Part 2

These three little ladies, my dear, Know what they're about: that is clear. 'Tis something important, you see, Though a puzzle to you and to me; For they each look as grave as a judge: So, old folks, don't laugh, and cry, "Fudge!" It may be that your own great affairs Are not any more useful than theirs.

ALFRED SELWYN.

GRANDMA'S STORY.

I AM only five years old; but I have a great deal of trouble. Papa pulls my ears, and calls me a sad rogue; brother Tom asks me every night what new mischief I have been up to today; and poor mamma sighs, and says I am the most troublesome child she ever saw.

But dear good grandma looks up from her knitting, and smiles as she says, "Tut, tut, daughter! Our Amy isn't any worse than a little girl I knew some thirty years ago."

"O grandma!" cried I one day, "do please tell me about her; for I like to hear about naughty little girls. What was her name, grandma?"

Grandma looked over her spectacles at mamma and smiled, and mamma nodded and smiled back. Then grandma said, "I think I will tell you of one of little Clara's capers; but mind, you are not to go and do the same thing the first chance you get."

This is the story as grandmother told it,--

"Little Clara lived on a farm away out in the country. She was the youngest of seven children, and a great pet, of course. But Clara's little restless feet and mischievous fingers often brought her into trouble and disgrace.

"One day Clara's mother had occasion to go to the store, which was three miles away. Clara wanted to go too. Her mother feared she would be in the way, and looked doubtful; but big brother Ben said, 'Let her go, mother. She'll be good, I know.'

"'Yes; let her go,' said Susan, who was trying to net a bead purse, and keep Clara's fingers out of her box of beads at the same time.

"'Do let her go!' said Roger. 'I want to rig my ship this afternoon; and a fellow can't do much with her around.'

"So it was decided that Clara should go; and it was the work of but a few moments to polish up the chubby face and hands, and brush the curly hair. The pink dress, red shoes, and white sun-bonnet, were put on as quickly as possible, and Clara was ready.

"'Now, do try to behave yourself, child,' said Susan, as Ben lifted the little girl into the wagon.

"'Of course I will,' replied Clara, pouting her red lips.

"'But did she behave herself?' you ask. Ah! I will tell you.

"When they reached the store, Mr. Dale, the storekeeper, came out to assist them; and, as he helped Clara out of the wagon, he called her 'a little lady,' which made her feel all of two inches taller than usual. Then he gave her a stick of candy, and lifted her to a seat on the counter, close beside a dear old pussy-cat, who purred loudly as the little girl smoothed her fur.

"Clara's mother had a good many things to buy, and very soon forgot all about her little daughter; but when Ben came in, half an hour later, his first question was, 'Where's Clara, mother?'

"Sure enough, where was Clara? Her seat was empty. She had disappeared. 'Clara, Clara!' called both her mother and Ben; but there was no answer.

"'She's in some mischief,' said Ben; and, as quick as thought, he rushed into the back part of the store, followed by his mother and Mr. Dale. What a sight met their eyes! There stood Clara, in the centre of the room, stepping back slowly, as a pool of molasses, streaming steadily from a hogshead in the corner, crept towards the toes of her little red shoes. Ben caught up Clara as quick as a flash, and----"

"No, grandma," interrupted mamma, "it was Mr. Dale who did that, while Ben made haste to turn the faucet to prevent further mischief."

"Why, mamma," said I, "how do you know? Were you there?"

"I heard about it," said she; and she and grandma both smiled. "The little girl was just my age, and I knew her very well."

"And your names were both Clara," said I. "How queer!"

And mamma and grandma must have thought it queer, too; for they both laughed heartily.

F. A. B.

AUNT MATILDA.

WHAT should we do in our house if it were not for our Aunt Matilda? She is the first one out of bed in the morning, and the last one to go to bed at night. She sees that things are right in the kitchen, and right in the parlor.

Father wants his breakfast by half-past six o'clock this summer weather. Aunt Matilda rises before five, and calls the girls, and sees that the rooms are in order. Then she calls the children to be washed and dressed.

Yes, that is a good likeness of her, as you see her combing my hair. She is not young, you perceive, nor yet very old. Sometimes I get a little impatient, and fidget, because she is so particular; but our quarrels always end in my kissing her, and saying, "You are a darling Aunty, after all."

Mother is an invalid: so she cannot do much house-work, or see to the children. But Aunt Matilda is mother, aunt, and house-maid, all in one. Sometimes she even acts as stable-boy, and harnesses the horse to the carryall; for there are few things that Aunty does not know how to do, and to do well.

Do we go to school? Yes, and no. Our only school is one that Aunt Matilda keeps for us in the library. She teaches us to read, to write, and to draw. She can play on the piano, and has begun to teach me music. Oh! What _should_ we all do without Aunt Matilda?

MISS MAUD.

ANNA'S BIRD.

ANNA has a little bird, and she calls it Tot. You must try to find out from the picture what sort of a bird it is. It can sing and play; and it is so tame, that it will put its bill between Anna's lips when she says, "Kiss me, Tot."

Her dog Fancy is quite fond of the bird, and will let it light on his head; and Anna is trying to make Muff, the cat, give up her habit of killing birds. But I hope that Anna will be careful, and not trust Muff too far.

I have heard of a cat in a bird-shop, that was trained to take care of birds, instead of harming them; but this is a rare case. It is hard to keep a cat from catching birds, and from troubling the little young ones in their nests.

Anna is so fond of Tot, that she will not let a cat come into the room where he is. Tot can whistle a tune. He likes to light on Anna's head, and will sometimes almost hide himself under her thick hair. She feeds him, and gives him a bath every day, and lets him fly about the room.

If Tot were to fly out of the window, I think he would try to get back to his own little cage, so fond is he of Anna.

ANNA'S AUNT.

THE STORY OF THE SQUASHES.

I KNOW of two little boys, twin-brothers, who are just five years old. They are so nearly alike that their best friends can scarcely tell them apart. Sturdy little men they are; so strong and fair and stout, that I should be glad to kiss them even when they have come from the dirtiest depths of their mud-pies. I fancy their mother sighs often over their torn pantaloons, their battered hats, and their soiled boots; but for all that, they _must_ play, and things will wear out.

One day in the fall, their papa sent up to the house a farmer's wagon full of great beautiful squashes, to be put into the cellar for the winter's use. The farmer put the squashes on the ground close by the cellar-door ready for storage. But, when their papa came home, the squashes had disappeared, and he inquired who had put them into the cellar, and went down to see if they had been properly stored.

But there were no squashes there. And he inquired again where they were; but no one knew. He called to the boys, who were playing horse on the sidewalk, to ask if they knew any thing of the squashes. Oh, yes! and they ran to the barn, he following; and where do you suppose the squashes were? In the pig-pen--every one of them!

They had toiled and tugged, and carried every squash--and many of them were large--out there, and fed them to the pigs.

The mischief done, who could scold those two bright, hard-working little men? I think their papa had to console himself with thinking if only they would work as well at something useful when they were grown up, he could forgive their rather wasteful business when they were little.

C. D. B.

CHARLIE'S COMPOSITION.

CHARLIE was ten years old, and his teacher thought he should begin to write compositions. So she gave him a list of words, and told him to write a letter or story, and put them all in.

The words were these: Begun, Write, Boy, Hook, Two, Black, Said, Basket, Knife, Chair, Eyes, Ground.

Charlie went home; and, before he went out to play in the afternoon, his mother said, "You had better work a while on your composition."

"Oh, I never can do it!" he said. "Mother, you try too, and see if you can write one." So she took his list and wrote this true story,--

"A little _boy_ with roguish _black eyes_ was sitting on the floor, playing with some spools that he had taken from his mother's work-_basket_, which she had left in a _chair_. All at once he saw a cow coming up the yard. He dropped every thing, and ran to drive her out. She threw up her head, and looked so fierce, that he was afraid she would _hook_ him, and back he ran to the house.

"Then he spied a fruit-_knife_ on the _ground_, where he had left it when he was eating an apple in the morning. He picked it up, and carried it to his mother, who had just _begun_ to _write_, and she _said_, that, if he would keep still about _two_ minutes, she would attend to him."

"There," said mamma, "I have put in all the words: now you try, Charlie."

Charlie then wrote:--

"I saw _two hooks_ and _eyes_ just as I had begun to _write_. Johnny brought mother's _knife_, which he found lying on the _ground_. He joggled mother's _chair_, and she _said_, 'There's a _black_ mark on my paper, and oh, dear! the _boy_ has tipped over my _basket_.' That's all."

His mother read what Charlie had written, and said, "Pretty good for the first time;" and off he went to play.

L. J. D.

THE PEDLAR.

Music by T. CRAMPTON, Chiswick, W. London.

1. I wish I liv'd in a caravan With a horse to drive like a pedlar-man, Wherever he comes from nobody knows, But merrily thro' the town he goes.

2. His caravan it is painted blue, With a chimney small where the smoke comes thro'; And there is his wife with baby so brown, And onward they go from town to town.

3. "Old chairs to mend, and new jugs to sell," How he makes the basins ring like a bell! With baskets and tea-trays glossy and trim, And plates with my name around the brim.

4. A pedlar-man I should like to roam, And a book I'd write when I came back home; And all the good folks would study my book, And famous I'd be like Captain Cook.

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Transcriber's Notes:

The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue. A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this number and the issue number added after the Volume number.