; then there were five.

Five little cookies, placed too near the door-- The little doggie ate one; then there were four.

Four little cookies, brown as brown could be-- Grandma took one for herself, then there were three.

Three little cookies--when grandpa said, "I too, Would like a very little one", then there were two.

Two little cookies--fast did Betty run To give one to her mamma; then there was one.

One little cooky--and now our story is done, Baby Jane ate the last, then there was none.

OUR BABY

One head with curly hair, Two arms so fat and bare, Two hands and one wee nose, Two feet with ten pink toes, Skin soft and smooth as silk, When clean, 'tis white as milk.

LONG TIME AGO

BY ELIZABETH PRENTISS

Once there was a little Kitty, White as the snow; In a barn she used to frolic, Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro, For she heard the little Kitty, Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little Kitty, Black as a sloe; And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago.

Four soft paws had little Kitty, Paws soft as snow; And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little Kitty, All in a row; And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie, Mousie cried out, "Oh!" But she slipped away from Kitty, Long time ago.

BUCKLE MY SHOE

One, Two--buckle my shoe; Three, Four--open the door; Five, Six--pick up sticks; Seven, Eight--lay them straight; Nine, Ten--a good fat hen; Eleven, Twelve--I hope you're well; Thirteen, Fourteen--draw the curtain; Fifteen, Sixteen--the maid's in the kitchen; Seventeen, Eighteen--she's in waiting; Nineteen, Twenty--my stomach's empty.

#STORIES _for_ LITTLE GIRLS#

A PAIR OF GLOVES

BY H. G. DURYÉE

The little girls who lived on Amity Street all wore mittens when they went to school in winter. Nobody's mother ever thought of anything else to keep small hands warm. Some mothers or grandmothers crocheted them, and some knit them with fancy stitches down the back, or put other mark of distinction upon them; but they were always mittens, and were always fastened to a long ribbon or piece of braid or knitted rein, so that they might not get lost, one from the other.

This connecting-link frequently gave rise to confusion, for when two little girls put their arms around each other's necks as they walked to school, they sometimes got tangled up in the mitten string and had to duck and turn and bump heads before the right string was again resting on the right shoulder. But as it was possible to laugh a great deal and lose one's breath while this was going on, it was rather an advantage than otherwise, and little girls who were special chums were pretty sure to manage a tangle every other day at least.

Clarabel Bradley did her tangling and untangling with Josephine Brown, who lived at the end of Amity Street. They both went to the same school and were in the same class. They waited for each other in the morning, and came home together, and shared each other's candy and ginger cookies whenever there were any, and took firm sides together whenever the school-yard was the scene of dispute.

But into this intimacy came a pair of gloves, almost wrecking it.

The gloves were sent by Clarabel's aunt, who was young and pretty and taught school in a large city; and they came done up in white tissue-paper inside a box with gilt trimming around the edges and a picture on the center of the cover. Taken out of the paper, they revealed all their alluring qualities. They were of a beautiful glossy brown kid with soft woolly linings and real fur around the wrists, and they fastened with bright gilded clasps.

With them was a note which said:

For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie. =Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.=

And the last sentence was underscored.

Clarabel's mother looked doubtful as she read the message. Such gloves were an extravagance even for best--and mittens were warmer. But when she encountered Clarabel's shining eyes she smiled and gave in.

So Clarabel took the gloves to her room that night, and slept with them on the foot-board of her bed, where she could see them the first thing when she waked; and in the morning she put them on and started for school.

One hand was held rigidly by her side, but the other was permitted to spread its fingers widely over the book she carried. Both were well in view if she looked down just a little. Passers-by might see; all Amity Street might see; best of all, Josephine might see!

But Josephine, waiting at the corner, beheld and was impressed to the point of speechlessness. Whereupon Clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands. The furry wrists revealed themselves fully.

Josephine found her voice.

"You've got some new gloves," she said.

"Yes; my Aunt Bessie sent them."

"Aren't they pretty!"

"I think so, and they're lots nicer than mittens. I'm not going to wear my mittens again."

Josephine looked down at her own chubby hands. Her mittens were red this winter, with a red-and-green fringe around the wrists. Only that morning she had admired them. Now they looked fat and clumsy and altogether unattractive; but she wasn't going to admit that to any one else.

"I like mittens best," she said stoutly,--"for school, anyway," she added, and gave Clarabel more of the sidewalk.

"My Aunt Bessie said specially that these were to wear to school." And Clarabel walked nearer the fence.

Josephine was hard put to it--Clarabel's manner had become so superior.

"I don't think your Aunt Bessie knows everything, even if she does teach school in a big city. My mother says she's too young to--"

What she was too young to do was not allowed to be explained; for Clarabel, with a color in her face that rivaled Josephine's mittens, had faced her.

"My Aunt Bessie's lovely, and I won't listen to another word against her, not another one--so there!"

Then she turned, with a queer feeling in her throat, and ran down the street to catch up with another little girl who was on ahead.

Josephine swung her books and walked as if she didn't care.

Clarabel overtook the little girl, who was all smiling appreciation of the new gloves, and was overtaken by other little girls who added themselves to the admiring group. But somehow her triumphal progress was strangely unsatisfactory; the glory was dimmed.

At recess, Josephine paired off with Milly Smith, who stood first in geography and wore two curly feathers in her hat. Clarabel shared her cookies with Minnie Cater, because it didn't matter who helped eat them if it wasn't Josephine. Neither spoke to the other, and at noontime they walked home on different sides of the street.

Perhaps that was why in the afternoon Clarabel lost her place in the reader and failed on so many examples in arithmetic that she was told she must stay after school.

Usually there would have been several to keep her company, but on this day there was no one else,--even Angelina Maybelle Remington had got through without disaster,--and Clarabel, wistful-eyed, saw the other girls file out.

At another time Josephine would have stayed; she always did when Clarabel had to, as Clarabel did when she was in like need. But to-night she filed out with the rest, and Clarabel, with a sense of desertion, bent over her problems of men and hay to mow, men and potatoes to dig, men and miles of railroad to build.

The noise of scurrying feet grew fainter, the sound of children's voices died away. The room settled into stillness, except for the solemn tick of the clock and the scratching of Clarabel's pencil on the slate. There were fractions in the problems, and fractions were always hard for Clarabel. Her pencil stopped often while she frowned at the curly-tailed figures. In one of these pauses the door squeaked open a little way. It squeaked again, and some one sidled into the room; it was Josephine.

"Please may I go to my seat?" she asked.

"Certainly," said the teacher, and watched her curiously.

She tiptoed to the back seat, fumbled for a few minutes in her desk, then slipped to a seat a few rows farther in front; then to another and another, till she had reached the row in which Clarabel sat.

Clarabel, though she was bending over her slate, had heard every hesitating move, and when the last halt was made she shook her curls back from her eyes, looked around, and dimpled into smiles.

The teacher, watching, waited to see what would happen next. Nothing did, except that the two little girls sat and smiled and smiled and smiled as if they never would stop.

Presently the teacher herself smiled and spoke. She had a very sweet voice sometimes--one that seemed to hint at happy secrets. That was the way it sounded now.

"Would you like to help Clarabel, Josephine?" she asked. "You may if you wish to."

"If she'll let me," answered Josephine, her eyes fixed on Clarabel's face.

"I would love to have her," said Clarabel, _her_ eyes on Josephine. And instantly the one narrow seat became large enough for two.

For ten minutes more there was great scratching of slate-pencils and much whispering and some giggling. Then with cheerful clatter the slate was borne to the platform. The teacher looked at the little girls more than at the examples. "I'm sure they're right," she said. "Now, off to your homes--both of you!"

"Good night," said Clarabel.

"Good night," said Josephine.

"Good night, dear little girls," said the teacher.

There was a soft swish of dresses and the children had reached the dressing-room. Within its familiar narrowness, Josephine hesitated and fingered her cloak-buttons.

"I think your Aunt Bessie"--it was very slow speech for Josephine--"is ever so nice and knows a lot."

"Oh!" bubbled Clarabel, joyously, "I do love the color of your mittens! Don't you--don't you"--she finished with a rush--"want to let me wear them home and you wear my gloves?"

Josephine put aside the dazzling offer.

"Your gloves are prettier and you ought to wear them."

Clarabel thought a minute, a shadow in her eyes.

"I know what," she declared, the shadow vanishing. "You wear one glove and mitten and I'll wear the other glove and mitten!"

"Oh!" said Josephine, with a rapturous hug, "that will be splendid!"

And thus they scampered home, the two mittened hands holding each other tight, while the two gloved hands were gaily waved high in the air with each fresh outburst of laughter from the little schoolmates.

A VERY LITTLE STORY OF A VERY LITTLE GIRL

BY ALICE E. ALLEN

Molly was such a little girl that she didn't seem big enough to have a party all her own with truly ice-cream in it. But she had asked for one so many times that at last Mother decided to give her one. And the party was to be a surprise to Molly herself.

Early that afternoon Molly wanted to go for a little visit to Miss Eleanor. Miss Eleanor lived up Molly's street, in a white house with apple-green blinds. Molly often went all alone.

Miss Eleanor was always so sunny and full of songs and stories and games that Molly loved her next best to Father and Mother and Baby.

"You may go, dear," said Mother, "if you will come home exactly at three o'clock."

"You always say exactly three o'clock, Mother," said Molly.

"Well, five minutes after three, then," laughed Mother. "And, Molly, so that you won't forget this time, all the way to Miss Eleanor's, say over and over, 'Five minutes after three.' Then, just as soon as you get there, say the words quickly to Miss Eleanor, 'Five minutes after three.'"

"Five minutes after three," said Molly; "I can remember that."

"That will give me plenty of time to get ready for the party," thought Mother.

Up the street with her white parasol flew Molly. "Five minutes after three," she said over and over in a whisper until she began to sing it. "Five minutes after three," she sang until she stopped a moment on the bridge to see some boys fishing. Just about there, a big dog who was a friend of Molly's ran out to say, "Good afternoon."

"Oh, Fritzie," cried Molly, "I'm going to Miss Eleanor's to make her a visit. Want to come?"

But Fritz had the house to look after. So Molly gave him a hug and ran along.

"Three minutes after five," sang Molly; "three minutes after five," over and over until she ran into Miss Eleanor's sunny little sitting-room.

"Three minutes after five," cried Molly; "that's how long I can stay. Won't that be nice?"

"Why, it's little Molly!" cried Miss Eleanor, "I'm all alone and so glad to have company! We'll hear the clock strike five. Then, if you put on your wraps, you'll be all ready to start home at three minutes past."

It seemed a very very short time to Molly before the little clock struck five.

"There, deary," said Miss Eleanor. "Put on your things and hurry right along!"

Molly put on her hat and coat. Then she kissed Miss Eleanor and hurried down the street.

When she reached the corner, she saw that the parlor at home was all lighted. And out of it came such a hubbub of little voices all laughing and talking that Molly ran faster than ever.

At the door she met Mother.

"Oh, Molly, _where_ have you been?" cried Mother. "I couldn't go after you because I couldn't leave Baby. And I couldn't take him."

Molly scarcely heard. "Oh, Mother, Mother," she cried, "it looks like a party. And it sounds like one. Is it a party, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mother, "your own little party, Molly. And you're the only one who is late. How could you forget?"

"But I didn't forget, Mother," cried Molly, hurrying out of her coat, "truly I didn't. Every step of the way I said it, and I said it to Miss Eleanor the very first thing."

"What did you say?" asked Mother.

"_Three minutes after five_," said Molly.

Mother laughed. "Why, Molly dear, you got the hour and minutes turned around. I said _five_ minutes after _three_. Well, never mind. Run along just as you are. It's a lovely party, dear, with truly ice-cream in it."

EDITH'S TEA-PARTY

BY LOIS WALTERS

Edith was a little girl who was just learning to write. Her mother told her one day that she could have a tea-party on the next Tuesday, if the weather was fine, and that she could invite her little friend Helen, who lived on the same street, though not very far away; but she must write the letter to ask Helen to come. So, Edith got up at her mother's writing-desk and took some of her own writing paper, and began to write. She could make the letters but she could not spell very well. She asked her mother how to spell the words and then she wrote them down. And this is the letter she wrote:

Then she sealed the letter in the envelop, and put a stamp on it, and stood on the front piazza so as to give it to the postman herself.

When Tuesday came, Edith's nurse dressed her in a fresh, white frock, and Edith dressed her dolly in her best dress, and went out under the trees where her nurse had set the table for two. And then she sat in a chair at the table and waited. But the big town clock struck four and no Helen came; and then she waited for half an hour longer. Then Edith put her dolly down on the chair and went in the house to find her mother.

"Mama," she said, "I think Helen is very rude, she doesn't come to my party and I invited her!"

"Just wait a little longer, dear," said her mother, "and she will come. Maybe her nurse was busy dressing Helen's little sister and brother and couldn't get her ready in time."

"But I invited her," was all Edith could say; "but I invited her, and she doesn't come."

Then her mother went to the telephone and called up Helen's mother. In a moment she came back.

"Edith, dear," she said, "what day did you write Helen to come? Her mother says she thought it was to be Thursday, and so did Helen, and this is only Tuesday."

"But I _did_ say Tuesday, mama," said Edith, who was almost ready to cry. "I remember because that was the hardest word to spell, and I think I made a blot when I wrote it."

"Well, never mind, dear; Helen is getting ready now and will be over in a few minutes," said her mama.

And Edith was very happy, and ran out to the tea-table under the trees with her doll to wait.

But she did not have to wait very long this time, for in a little while Helen came running across the lawn carrying her doll; and so happy were both little girls that Edith forgot all about the long time she had been waiting for Helen to come.

Helen wanted Edith to know that she had not been rude in staying away, so she brought with her the letter Edith had sent to her, so she could show it to Edith. And there, sure enough, the word "Tuesday" was written so badly that it looked more like "Thursday," and that was why Helen did not think she was expected on this day.

Well, the very first thing they did was to undress their dolls and put them to sleep under one of the bushes on the lawn--in the shade, so that the sun would not hurt their eyes, and so that the wax would not be melted from their cheeks. Edith put her napkin over both dolls for a comforter, for you never know when it will blow up cold, and little girls have to be as careful of their dolls as their own mothers are!

Very soon the maid came out with cookies and lady-fingers and make-believe tea, and another napkin to take the place of the one Edith had put over the dolls, and they had tea. Then the two little girls and Edith's nurse had a nice game of croquet, and they had a lovely tea-party after all, and Edith forgot all about waiting so long for Helen to come.

But Edith never again made a mistake when she spelled "Tuesday."

REBECCA

BY ELEANOR PIATT

I have a doll, Rebecca, She's quite a little care, I have to press her ribbons And comb her fluffy hair.

I keep her clothes all mended, And wash her hands and face, And make her frocks and aprons, All trimmed in frills and lace.

I have to cook her breakfast, And pet her when she's ill; And telephone the doctor When Rebecca has a chill.