Part 2

At the hotel near the seaside, where I staid last summer, there was a little fellow who was known to the guests as Captain Bob. He was from the West, where he had never seen a large sheet of water. But, at his first sight of old Ocean, he gave him his heart.

Old Ocean seemed to return the tender liking; for he was very kind to Captain Bob, who was nearly all day at the seaside, running some sort of risk. There was nobody to prevent his going in to swim as often as he chose.

Nobody had taught Captain Bob to swim. How he learned he could not explain. He was always ready to venture into a boat. He took to sculling and rowing quite as naturally as a duck takes to swimming.

One morning, we were all made sad by the report that Captain Bob was missing. He had not been seen since noon the previous day. Messengers were sent in every direction to make inquiries after the captain. Several persons said, that, the last they had seen of him, he was standing by the big post on the wharf, with a little boat in his hand that an old sailor had made for him.

Two days were at an end, and still there was no news of Captain Bob. His parents and friends were greatly distressed. But, on the morning of the third day, there was a shout from some of the gentlemen on the piazza; and, on hastening to find out what was the matter, whom should I see but Captain Bob, borne on the shoulders of two young men, and waving his cap over his head.

Bob's story was this: A mackerel-schooner was anchored off shore; and Bob had persuaded the sailor, who had given him the toy-boat, to take him on board. The sailor had done this, not suspecting what was to happen. A school of mackerel had been seen; and, as the breeze was fair, the skipper spread all sail, and was soon five miles off shore.

The mackerel were so plenty that the fishermen made the most of their luck, and did not return to the shore near the hotel till the third day.

"Did you have a good time, captain?" I asked.

"A _good_ time!" exclaimed Captain Bob. "It was the jolliest time I ever had. You should have seen me pull in the fish."

After this adventure, Captain Bob was more of a hero than ever among the people of the hotel.

EMILY CARTER.

"PAPA CAN'T FIND ME."

No little steps do I hear in the hall; Only a sweet silver laugh, that is all. No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight; I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright. Two little hands a wee face try to screen: Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen. "Where is my precious I've missed so all day?" "Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.

"Dear me! I wonder where baby can be!" Then I go by, and pretend not to see. "Not in the parlor, and not on the stairs? Then I must peep under sofas and chairs." The dear little rogue is now laughing outright, Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight. Home will indeed be sad, weary, and lone, When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.

GEORGE COOPER.

THE SOLDIER-DOG.

I have been reading in "The Nursery" the story about Mellie Hoyt and his dog Major. My papa often tells me about another good old dog, named Major. He was a soldier-dog, that papa knew when he went to the war.

Major was a kind dog to all his friends; but he would bark at strangers, and sometimes he would bite them. He once tried to bite a steam-engine as it came whistling by; but the engine knocked him off the track, and almost killed him. He had never seen a steam-engine before, and he knew better than to attack one after that. But he was not afraid of any thing else.

When the soldiers went out to battle, Major would go with them, and bark and growl all the time. Once, in a battle way down in Louisiana, Major began to bark and growl as usual, and to stand up on his hind-legs. Then he ran around, saying, "_Ki-yi, ki-yi_." By and by he saw a cowardly soldier, who was running away; and he seized that soldier by the leg, and would not let him go for a long time. He wanted him to go back and fight.

Soon after this, Major began to jump up in the air, trying to bite the bullets that whistled over his head. When a bullet struck the ground, he would run and try to dig it out with his paws. At last he placed himself right in front of an advancing line of soldiers, as much as to say, "Don't come any further!" He seemed to think that he could drive them back all alone.

By and by a bullet hit Major as he was jumping about; and he dropped down dead. The soldiers all felt sad, and some of them cried. They missed him like one of their comrades, and they had many to mourn for in that dreadful battle. I hope there never will be another war.

PINKY.

PORTLAND, ME.

THE SURPRISE.

"Whose hands are over your eyes? Guess quick."

"Old Mother Hubbard's?"

"Wrong: guess again."

"The good fairy's, Teenty Tawnty?"

"There are no fairies in this part of the country, and you know it. Guess again."

"Well, I guess it is the old woman that lived in a shoe."

"She is not in these parts. I will give you one more chance. Who is it?"

"I think it must be little Miss Muffit,--the one who was frightened by a spider."

"Nonsense! One would think you had read nothing but 'Mother Goose's Melodies.'"

"Can it be Tom, Tom, the piper's son?"

"No, I never stole a pig in my life. Now give the right name this time, or prepare to have your ears pulled."

"Oh, that would never do! I think it must be my cousin, Jenny Mason, who is hiding the daylight from me."

"Right! Right at last! One kiss, and you may go."

IDA FAY.

LITTLE PEDRO.

Pedro is a little Italian boy, who lives in Chicago. When I first knew him, he was roaming about from house to house, playing on the fiddle, and singing.

Sometimes kind persons gave him money, and then he always looked happy. But many times he got nothing for his music, and then he was very sad; for he lived with a cruel master, who always beat him when he came home at night without a good round sum.

One day last spring, he had worked very hard; but people were so busy moving, or cleaning house, that, when night came, he had very little money. He felt very tired: so he went home with what he had.

But his cruel master, without stopping to hear a word from the little fellow, gave him a whipping, and sent him out again. He came to my gate, long after I had gone to bed, and played and sang two or three songs; but he did not sing very well, for he was too tired and sleepy.

Just across the street, in an unfinished building, the carpenters had left a large pile of shavings. Pedro saw this by the moonlight, as he went along; and he thought he would step in and lie down to rest. His head had hardly touched the pillow of shavings before he was asleep.

He dreamed about his pleasant home far away in Italy. He thought he was with his little sisters, and he saw his dear mother smile as she gave him his supper; but, just as he was going to eat, some sudden noise awoke him.

He was frightened to find it was daylight, and that the sun was high in the sky. In the doorway stood a kind gentleman looking at him. Pedro sprang up, and took his fiddle; but the gentleman stopped him as he was going out, and asked if that pile of shavings was all the bed he had. He spoke so kindly, that Pedro told him his story.

The gentleman felt so sorry for him, and was so pleased with his sweet, sad face, that he took him to his own home, and gave him a nice warm breakfast; and, being in want of an errand-boy, he concluded to let Pedro have the place.

Pedro has lived happily in his new home ever since; and, though he still likes to play on his fiddle, he has no wish to return to his old wandering mode of life.

COUSIN EMILY.

THE PARROT'S LAMENT.

Swinging in a gilded cage, Petted like a baby's doll, Thus I spend my dull old age, And you call me "Poll." But in youth I roved at will Through the wild woods of Brazil.

When you ask me, "What's o'clock?" Or repeat some foolish rhyme, And I try your speech to mock, I recall the time When I raised my voice so shrill In the wild woods of Brazil.

Sporting with my comrades there, How I flew from bough to bough! Then I was as free as air: I'm a captive now. Oh that I were roaming still Through the wild woods of Brazil!

JANE OLIVER.

WHAT THE DOVE LOST.

Uncle Tom was walking slowly down the street, one sunny day, when he saw a boy put his hand into a paper bag, take out a lemon, and throw it at a plump gray pigeon that was trying to pick up some crumbs which had been thrown out.

Poor little pigeon! He had been fluttering, off and on, over the crumbs,--now scared away by a fast trotting-horse, now flying to a door-post to get rid of some rapid walker,--and had only just alighted to pick up his breakfast, when he was struck right in the back by the bullet-like lemon.

Uncle Tom ran as quickly as he could, and took the panting little thing up in his hand very gently. Just then the horse-car came along; and uncle jumped into it, saying to himself, "I'll take this pigeon out to little Emily. How she will dance and skip when she sees it!"

The car went on and on, ever so far away from Boston, and by and by was half-way across a bridge. The pigeon had lain nestled under Uncle Tom's coat; and the warmth seemed to make it feel better. First it put one round bright eye out, then the other, and took a peep at the people sitting near it.

Then, I think, its back must have ceased aching; for it grew lively, and stirred around. Uncle Tom felt it moving, and was afraid that it would presently try to get away: so he held it as close as he could without hurting it.

But just as he thought how safe he had it, and how tame it would be when it had lived with its little mistress a while, it popped its head out again.

It popped so far out this time, that there was nothing to take hold of but its tail-feathers. Uncle Tom clutched those firmly; but, to his great astonishment, the pigeon gave another spring, and pulled itself away, leaving all its beautiful tail-feathers behind it.

Away it flew, down the car, over the heads of the people, out of the door, past the head of the conductor (who did not know that he had such a strange passenger), and out over the water, back to Boston.

Uncle Tom was left with only a handful of dark-gray feathers to take home with him; and little Emily had no pet pigeon, after all.

AUNT EMMIE.

THE CHICKEN AND THE DOG.

Tantalus, as the old Greek fable tells us, was King of Lydia. Being invited by Jupiter to his table, he heard secrets which he afterwards divulged. To divulge a secret is to make it vulgar, or common, by telling it.

Poor Tantalus was punished rather severely for his offence; but he had sinned in betraying confidence. Sent to the lower world, he was placed in the middle of a lake, the waters of which rolled away from him as often as he tried to drink of them.

Over his head, moreover, hung branches of fruit, which drew away, in like manner, from his grasp, whenever he put forth his hand to reach them. And so, though all the time thirsty and hungry, he could not, in the midst of plenty, satisfy his desires.

Therefore we call it to tantalize a person to offer him a thing he longs for, and then to draw it away from him.

In the picture, a little chicken is looking up at a spider which sits over her in the midst of its web. She watches it, hoping that it will come so near to her little bill, that she can peck at it, and swallow it.

But the spider is on its guard. To and fro it swings, letting itself down a little bit, but never so far as to be in any danger; and then, just as the enemy prepares to snap at it, it climbs nimbly into its secure network.

The second Tantalus of our picture, the little dog, has, also, small prospects of reaching the object on which his heart is set. At some distance from him on the ground lies a bone, which he longs to get; but the chain which fastens him, prevents his going near enough to seize it. Both the dog and the chicken are _tantalized_, you see.

Let us keep down our desires, try to reach only what is fairly ours, be content with little, and never betray confidence. Then shall we avoid the fate of Tantalus.

UNCLE CHARLES.

GIRLS & BOYS

T. CRAMPTON

1. In all the land by field and town, The boys and girls go up and down. In all the land the girls and boys Wherever they go they make a noise.

They play at cricket, tops and games, With balls that carry various names; They whirl the skipping rope, and drive The hoop till it appears alive.

2. They thread the needle in the ring; They play at tea and visiting; Or woman poor from Sandyland, whose talk is hard to understand.

Their lungs and limbs they freely use, They never mope or have the blues; And it is always half their joys In all their play to make a noise.

3. They play at Hopscotch, marbles, dumps. And Fly the garter; oh! what jumps! From Tipcat quick away I fly For fear they'll hit me in the eye.

In winter on the ice they go, And keep the pot a-boiling so, And tho' they shout and make a noise, Somehow, _I like these girls and boys_.

VIOLET TOILET WATER.

CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT.

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