Chapter 1

Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Music by Linda Cantoni.

THE

NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XIV.--No. 3

BOSTON: JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36, BROMFIELD STREET. 1873.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by JOHN L. SHOREY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

BOSTON: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, & CO.

IN PROSE.

PAGE.

The Queer Things that happened to Nelly 65

The Six Ducks 69

The Bunch of Grapes 71

A True Story about a Dog 73

Pitcher-Plants and Monkey-Pots 76

Under the Cherry-Tree 77

Rambles in the Woods 80

What I Saw at the Seashore 82

Blossom and I 85

How Norman became an Artist 87

A Boot-Race under Difficulties 89

Pictures for Walter 90

The Fisherman's Children 92

IN VERSE.

PAGE.

Rose's Song 68

A Little Tease 75

Sleeping in the Sunshine 78

Young Lazy-Bones (_with music_) 96

THE QUEER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO NELLY.

THE SIX DUCKS.

IN the pond near Emily's house six tame ducks used to have a fine time swimming about, except in winter, when the pond was frozen. Emily had a name for each one of them. They used to run to her when she called; for they knew she loved them all, and would treat them well.

Among these six happy ducks there was a white one that was at one time of his life a wild duck. Emily named him _Albus_; for _albus_ is Latin for _white_. I will tell you how Albus happened to become tamed.

He was once on his way to the South with a large flock of his wild companions, when, as they were alighting near a creek, Albus was shot in the wing by Dick Barker, a sportsman who was out gunning. Dick ran with his dog Spot to pick up the poor wounded bird; but Albus was not so much hurt that he could not fly a little.

He flew and flew till he came to Emily's little garden; and then he fell at her feet, faint, but not dead, as if pleading for protection. Emily took him up in her arms, though she soiled her apron with blood in so doing. Dick and Spot came up; and Dick said roughly, "Give me up that duck."

"The duck has flown to my feet for protection; and I would be shot myself before I would betray him and give him up," said Emily. "I shall keep him, and heal his wounds."

Mr. Dick Barker scolded wildly; but it was of no use. He had to go off duckless. As for Albus, he soon grew well under Emily's tender care; but his wing was not as strong as it used to be: so he concluded he would become a tame bird, and not try to fly off again with his wild companions. He had a happy home, a kind mistress, and pleasant duck acquaintances. So, like a good sensible waddler, he was content.

EMILY CARTER.

THE BUNCH OF GRAPES.

"I AM thinking what I shall do with this beautiful bunch of grapes," said Reka Lane as she sat on the bench near the arbor. Her real name was Rebecca; but they called her, for shortness, Reka.

"I know what I should do with it," said little Matilda, who had been wading in the brook, and was without shoes and stockings. "I should divide it among the present company."

"Good for Matty!" exclaimed brother Henry. "The best use you can put grapes to is to eat them before they spoil. Come, Reka, divide, divide."

"I am not sure that I shall do that," said Reka.

"Look at that queer dog!" said Matty. "He has crept under the shawl on the ground, and looks like a head with no body to it."

"That shawl was left there the other day by old Mrs. Merton," said Reka. "The dog is her son's terrier; and his name is Beauty."

"He is any thing but a beauty," said Matty. "I think him the ugliest dog I ever saw."

"I suppose they call him Beauty to make up for the bad word he gets from every one as being ugly," said Reka. "He is a good dog, nevertheless; and he knows that shawl belongs to his mistress.--Don't you, Beauty?"

Here Beauty tore out from under the shawl, and began barking in a very intelligent manner.

"Now I will tell you what we will do," said Reka. "Put on your shoes and stockings, Matty, and we will all go and call on Mrs. Merton, who is ill; and we'll take back her shawl, and give her this beautiful bunch of grapes."

"Bow, wow, wow!" cried Beauty, jumping up, and trying to lick Reka's face.

When the children left Mrs. Merton's, after they had presented the grapes, Henry Lane made this remark, "I'll tell you what it is, girls, to see that old lady so pleased by our attention gave me more pleasure than a big feast on grapes, ice-creams, and sponge-cake, with lemonade thrown in."

DORA BURNSIDE.

A TRUE STORY ABOUT A DOG.

I AM a middle-aged gentleman who is blessed with only one child, a little girl now nearly six years old. Her name is Fanny; and her cousin Gracie, who is about the same age, lives with us.

Both of these little girls are very fond of having me tell them stories; and I have often told them about a dog I once had. They liked this story so much, that they made me promise I would send it to "The Nursery," so that a great many little girls and boys might hear it also. This is the story:--

When I was a little boy, not more than eight years old, my mother consented to my having a dog which a friend offered to give me. He was a little pup then, not more than five weeks old. I fed him on milk for a while, and he grew very fast. I named him Cæsar.

When he got to be six months old, he became very mischievous. Things were constantly being missed from the house. Handkerchiefs, slippers, shoes, towels, aprons, and napkins disappeared; and no one could tell what became of them. One day Cæsar was seen going into the garden with a slipper in his mouth; and I followed him to a far-off corner where stood a large currant-bush.

I looked under the bush, and saw Cæsar digging a hole, into which he put the slipper, and then covered it up with earth. Upon digging under this bush, I found all the things that had been missed.

A neighbor's dog, called "Dr. Wiseman," was Cæsar's particular friend. One day we heard a loud scratching at the front-door; and, when we opened it, in walked Cæsar and Dr. Wiseman. Cæsar took the Doctor by the ear, and led him up to each of the family, just as if he were introducing him, and then led him into the garden, and treated him to a bone.

Although Cæsar did many naughty things, we all loved him; for he was quite affectionate as well as intelligent: but our neighbors complained of him because he chased their chickens, bit their pigs, and scared their horses. A farmer who came to our house one day with a load of potatoes took a great fancy to him. He wanted him for a watch-dog on his farm, which was only four miles from our house.

As he promised to treat him kindly, my mother thought it was best to let him have the dog; and I finally consented, although I believe I cried a good deal about it.

So Cæsar was put into the farmer's wagon, much against his will; and off he went into the country. About three months afterwards, when there was a foot of snow on the ground, there came a great scratching at the front-door of our house, early in the morning, before I was up; and, when the servant opened the door, in bounded Cæsar with a rope around his neck, and a large chunk of wood fastened to the other end of it.

He ran by the servant, and up the stairs, with the piece of wood going bump, bump, all the way, dashed into my room, jumped right up on my bed, and began licking my face.

I was very glad to see my dog again. He staid with us several days; and, when the farmer came for him, he lay down on the floor, closed his eyes, and pretended to be dead; but the farmer took him back to the farm in his wagon.

About a year and a half after that, when I came home for a vacation, we all went up to the farm, hoping to see Cæsar; but we never saw him again. The farmer had shot him, because he killed the chickens, and chased the sheep, and would not mind any thing that was said to him. Thus you see, children, that Cæsar came to a bad end, although he had every advantage of good society in his early youth.

LANSINGBURGH, N.Y.

C. R. W.

A LITTLE TEASE.

I KNOW a little fellow Who is such a wilful tease, That, when he's not in mischief, He is never at his ease: He dearly loves to frolic, And to play untimely jokes Upon his little sister, And upon the older folks.

He rings the bell for Sarah, And then slyly runs away; And tries to make a fool of her A dozen times a day: He hides away in corners, To spring suddenly in sight; And laughs, oh! very heartily, To see her jump with fright.

When kitty's lying quiet, And curled up warm and snug, This little fellow always feels Like giving her a hug; And kitty from his fond embrace Would surely never flinch, Did she not know the little tease Would give her many a pinch.

But this provoking fellow Has a very curious way Of feeling rather hurt at tricks That other people play,-- Just like some older jokers, Who laugh at fun they make, But never can enjoy the fun Of jokes they have to take.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

PITCHER-PLANTS AND MONKEY-POTS.

PITCHER-PLANTS are so called, because, at the end of the leaves, the midrib which runs through them is formed into a cup shape; and in some it looks very like a pitcher or water-jug You will understand this better if you look at the drawing.

There are various kinds of pitcher-plants. Some are shorter and broader than others; but they are all green like true leaves, and hold water as securely as a jug or glass. They grow in Borneo and Sumatra, hot islands in the East. The one shown in the drawing grows in Ceylon.

Some grow in America; but they are altogether different from those in Borneo and Ceylon. One beautiful little pitcher-plant grows in Australia: but this is also very different from all the rest; for the pitchers, instead of being at the end of the leaves, are clustered round the bottom of the plant, close to the ground.

All these pitcher-plants, though very beautiful to look at, are very cruel enemies to insects: for the pitchers nearly always have water in them; and flies and small insects are constantly falling into them, and getting drowned.

Monkey-pots are hard, woody fruits; some as large and round as a cannon-ball, and some shaped like a bowl. They grow on large trees in Brazil and other parts of South America; and the natives take out the seeds, and use the fruits for holding water, or to wash themselves in.

They are called monkey-pots because monkeys are very fond of the seeds. Some of the seeds are so good, that they are collected, and sent to London and other places, where they are sold in the markets. The Brazil-nut is one of them.

J. R. J.

UNDER THE CHERRY-TREE.

"NOW is the time to pick the cherries!" shouted Charles as he came running in from the garden one July afternoon.

"Are they quite ripe?" said his mother.

"Ripe? I should think so. Just look at them!" answered Charles, pointing to the trees.

"O mamma!" said Mary, "the birds are getting them all. We must have them picked at once."

"Never fear, little girl," said her mother. "There will be enough for the birds and ourselves and our neighbors too. But it really is time to begin to pick them. So, Charles, get a basket, and we will all go out under the cherry-tree."

So out they all went,--Charles and Mary and Ellen and Julia and Ruth; and mamma followed with the baby.

"I told the gardener to bring a ladder," said mamma. "He will be here in a moment, Charles. You can't pick cherries without a ladder, you know."

"Of course," said that saucy boy. "Nobody can pick cherries without a ladder." And with that he gave a spring, and in about half a minute had climbed up into the tree.

"Now, girls, hold your aprons," said he. And down came a shower of the delicious fruit.

Then what a glorious scramble those little girls had! How they laughed and jumped and knocked heads together in picking up the cherries! They ate as many as they wanted; and still Charles kept throwing down more.

"Have you had enough?" said he. "So have I. Now it's time to think about filling the basket. Ah! here comes the ladder at last, with a man under it."

UNCLE SAM.

SLEEPING IN THE SUNSHINE.

SLEEPING in the sunshine, Fie, fie, fie! While the birds are soaring High, high, high! While the buds are opening sweet, And the blossoms at your feet Look a smiling face to greet. Fie, fie, fie!

Sleeping in the sunshine, Fie, fie, fie! While the bee goes humming By, by, by! Is there no small task for you,-- Nought for little hands to do? Shame to sleep the morning through! Fie, fie, fie!

RAMBLES IN THE WOODS.

RACHEL has been used to a life in the city, but she is now on a visit to her uncle's in the country; and she has fine times rambling through the woods and fields.

Her cousin Paul takes her to pick berries, and tells her the names of the things she sees. "Smell of these leaves," Paul will say, breaking a twig from a shrub, somewhat like a huckleberry-bush, and crushing the leaves in his hand. "This is the bayberry-shrub. How fragrant the leaves are! It bears a berry with a gray wax-like coating; and in Nova Scotia this wax is much used instead of tallow, or mixed with tallow, to make candles."

"But what is this little red berry on the ground?" asked Rachel once when they were on one of their rambles. "It has a dark glossy leaf; and I like the taste and the smell of it very much."

"That is the checkerberry," said Paul. "Some people call it the boxberry; and some call it wintergreen. It has a flavor like that of the black birch. It is used to scent soap, and sometimes to flavor candy. It is an evergreen plant."

"What do you mean by an evergreen?" asked Rachel.

"I mean, it is green the whole year round: it does not dry up and fall off, like the leaves of the strawberry-plant," said Paul.

"What other sweet-smelling plants are there about here?" asked Rachel.

"Did you ever taste the bark of the sassafras-tree?" asked Paul. "If not, here is one; and I will break off a twig for you to chew. The color of the inner bark, near the root, is red, like cinnamon. A beer is made from it; and it is also used in soaps."

"I like the odor of it very much," said Rachel.

"Here is a black-birch tree," cried Paul. "Some people call it the sweet-birch. I will cut off a piece of the bark for you to taste."

"Why, it tastes like checkerberry-leaves," said Rachel.

"Yes," replied Paul. "It is a beautiful tree, and is good for fuel. But here is a white-birch. See how white the bark is! It grows on poor land, and is a very pretty tree when well taken care of."

Here there was the sound of a horn; and Rachel asked, "What is the meaning of that sound?"

"It means that we must run home to dinner," said Paul. "So give me your hand, Cousin Rachel. You need not be afraid of snakes. There are none here that can do any harm. Come, we will make a short cut through the grove to the house."

UNCLE CHARLES.

WHAT I SAW AT THE SEASHORE.

LAST summer I went to spend a few weeks at a quiet little island on the New-England coast. Every morning I used to go to the beach, and sit on the sands, and watch the blue sea with its sparkling waves, and listen to the surf breaking in white foam all along the shore.

On pleasant days the beach was lively with bathers, shouting and laughing as they plunged into the cool waves; and little boys and girls playing in the clean sand, digging with their shovels, and loading and unloading their wagons, or picking up shells and sea-mosses to carry home.

On the brightest days of all, I noticed a pale-faced lady who came to sit a while in the sunshine, propped up with shawls and pillows. She always brought with her a little sky-terrier, of which she seemed as fond as if it had been a real baby.

After a while, I got acquainted with the invalid lady, and found that her name was Miss Dean, and that her dog was named Skye. He was a shaggy-looking little creature; but he had very bright eyes, and he knew almost as much as the children who played with him. He was very fond of his mistress, and very thoughtful of her comfort.

Let me tell you one thing about him that made me think so. Skye slept in the room with his mistress, on a soft cushion, with a little blanket spread over him; and in the morning, when he woke, if she was still asleep, he never disturbed her. He just sat up on his cushion as still as he could be, and watched her till she woke. As soon as she opened her eyes, he gave a little bark, for "good-morning," and sprang up on her bed, to be loved and petted.

Well, Skye was a good little dog; and we all learned to love him; and none of us would have hurt him for the world. But one day, as we were walking up from the beach, ladies and gentlemen and children and all, Skye ran down a lane, out of sight; and a thoughtless, wicked boy, who had a stone in his hand, and wanted to hit something with it, threw it with all his might at poor Skye, and broke one of his legs.

Skye cried out with the pain; and we all hurried back to see what was the matter. There we found him, whining and howling, and trying to limp along on three legs; and we just caught sight of the bad boy, running away far down the lane. Miss Dean picked up her poor little darling, and carried him home.

Now, it happened that there was a very skilful surgeon staying at the hotel, who had come down to the island for a short vacation. Miss Dean sent for him, and begged him to set poor Skye's broken leg. He was a kind-hearted man, and I could not refuse to use his skill to relieve the dumb little sufferer.