Part 2

Whack, whack, whack! I wish Christmas was not so far off. If somebody would make me a present now of a handsome new jacket, without a patch in it, I should take it as an especial kindness. I do hate to wear patched clothes.

Stop there, Master Frank! You deserve to be beaten, instead of your jacket. Look in the glass at your fat figure and rosy checks. Are you not well fed and well taken care of? Is not good health better than fine clothes? Are you the one to complain?

Ah, Frank! Just look at poor Tim Morris, as he goes by in his carriage. See his fine rich clothes, and his new glossy hat. But see, too, how pale and thin he looks. How gladly would he put on your patched jacket, and give you his new one, if he could have your health!

Whack, whack, whack! I'm an ungrateful boy. I'll not complain again. Christmas may be as long as it pleases in coming. I'll tell mother she mustn't pinch herself to buy me a new jacket. I'll tell her this one will serve me a long time yet; that I have got used to it, and like it. It will look almost as good as new when I get the dust out of it. Whack, whack, whack!

UNCLE CHARLES.

THE CUCKOO.

"Tell me what bird this is a picture of," said Arthur.

"That," said Uncle Oscar, "is the cuckoo, a bird which arrives in England, generally, about the middle of April, and departs late in June, or early in July."

"Why does it go so early?" asked Arthur.

"Well, I think it is because it likes a warm climate; and, as soon as autumn draws near, it wants to go back to the woods of Northern Africa."

"Why is it called the cuckoo?"

"Because the male bird utters a call-note which sounds just like the word _kuk-oo_. In almost every language, this sound has suggested the name of the bird. In Greek, it is _kokkux_; in Latin, _coccyx_; in French, _coucou_; in German, _kukuk_."

"What does the bird feed on?" asked Arthur.

"It feeds on soft insects, hairy caterpillars, and tender fruits."

"Where does it build its nest?"

"The cuckoo, I am sorry to say, is not a very honest bird. Instead of taking the trouble to build a nest for herself, the female bird lays her eggs in the nest of other birds, and to them commits the care of hatching and rearing her offspring."

"I should not call that acting like a good parent," said Arthur. "Do the other birds take care of these young ones that are not their own?"

"Oh, yes! they not only take care of them and feed them for weeks, but sometimes they even let the greedy young cuckoos push their own children out of the nest."

"That's a hard case," said Arthur. "Is there any American bird that acts like the cuckoo?"

"Oh, yes!" said Uncle Oscar. "There is a little bird called the 'cow-bunting,' about as large as a canary-bird: she, too, makes other birds hatch her young and take care of them."

"I don't like such lazy behavior. Did you ever hear the note of the cuckoo?" said Arthur.

"Oh, yes!" replied Uncle Oscar. "I have heard it in England; and there, too, I have heard the skylark and the nightingale, neither of which birds we have in America. But we have the mocking-bird, one of the most wonderful of song-birds."

"I wonder if the cuckoo would not live in America," said Arthur. "I should like to get one and try it. I would take good care of it."

"It would not thrive in this climate, Arthur."

UNCLE OSCAR.

WORK AND SING!

You must work, and I must sing, That's the way the birdies do: See the workers on the wing; See the idle singers too.

Yet not wholly idle these, They the toilers do not wrong; For the weary heart they ease With the rapture of their song.

If our work of life to cheer We no music had, no flowers, Life would hardly seem so dear, Longer then would drag the hours.

Like the birdies let us be; Let us not the singers chide; There's a use in all we see: Work and sing! the world is wide.

EMILY CARTER.

ONE YEAR OLD.

Hold her up, mamma, and let us all have a look at her. Is she not a dear little thing?

She is not a bit afraid, but only puzzled at being stared at by so many people. She does not know what to make of it.

She clutches at her mother's chin, as much as to say, "Tell me what this means."

It means, baby, that you are one year old. This is your birthday, and we have come to call on you.

But here is Jane, the nurse. Has she come to take you away from us? We are not ready to part with you.

You want to go with her? Well, that is too bad! You like her better than you do me. I must see what she does that makes you so fond of her.

She takes you to the barn, and shows you the horse and the cow. Then she lets you look out of the barn-window. There you spy the kitten.

The kitten sees you, and jumps up on the basket, and looks in your face. You put out your little hand, and try to reach her.

Jane has the pig and the chickens to show you yet. But I cannot stay any longer. I must leave you playing with the kitten.

A. B. C.

MY DOG.

I have a dog, and his name is Don. He is nine years old. His master is in Boston, and I call Don my dog, because I like to have him here. He is a black-and-white dog, and measures six feet in length, and about two feet in height.

When I go on errands, Don takes the basket or pail, and trots away to the store; and sometimes I have to pull him, or he will go the wrong way.

He is a lazy old fellow, and he likes to sleep almost all the time, except when he is asked if he wants to go anywhere; and then he frisks around, and seems as if he had never been asleep.

When he wants a drink, he goes around to the store-room door, and asks for it by looking up in our faces; and I dare say he would say, if he could speak, "Please give me a drink?"

I have a little brother, and he sits on my dog a good deal. And I have a cousin of whom the dog is very fond and when she is at the table, he will put his paw on her lap, and want her to take it.

My little baby-brother tumbles over the dog, and sits on him; and sometimes when I am tired, I lie down and take a nap with my head on Don's back. He likes to have me do it, and he always keeps watch while I am asleep.

LYNN, MASS. WILLIE B. MARSHALL.

MAY.

Pretty little violets, waking from your sleep, Fragrant little blossoms, just about to peep, Would you know the reason all the world is gay? Listen to the bobolinks, telling you 'tis May!

Little ferns and grasses, all so green and bright, Purple clover nodding, daisies fresh and white, Would you know the reason all the world is gay? Listen to the bobolinks, telling you 'tis May!

Darling little warblers, coming in the spring, Would you know the reason that you love to sing? Hear the merry children, shouting as they play, "Listen to the bobolinks, telling us 'tis May!"

DOT AND THE LEMONS.

Dot's father is a funny man. One night, he brought home some lemons for mamma,--twelve long, fat, yellow lemons, in a bag. Dot was sitting at the piano with mamma when his father came in, and did not run, as usual, to greet him with a kiss. So Dot's father opened the bag, and let the lemons drop one by one, and roll all over the floor.

Then Dot looked around, and cried, "Lemons, lemons! Get down; Dot get down!" And he ran and picked up the lemons one by one, and put them all together in the great black arm-chair. As he picked them up, he counted them: "One, two, three, five, six, seven, nine, ten!"

When Dot got tired of seeing them on the chair, he began to put them on the floor again, one at a time, and all in one spot. While he was doing this, his father stooped down, and when the little boy's back was turned, took the lemons, slily from the spot where Dot was placing them, and put them behind his own back,--some behind his right foot, and some behind his left.

He took only a few of them at first, so that Dot should not miss them. But, when Dot came to put the last lemon on the floor, he could not see any thing of the others, and was very much surprised. Then mamma, grandmamma, and grandpapa all burst out laughing. His father stepped aside, and there Dot saw the lemons in two rows.

Then father said, "That was only a joke. Now, Dot, put them back again on the chair--quick!" And Dot ran and began to take away the lemons from the first row, and lay them on the black cushion of grandpapa's great arm-chair, one by one. One--two--three--four--five: he had only one more lemon to pick up from the first row; but when he came for it--my! there were two.

Well, to tell the truth, Dot didn't notice this at first. He picked up one of the two, and thought to himself, "Only one left, Dot." But, I declare! there were _two_ left when he came back. "This is a long row," thought Dot. And every time he left _one_, he found _two_, till papa had quite used up the second row, from which he had been filling up the first.

At last Dot _did_ see the last lemon, and then again he didn't see it, for when he looked for it, it wasn't _two_, as before, it wasn't there at all!

"O papa! you have it behind you; and Dot will pull at your hand till you give up the lemon; and then you can't play any more tricks with your bright little boy."

But Dot will go up to bed with Alice, and in the middle of the night mamma will hear him saying in his sleep, "Five, six, nine, 'lemon!" For Dot always says '_lemon,_ when he means _eleven_.

G.

DADDY DANDELION.

Words by T. Hood. Music by T. Crampton

[Music]

_Allegretto. mf_

1.

Daddy Dandelion Was a splendid fellow, With a coat of green, And a crest of yellow. He had lots of gold, He was very lazy; So he chose to scold Modest little Daisy.

2.

Ah! you silly flower, You're to me beholden, To your best of power, Aping me the golden. Just then some one passed, Who his stick was swinging, Chopped off Dandelion, Stopped his accents stinging.

4. Daisy at the sight Dropped a tear for sorrow, Closed her leaves that night, Opened on the morrow. Gazing with delight People, all of them, Asked her where she found Such a sparkling gem.

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[Box: Colgate & Co. New York]

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The most beautiful Primer in the market. Containing upwards of a hundred fine pictures. 96 Pages of the size of The Nursery. The word-system of teaching explained and applied.

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The most elaborate work of the kind, contains an "Alphabetical Index of Representative words, _such as are liable to be misspelled or mispronounced_."

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No better collection to test spellers at the matches now in vogue can be found.

Price 32 cents, postpaid. Published by

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