Part 3

The next day after her adventure, Mary Ellen was left alone as usual with her playthings. Her little nose was black-and-blue, and gave her a look of not being a specially good child. Once or twice she put her little hand up to her face. “Nosey ache, Dom P’e-do,” she said to the parrot.

Great-Grandmother Day’s tall old pier glass stood in the room. On its low marble shelf Mama Nan generally kept a vase filled with flowers. It was a glass vase, and very tall and slender. She had been warned about leaving this vase in Mary Ellen’s reach. “She will pull it over some day,” said Madam Esther, “and the vase’ll break and she’ll get cut with the broken glass.”

Mama Nan said “no, she is to learn not to touch things.” But after the parrot, the vase of flowers was the first object the baby took notice of. Mama Nan would take a flower out and give to her, then set the vase back, shake her head and say slowly, “Mary Ellen mustn’t touch!”

“Mary Ellen is a little human being,” she said, “and knows just as well as I do that I mean she is not to touch the vase.”

“Yes,” said Papa Dick, “and because she is a little human being she will some day investigate that vase for herself.”

And now that day had come. Mary Ellen sat for a time on the rug after her mother went out, holding her rag doll by one leg. Suddenly she dropped the doll and made vigorously for the mirror. She didn’t hesitate a second after getting there. She reached for the biggest rose of the lot, grabbed it by its head and pulled. Over came the vase, crash, splash, drench! Mary Ellen gazed at the puddle. She didn’t like water. When it spread out and wet her dress, she struck at it and drew herself away. “Notty watty!” she said. This amused the parrot and he laughed. “Notty watty!” she cried, looking up at him, and struck at it again. Mary Ellen had never seen anything struck, but it was a very fierce little blow she gave the puddle of drenched flowers. Then she set off with her big rose for the open door into the hall, and up the stairs she went, and nearly twice as quick as on the day before.

_Ella Farman Pratt._

THE LITTLE SAND PAIL.

“No Kit, no toys. I think children don’t need their toys at the beach.” So said Kit’s mother.

Poor little Kit laid down the armful she had fetched to the trunks. “How will I ’muse me?” said she mournfully.

“O,” said her mother cheerfully, “there is a wonderful seashore plaything which I shall buy you.”

All the way Kit thought about this “plaything.” It proved to be a little blue wooden pail and a spoon.

Kit had never seen outdoors sand before. “Nurse,” said she, “Is this sand all sc’ubbing sand?”

The little blue pail was truly a “wonderful plaything.” Kit forgot doll-house and dolls. She was world-building—mountains and caves and rivers and seas; wells and “little homes” for star-fish and sand-crabs; great treasure-vaults for shells and pebbles; gardens of sea-weed. Other children had sand-pails. Some days they toiled in company, and built long lines of forts. Other days they built large cities. One boy dug a deep well and called it an “oil well.” He sunk a small tin cup of kerosene in it and put in rags and set it afire with a match, and the whole little crowd jumped up and down and shouted. But Kit’s mother and other mothers put it out and said it was wrong.

On the last day of all Kit filled her pail with “sc’ubbing sand” to carry home.

_Louise Kendrick._

THE HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS.

_CHAPTER XI.—For Great-grandmama Lois._

Not one of the grandmothers heard Mary Ellen on the stairs or on the landing, and the little creature patted along by the wall in her pretty red slippers, past the door where she had tumbled in the day before, past Madam Esther’s, and turned into the other hall with her rose. This hall was lighted by a large window, and as Mary Ellen felt the sunshine full in her face she began to smile and look like herself again. She pattered along faster, smiling and smiling, and just as she came to the last door was on the point of exploding into a whole fireworks of laughs and crows and calls, as was her way when very much pleased.

“Gum-um!” she called, but first running into the corner and backing up close against the wall. Mary Ellen had no notion of falling in when _this_ door opened.

It was at Old Lady Lois’s room that she had stopped, as she her little self knew very well. The door opened instantly. But the dear old great-grandmother did not see the child at first. She looked all about her, as if very much alarmed.

“Yosy!” Mary Ellen cried out. “Yosy, Gum-um!” She toddled forward and held up the big wet rose.

Old Lady Lois gathered her up in her arms and went in. “Are you up here _again_, child?” she said, reproachfully.

“Yosy,” said Mary Ellen. “Yosy.”

“Yes, pretty rosy,” answered Old Lady Lois.

“Yosy!” persisted Mary Ellen.

“You best take the flower, Mrs. Gray,” said Mrs. Camp. The others had heard the chirping of the little voice and had come in to see what had happened.

“Don’t you see she has brought it on purpose for _you_? I _told_ you she would know us apart. I knew she would know _you_ by your _flower_! She must have been very observing when her mother has had her up here, to know which was your room.”

“Yosy,” said Mary Ellen, pushing the wet flower up against the gentle old face. This time Old Lady Lois took the rose and pinned it in her kerchief. She looked very pleased. The child seemed satisfied now. She laid her little yellow head back on the white kerchiefed shoulder and looked around on the others.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Mrs. Persis, contemplating her, “if she has broken the vase getting the rose out. Her dress seems very wet.”

“Notty watty,” said Mary Ellen.

Madam Esther had gone down-stairs. She came up now with Mary Ellen’s father and mother. Poor Mama Nan seemed even more terrified and breathless than on the day before. “I _told_ you I should never know another moment’s peace,” said she.

Papa Dick laughed at her. “You ought to feel relieved,” said he. “Here your smart little Mary Ellen has taught herself, all alone, how to go up-stairs.”

But Mama Nan was not to be comforted in that way. “What _is_ to be done?” said she. “She will undertake this thing every day.” And here she quite broke down and began to sob in a miserable helpless way.

Nobody spoke for a minute. Then Great-Grandmother Day said gently, “Just let me take her in charge, Nancy. I promise you the child shall soon go up and down with perfect safety.”

Mama Nan started up in fresh terror. “She has got to learn how to go _down_ too? Oh, me!”

“See here, Nan, you better come down-stairs,” said Papa Dick, a droll look about his mouth.

They went out, leaving Mary Ellen with her grandmothers. She sat up and looked after them, with big eyes. “Mama k’y!” she said.

_Ella Farman Pratt._

THE HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS.

_CHAPTER XII.—Baby Days go by._

“Getting down-stairs,” said Great-grandmother Day, “doesn’t come so natural to a child as getting up-stairs does. And there is more danger about it. Mary Ellen ought to be taught how to do it, and then be watched. And the sooner the better, for evidently she is coming up here when she pleases.”

The venerable lady stood her cane up in a corner, took Mary Ellen from Old Lady Lois’s lap, gave her a finger and toddled her along to the staircase, and placed her on the floor, her little back to the stairs. Then she stepped down. “Come,” said she, “let’s go down-y, down-y, down-y!”

“See, she is going,” said Mrs. Persis.

But not exactly going was Mary Ellen. Great-grandmother Day had taken hold of her ankle, and was seeking to draw the little red-slippered foot down to the first stair. Feeling herself going, she knew not where, Mary Ellen began to scream, then threw herself flat on the landing.

“Mercy! I hope Nan doesn’t hear this!” said Mrs. Camp.

“She doesn’t,” said Mrs. Lee. “Dick and she have just driven out of the yard.”

Mrs. Day straightened herself up, with a red face. “She will do it all right in a minute or so,” she said. “Babies are born with instincts to do these needful things, just the same as cats and colts.”

After a long breath or two, Mrs. Day bent down and tried again. But Mary Ellen was really terrified, and screamed louder than before. This time she kicked too, and so hard that her poor Great-grandmother had to let go.

“Notty Gum-um!” cried the child.

“Turn her round,” said Mrs. Camp. “Perhaps _her_ ‘instinct’ is to go frontwards. Nan’s was.”

And when Mary Ellen was turned, and could see what she was doing, and where she was, and Mrs. Day coaxed again, “Down-y, down-y, now!” the wonderful “instinct” began to stir. She held on to the landing, behind, with both hands, gave a quick hitch, and set her little self on the next step below all right. And down they got her at last, with great fun.

“Nan used to go down that way, so fast she seemed to be just sliding down,” said Nan’s mother, “and now she is so scared about Mary Ellen!”

Well, the day came at last when nobody was worried to find Mary Ellen going up or coming down quite alone, holding to the baluster by one hand, and perhaps a cat on the other arm. She visited first one and then another of her grandmothers, never making two visits on one trip. She seemed to be led by the kind of play she had in her little mind. In Mrs. Persis’s room it was the cat-basket, and a frolic with the cats. In Great-Grandmother Day’s it was to ride the cane cock-horse, like a little boy, thumping it about with plenty of noise. Some days she had a flower to carry to “Yady Yois.” She went up to Mrs. Lee’s room to look at pictures. In Madam Esther’s she picked up buttons; when Madam Esther, who loved quiet, heard the little red slippers stopping at her door, she hurried to overturn her button-box. In Mrs. Camp’s room the little visitor “made moosic” on the guitar strings.

It was to get for “Yady Yois” a big red dahlia that had blossomed by the gate, that one day, all by herself, Mary Ellen clambered down from the veranda, and took her first journey out into the world. She ran skipping over the green grass, tossing her little arms and singing “da-da! da-da!” at the top of her voice. Her yellow hair was blowing all about her face and shining in the September sun and wind.

Her father caught her up, as he came in through the gate. “O, ho!” said he. “Running away, is she? Not a baby any longer, but an independent little girl!”

_Ella Farman Pratt._

“LITTLE SUN-BONNET.”

They called her “Little Sun-bonnet.” I will tell you why.

Her mama had promised to take her to a picnic, and for days little Beth could talk of nothing else.

The night before the picnic day Beth had caught sight of little round cakes, tarts, and a Washington-pie on the pantry shelf, and when her bed-time came, and she was up in her little room with mama, she asked so many, many questions that at last mama said:

“There, there, dear, you must go to sleep, so as to wake very, very early in the morning.”

After mama had left her, Beth lay for a long time thinking; and this awful thought came to her: suppose she shouldn’t wake “very, very early,” and so have no time to get dressed for the picnic!

In a twinkling Beth was out of bed. She pulled on her stockings. She buttoned the six buttons of each small boot, and as many buttons of her dress as she could reach. Then she felt around in the dark for her pink calico sun-bonnet. This she tied tightly under her chin. Then she crept softly back into bed.

How mama laughed when she came into her little daughter’s room in the morning! And how everyone else laughed! And now you know how Beth came to be called “Little Sun-bonnet.”

_Carrie A. Griffin._

BABYLAND

HOW “GUMMA” DRESSED JACK.

Jack came trotting into papa’s room one morning with two little black stockings in one hand, two little black boots in the other, and several small articles of clothing over his shoulder.

“Papa,” he said, “does you know how to dwess yittle boys? Gumma’s gone.”

“Yes, indeed, my little man,” said papa; and he lifted Jack to his knee, and began to pull on one small stocking.

“Stop, papa! stop!” cried Jack. “Dat ain’t _a-way_! Gumma don’ do it dat-a-way!”

“Well, how does ‘Gumma’ do it?” asked papa, pausing for instruction.

“Dis-a-way,” said Jack, taking up one foot and then carefully grasping a fat toe in his chubby hand.

“Here, Mishter Toe, you an’ your bruzzers mus’ go into your yittle black house; now don’ begin to w’iggle. One, two, _free_, dere—you go!” and Jack pulled his stocking over his five toes, and up to his knee. Then looking up into his papa’s face he said: “See?”

“Yes,” said papa, smiling. “Here goes the other foot. Now, Mr. Toe, you and all your brothers”—

“No, no, papa!” cried Jack; “dat one is _Mishis_ Toe, an’ you mus’ say, ‘all your yittle _sissers_.’”

“O, ho!” said papa. “Well then, _Mrs._ Toe, and all your little sisters! One, two, three, there you go!” and the second stocking was on.

“Now,” said Jack, “you mus’ put on the woof.”

“The what?” asked papa.

“The _woof_ to the house,” and Jack pointed to his boot.

“Oh! the roof. Very well,” and papa put on the boot and begun buttoning it with his fingers.

“Dat ain’t a-way!” cried Jack again. “You mus’ get a hooker and lock all ’e’ doors, so all the yittle bruzzers and sissers won’ get out ’e’ house for all day.”

“Now see here, young man,” said papa, “does grandma go through with all this rigmarole every morning?”

“Of courth,” said Jack, looking at papa with surprised eyes.

“Well, papa hasn’t the time, so let me get you into your clothes _quick_, before the breakfast bell rings.”

So Jack had to submit to being dressed in a hurry, without his grandmother’s pleasant romancing.

The minute he got downstairs he went to his mama and asked:

“Fen’s my gumma comin’ home?”

“She is coming to-morrow,” said mama.

“Dat’s nice,” said Jack, “for” he whispered into mamma’s ear, “my papa don’ know how to dwess yittle boys.”

_Carrie A. Griffin._

DOBBIN-COLT.

Dobbin is a baby colt! By his mother’s side he stays; Through the grassy pasture land Slowly close beside her strays.

Dobbin is a playful colt! Prancing off on twinkling feet, Circling back he gaily comes; Hear his flying small hoofs beat!

Dobbin is a handsome colt! See him grow, and grow, and grow! And a master’s voice and hand Dobbin-colt has learned to know.

Dobbin is a model colt! See him bend his arching head, Take the guiding bridle on, From the grassy field be led.

Dobbin is a wond’ring colt! But, obedient to do What he’s bid, he lifts his foot For the shining iron shoe.

Dobbin is a well-trained colt! With his load he speeds away— Every creature trained and strong Likes to work as well as play.

A FLOCK OF SHEEP.

Down the hilly pasture, Over ledge and rock, By the winding sheep-path Come the woolly flock. _Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle—_ Hear the sheep-bells tinkle!

In the vale they gather At the silver rill; Back they nibbling clamber Up the sunny hill. _Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle—_ Slow the sheep-bells tinkle!

Hist! a panic-signal! Crowding close they fly With their fleecy leader Down the hillside high. _Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle—_ Fast the sheep-bells tinkle!

O, the silly baa-sheep! See them jump the wall— Over goes the leader, Over go they all! _Tinkle! tinkle-tinkle!_ How the sheep-bells tinkle!

* * * * *

I do have such trouble and care With my dolly’s right shoe! The string gets in forty hard knots— Just as both of mine do— I am sorry for mamas, aren’t you?

_P. S. C._

* * * * *

_Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong-ding—_ Did you hear the school-bell ring? Hurry, hurry, little flock, It is nigh to nine o’clock!

_P. S. C._

THE HAPPY HEN.

O, here comes a Hen With a most happy mind, Her one little chick Close a-walking behind. The morning is warm And the sun is on high, No hawk to be seen In the blue summer sky.

Her chicken and she Are out for a walk; “_Craw, craw, kr-kr-craw_,” And “_Peep_,” goes the talk. She scans heaven and earth, High a-craning her head; “All’s well!” says the Hen, “My chick shall be fed.”

Now quickly she runs, Darting here, darting there, For bugs in the grass Or a fly in the air; She calls to her chick As she scratches the ground, And the chicken’s soft chirp Is the loveliest sound!

They sip from the leaves The bright drops of the dew, And lift up their heads Ever thankfully too. Then homeward she goes, And her chick close behind, This dear Mother Hen With a most happy mind.

BABYLAND

A BED-TIME STORY.

After the little boys were all snug in bed for the night, Norah would go in to put out the lamp. And this is the story she would tell them, while they leaned on their elbows and watched her face closely, for “it’s a _seeing_ story as well as a _hearing_ story,” Teddy said.

“Once there was a man, and he looked just like _this_,” and Norah twisted her under-jaw around to the right. “And his wife looked like _this_,” and Norah twisted her jaw to the left.

“And they had a boy who looked like _this_,” and Norah drew her under-jaw in back of the upper one; “and a girl that looked liked _this_,” and Norah threw her under-jaw out beyond the upper.

“And they had a dog that looked like _this_,” and Norah pursed up her mouth to look like a round “O.”

“When it was bed-time the family wanted to blow out the candle.

“And the man would blow like _this_,” and Norah puffed out of the right corner of her mouth, “but he couldn’t do it.

“And his wife would blow like _this_,” said Norah, puffing out of the left corner, “but she couldn’t do it.

“And the boy would blow like _this_,” and Norah threw back her under-jaw and blew downwards, “but he couldn’t do it.

“And the girl would blow like _this_,” said Norah, throwing her under-jaw forwards and blowing upward, “but she couldn’t do it.

“Then the dog would come along and blow like _this_.”

Out went the light!

“Good night,” said Norah.

The little boys always laughed then, and cuddled down to sleep.

_Mattie W. Baker._

BABY’S ROOSTER.

One day Baby left his rooster-toy out on the grass, and there he stayed all night.

Soon after sunrise the White Brahma cock came out for a walk, and his eye fell on the stranger. “What’s this?” said he, drawing back. He noticed the gold spots on the stranger’s breast, and his curling green and blue tail feathers, and his wrath rose. “I’ll curl his impudent feathers!” said he, and flew at him prepared to tear his comb out by the roots. The stranger did not show fight and was borne down, yet began to crow, and gave out such a string of victorious cock-a-doodles that the White Brahma turned and ran for his life. He did not know what Baby knew—that if you bore the rooster-toy down hard he would cock-a-doodle six times running.

_John Peters._

ON ARBOR DAY.

“Let’s plant a baby tree,” said Bob, To little sister Bess; “And then we’ll have a great big tree, When we grow up, I guess.” “O, yes,” cried Bess, “a sugar tree, A maple-sugar tree; To bear sweet sticks and hearts and rounds, As thick as thick can be!” “And I will plant an oak,” laughed Bob (A “squirrel-tooth” had he), “For cups and saucers for your dolls, And nuts to crack for me!”

_P. S. C._

_Little “Sorry-Boy”—bless his tender heart!_ _In this world he truly does his part._ _Every hot day “Sorry-Boy” comes out,_ _Pumps a great big cool wet shower about,_ _Makes a splendid splatter and a splash,_ _For the chicks and shaggy old dog Dash:_ _For such pitying acts there came_ _To this little boy his name!_

_M. D._

BABYLAND

PERCY’S DREAM.

On July third Percy’s mama went up to wake him.

He cried out when she kissed him, “Oh, mama, I was having a splendid dream! I had just put eighteen packs of fire-crackers in a barrel under your window, and set them off, and they were _just_ going to _bang_!”

“Never mind,” said mama, laughing. “You will get all the bang you want to-morrow.”

About ten o’clock mama missed Percy.

There were “symptoms” of him everywhere; his little straw hat on the hall floor, his top in the dining-room, his cars in the parlor, his dog in the porch, his bicycle down by the front gate. But no Percy.

Finally she went upstairs, and there was Percy stretched out on his little brass bed, his eyes shut tight.

“Why, Percy,” said mama, as she bent over him, and he opened his eyes. “Are you sick?”

“No, Mama, but it’s a dreadful long time till to-morrow, and I was trying to piece out my dream so’s to hear the bang! Oh, I’m so sorry you woke me up this morning!”

_L. E. Chittenden._