Chapter 7

I hope I'll get ever so many cards this Christmas, so I can give them to the hospital children. It's such fun!

KITTY'S TRAMP.

One cold day in January Kitty Blake had dined with grandma and was on her way home through the fields. Perhaps you wonder why Kitty should walk in the fields when the snow was so deep. But there was a hard crust on the snow and she could skip along over it without breaking through. It was great fun.

Suddenly she stopped, for there in a slight hollow in the snow lay a tiny bird.

"Poor little birdie, it must have frozen to death," said Kitty softly, and a tear stood in her eye, for she has a tender heart for all little creatures. Then she said "Oh!" and gave a start that sent the tears tumbling over her muff for just that instant, one of the bird's legs twitched and the tears would not stay back.

"P'r'aps it's still alive, after all;" she thought, and she picked it up and tucked it into her muff. Her muff was lined with fur.

She reached home quite breathless, and when she took out the bird and laid it on mamma's lap, it gave one little "Peep!" stood on its legs, and then flew up into the ivy that ran all about the south bay window.

"What made it make b'lieve dead?" asked Kitty.

"It didn't make believe," said mamma. "I think it was dizzy. Birds sometimes are dizzy. But if you had not found it, it would soon have frozen to death."

Kitty named him "The Tramp," and he lived in the bay window with mamma's plants. This bay window was shut off from the rest of the room by glass doors. It was a sunny and fragrant home for the little chickadee, and a lucky bird he was to have it just then.

For on the first day of February it began to snow and snowed three days, and when it cleared there were piles and piles of snow.

Great flocks of birds then came about the house searching for food.

"We must feed them or they will die," said mamma. "The snow is so deep they cannot find food."

So Kitty scattered meal and hemp seed on the snow and tied meaty bones on the lilac and rose bushes, and there wasn't a moment of the day when some blue jay, or snow bird, or chickadee, or robin, was not picking up grain, or pecking at the bones.

"That is the way to have birds in winter!" said Kitty.

The Tramp did not seem to care a fig about his relations till one day in March when a flock of chickadees flew past, and he fluttered against the windows and begged to be let out.

Mamma opened the window and off he flew! Kitty sighed and said, "That is the last of him, I suppose." But it wasn't.

One sunny May day Charley was sitting up in bed. Charley is Kitty's brother. He had been sick and the window was open so he could breathe the soft spring air. Suddenly a bird dropped upon the window sill and began to whistle "Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" so blithely and cock his head at Charley.

"It's the Tramp!" said Charley; and sure enough it was! After that he came almost every day. If the window was shut they opened it for him. Charley used to hide hemp seed and sugar under the edge of the pillows for the Tramp to find. He always found it. Sometimes he would tie sugar up in a paper and the Tramp would peck at it until he got it out.

He would perch on Charley's shoulder and eat seeds from his mouth.

He wanted to build a nest in an old letter box nailed up against a wall. Ever so many birds, blue birds, wrens and sparrows wanted to build in that box too.

The Tramp was a brave little fellow and a good fighter; but he never would have driven the birds off, if Kitty hadn't helped him.

"I love all the birds," said Kitty, "but the Tramp is my very own bird."

So he and his mate built a nest and raised a family of birds in peace, and now Kitty and Charley call the old letter-box "The Tramp's Home."

THREE ROYAL CHILDREN.

Here is a picture of a little prince and two little princesses who lived about two hundred years ago. They were the children of Charles the First, king of England. I suppose they were very much like the boys and girls of nowadays. They played and studied and had their pets, just as children play and study now.

AN OSTRICH PLUME.

Matty Ellis had a new hat. It was a pretty white hat with a long, curly white plume, and it was very becoming to her.

"Yes, I like it," she said to aunt Sarah. "But Nanny Rich has a hat with two plumes."

"And I can tell you somebody who wears half a dozen or more," replied aunt Sarah, "and that somebody is the ostrich himself."

Aunt Sarah tells Matty a great many interesting things, and she told her about ostriches. She told how they live in hot sandy countries like Africa.

They are so tall and have such long legs they can run as fast as, or faster than, a horse.

They have their nests in a hollow on the ground. The Hottentot likes ostrich eggs to eat. One ostrich egg is as big as sixteen hen's eggs. So it makes a breakfast for a number of people. The Hottentot breaks a hole in the small end of the egg, stirs up the contents with a stick, and then sets it over the fire to cook. The shell is very thick and hard, and the heat of the fire will not break it.

There is somebody else who likes ostrich eggs too, and that somebody is a kind of fox. He comes when the ostrich is away and helps himself. Sometimes the ostrich comes home and finds him at it.

Many other people like to wear ostrich plumes as well as Matty. So there is a large trade in them. The wild ostrich does not supply feathers enough for the market, so ostriches are now raised like turkeys and hens. This business is called "ostrich farming." The ostriches are kept in large yards, and the plumes are taken out every year.

Aunt Sarah told all this to Matty. "And so," said Matty, stroking the long white plume, "this feather has ridden on the back of an ostrich in Africa; I wish it could tell me what it has seen."

WHO KILLED THE GOOSE?

It was the very nicest, whitest goose of the whole flock, and there it was--dead! Who had killed it? was the question. Everybody said it must have been Bose; and why? Because Bose liked to tease the geese. Sometimes he jumped from behind a bush and frightened them. Sometimes when they were standing at their trough eating, he ran at them, just for the fun of seeing them run.

"I don't think he meant to kill it," said the grandpa.

"Very likely not," said the father, "but I must teach him not to run at the geese. Come here, sir," he said to Bose.

Bose felt very badly. He crawled slowly along. He couldn't say, "I didn't do it; please don't whip me," as a little boy or girl can. He could only look up to his master with soft, begging eyes. But little Patsy was looking in at the door. Little Patsy loves Bose dearly; and of all the family Bose best loves Patsy. They are always playing together.

"Oh, please don't whip Bose," cried Patsy. "I don't believe he did it. Nobody saw him do it," and she begged so hard her father said he would only tie Bose up. He would not whip him till he was sure he had killed the goose. That night Patsy cried herself to sleep. It almost broke her heart to think that on the morrow Bose might have to be whipped. Suddenly in the night she heard a queer, soft voice say, "I don't believe he did it. I wouldn't kill a goose." Patsy opened her eyes and found herself in a room full of dogs. The voice came from a wee doggie wrapped in an eider down quilt.

"Very good reason why; you couldn't," barked another little fellow. He had a head that looked as if it were bald, and large soft ears, and he was peeping out of a basket.

"Raw goose, faugh!" said a dainty doggie, who had a blanket pinned carefully around him. "I like my poultry well picked and cooked."

"That's so. So do I," rejoined a fierce scrap of a dog. He wore a collar and little silver locket, and cocked his ears.

"People are always saying dogs do things," said a tousled terrier, whose hair had tumbled over his eyes, so he couldn't see a thing. "The cat ate the cream the other day and cook said I did it. I hate cooks."

A grave-looking dog opened his mouth and spoke. He must have been a lawyer among dogs. Patsy thought he looked like Judge Drake. He spoke slowly. "If Bose had never chased the geese even in play, his master would never have suspected him. A great deal depends on a dog's character. But I don't think he killed the goose."

"I _know_ he didn't," spoke up a big splendid dog. "Bose is a good fellow!" Then all the dogs barked out, "Hear! hear!" so loudly that Patsy awoke. The dogs had vanished; the morning sun was shining. She heard her father call, "Patsy, come and see the fox! We've trapped the rogue. It was he that killed the goose!"

A TEMPERANCE HORSE.

He belongs to a baker. His master went into a restaurant to deliver some pies. I was sitting at a window opposite. He stayed so long in the place that I thought he had forgotten his faithful beast.

After a while he came out carrying a great mug full of foaming beer. There were two other men with him. All their faces were red, and they walked unsteadily, and they were laughing loud, and shouting. Then the baker went up to his beautiful horse, and offered him the beer to drink.

Do you suppose he took it? No, indeed! He gave it one sniff from his smooth, brown nostrils. Then he turned his head away with a jerk so sudden that he knocked the glass, beer and all, upon the pavement. He looked at his master as if to say, "Don't insult me again in that way, sir!"

So his bad master had to pay for both the beer and the glass.

Wise old horse, he was not afraid to give his opinion of beer.

CLARA J. DENTON.

HOW THE WIND BLOWS.

High and low The spring winds blow! They take the kites that the boys have made, And carry them off high into the air; They snatch the little girls' hats away, And toss and tangle their flowing hair.

High and low The summer winds blow! They dance and play with the garden flowers, And bend the grasses and yellow grain; They rock the bird in her hanging nest, And dash the rain on the window-pane.

High and low The autumn winds blow! They frighten the bees and blossoms away, And whirl the dry leaves over the ground; They shake the branches of all the trees, And scatter ripe nuts and apples around.

High and low The winter winds blow! They fill the hollows with drifts of snow, And sweep on the hills a pathway clear; They hurry the children along to school, And whistle a song for the happy New Year.

M. E. N. H.

DIME AND BETTY.

Bow-wow! Who are you? I am only a little dog. My name is Dime. I am not a cross dog. I have been a pet dog all my life. Shall I tell you what I can do? I can sit up and beg. I can shake hands. I can jump over a stick, O yes; and I can run very fast. I can run as fast as Pomp, the baker's dog; and Pomp is a big dog.

I like to run races with Pomp. He never bites a little dog. We like to run after birds. But we never catch any birds. They fly away when we come near. I wonder how the birds fly. Pomp and I cannot fly.

My master has a cow. Her name is Betty. She is a good cow. She gives nice, white milk. I do not care much for milk. I like a bone better. But old Tab, the cat, likes milk. I like to see Tab drink milk. She laps it up very fast.

I drive Betty to pasture every day. John goes with me to shut the gate. John is the boy who milks the cow. I wish I could open and shut that gate. Then John would not go to the pasture. I should like to go all alone. I think it would be fine.

I take good care of Betty. When any one comes near her, I say, "Bow-wow" very sharply.

S. E. SPRAGUE.

SAVED FROM FREEZING TO DEATH.

When Bobby Smart was six years old, he was left to the care of his Uncle James, who lived in the country. His aunt took him to his future home, and at the depot he saw his uncle for the first time.

Bobby was lonely and sad; his uncle often treated him with harshness and even cruelty. The cold winter had come on early. Bobby was the only boy about the farm, and he had to work very hard. His clothing was unfit for the winter weather, and he often suffered from the cold.

Among the duties which this poor boy had to perform was that of tending a flock of sheep. One afternoon, when there were signs of a snow-storm, he was sent to drive the flock to the barn. He started for the field, but his clothes were so thin that he was benumbed by the intense cold. He sat down on a large rock to rest himself. He felt strangely tired and cold. In a little while he began to feel drowsy. Then he thought it was so nice and comfortable that he would stay there awhile. In a very few moments he was asleep, and perhaps dreaming.

Suddenly he was aroused by a tremendous blow which sent him spinning from his perch on the rock to the ground. Looking about him, he saw an old ram near by. The creature looked as though he had been doing mischief, and Bobby was no longer at a loss to know where the blow came from; but he thought the attack was an accident, and in a short time he was again in the land of Nod.

Again the ram very rudely tumbled him over into the snow. He was now wide awake, and provoked at the attack of the beast. He began to search for a stick to chastise his enemy. The ram understood his intention, for he turned upon Bobby as if to finish the poor boy. Bobby was forced to take to his heels, and ran towards home.

The ram chased him, while the rest of the flock followed after their leader. The inmates of the farm-house were surprised to see Bobby rushing towards the house as fast as his little legs would allow him. His hair was streaming in the wind, and he was very much terrified. Close upon him was the old ram, kicking up his heels in his anger. Behind him could be seen a straggling line of sheep doing their best to keep up.

Bobby won the race, however. His uncle came out in time to turn the flock into the barn. It was a long time before Bobby would venture near the ram again.

Bobby knows now that but for the efforts of that old ram in knocking him from his seat on that bitterly cold day he would have been among the angels in a very short time. The sleepy feeling which overcame him would have ended in death.

Bobby declares that the ram knew all the time what ailed him, and that he butted him from the rock on purpose. I cannot explain it, but do know that "God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform."

MRS. F. GREENOUGH.

LILY'S GARDEN.

There was only a little piece of garden belonging to Lily's home in the city. In the bright spring days she went out there, and watched to see if any flowers came up. She felt happy when she found the first blades of grass.

The poet sings that "his heart dances with the daffodils." Lily's heart danced, one morning, when she found a dandelion among the grasses in her yard,--a real yellow dandelion, with all its golden petals spread out.

Just then, one of her playmates looked over the fence, and put out her hand.

"Do give it to me," she said. "I sha'n't like you a bit, if you don't: I shall think you are just as stingy--"

"But it's all I have," said Lily; "I can't give it away. I can't. Wait till to-morrow, and there'll be some more out. They're growing. There'll be some all round to-morrow or next week."

"To-morrow! I want it now, to-day," said her friend, "to-day's better than to-morrow."

Lily looked at the child and then at the dandelion. "I suppose it would be mean to keep it," she said, "but it is so lovely--_can't_ you wait?"

"Oh, well, keep it, you stingy girl!"

"Come and pick it yourself, then," said Lily, with tears in her eyes.

The next day, when Lily went into the yard, there were a dozen golden dandelions, like stars in the grass, and a little blue violet was blooming all alone by itself.

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

WHERE?

Where is the honey-bee? Where has the swallow flown? Only the chickadee Chirrups his song alone.

Where is the bobolink, Bubbling with merriment? What was the road, think, The gadding fire-fly went?

Whither flew the little wings Grown in green forest aisles? Where are the pretty things That blossomed miles on miles?

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

A GOAT IN TROUBLE.

A few weeks ago, as I was crossing a railroad track just outside of the city, a little goat stepped before me. With a sad cry, she seemed to ask me to stop. I turned aside to pass on, but she kept brushing against me, until I finally decided to find out what she wanted.

The goat had wandered from her usual browsing place. In crossing the railroad track she had caught her chain on a rail, and could not get away. I stooped down and let her loose. Then she pressed against me as if to thank me, and bounded off quickly to her old pasture.

If we would always listen to the cries of animals in distress, we might do a great deal of good. Just after I had released the goat, a train of cars came rushing along, and she would certainly have been killed if I had not attended to her.

L. B. P.

A NEGRO MELODIST.

It has often been remarked that in the bird world the rule is for the males to have the brilliant plumage, with all the beautiful colors and for the females to be the dowdy ones--a rule which would entail a revolution in fashions, startling and ludicrous, if it were to be introduced for variety among our own kind. Again, gaily-dressed birds have the least pleasing song--the screaming jay bearing an unfavorable comparison with the thrush--and the modestly-attired nightingale having furnished, in all ages, a brilliant example of virtue unadorned. The nightingale, however, leaving before the climate has become objectionable, we must praise its musical accomplishments rather as being those of a distinguished guest, or foreign _prima donna_, than of an indigenous artist. But we have another bird who _is_ always here, facing winter's blasts in addition to summer's bloom, who in voice stands unrivaled; no competitor approaching any where near him for fluency, richness, and liquid melody of song--to wit, the blackbird.

This negro melodist seldom spares his lungs at all until winter is far advanced into its New Year months; and even amid the bitter mornings of January, his rich, unfaltering notes can sometimes be heard. His coat is a glossy black, always cleanly brushed, and in the case of one family, sometimes called the "Red-wing," with a gorgeous scarlet lapel on either side.

TIME ENOUGH.

Two little rabbits out in the sun; One gathered food, the other had none. "Time enough yet," his constant refrain; "Summer is still just on the wane."

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate: He roused him at last, but he roused him too late. Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, And gave little rabbit a spotless white shroud.

Two little boys in a school-room were placed; One always perfect, the other disgraced. "Time enough yet for my learning," he said; "I will climb by-and-by, from the foot to the head."

Listen, my darling--their locks are turned gray; One, as a governor, sitteth to-day. The other, a pauper, looks out at the door Of the alms-house, and idles his days as of yore.

Two kinds of people we meet every day; One is at work, the other at play, Living uncared for, dying unknown.-- The busiest hive hath ever a drone.

Tell me, my child, if the rabbits have taught, The lesson I longed to impart in your thought. Answer me this, and my story is done, Which of the two will you be, little one?

THE MOUSE WEDDING.

Dick Sly was the smartest mouse in Mousetown. He knew any kind of a new trap that was set to catch him, and he always warned the rest. The houses in Mousetown are called "holes," you know. Next to the hole where Dick lived with his parents was the hole where pretty Nan Spry lived. She could run faster than any mouse in Mousetown; even Dick could not catch her, if she tried to run away from him. At last it was told in Mousetown that Dick and Nan were to be married, and every body said, "What a grand pair they'll make." Judge Mouse, who married them, put on his best gold spectacles, and they were married on a big wedding cake, which some folks called a "cheese." Every one in Mousetown had a bit of it, and declared it to be the best wedding cake they had ever eaten.

SHE HAD NEVER SEEN A TREE.

They took the little London girl, from out the city street, To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet; And every thing along the road, so filled her with surprise, The look of wonder fixed itself, within her violet eyes.

The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek, And tried in every way they could, their ecstacy to speak, Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls, Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls.

But she didn't--no she didn't; for this crippled little child Had lived within a dingy court, where sunshine never smiled; And for weary, weary days and months, the little one had lain Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain.

The out-door world was strange to her--the broad expanse of sky, The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by; But all at once she saw a sight, that made her hold her breath, And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death.

Oh, like some horrid monster, of which the child had dreamed, With nodding head, and waving arms, the angry creature seemed; It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace That made her shrink with terror, from its serpent-like embrace.

They kissed the trembling little one; they held her in their arms, And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms, And said, "Oh, what a foolish little girl you are, to be So nervous and so terrified, at nothing but a tree!"

They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around The trunk, and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground; They told her all about the roots, that clung down deeper yet, And spoke of other curious things, she never would forget.

Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys Who have to do without the sight, of pretty books and toys-- Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me Is that any where there lives a child, who never saw a tree.

A FUNNY HORSE.