LITTLE TWEET.
There were once some nice little birds who lived together in a great big cage. This cage was not at all like the bird-cages we generally see. It was called an aviary, and it was as large as a room. It had small trees and bushes growing in it, so that the birds could fly about among the green leaves and settle on the branches. There were little houses where the birds might make their nests and bring up their young ones, and there was everything else that the people who owned this big cage thought their little birds would want. It had wires all around it to keep the birds from flying away.
"THE OTHER BIRDS BRING SEEDS TO POOR TWEET."
One of the tamest and prettiest of the birds who lived in this place was called little Tweet, because, whenever she saw any of the family coming near the cage she would fly up close to the wires and say, "Tweet! Tweet!" which meant "Good-morning! how do you do?" But they thought it was only her pretty way of asking for something to eat; and as she said "Tweet" so much, they gave her that for a name.
One day there was a boy who came to visit the family who owned the birds, and very soon he went to see the big cage. He had never seen anything like it before. He had never been so close to birds that were sitting on trees or hopping about among the branches. If the birds at home were as tame as these, he could knock over lots of them, he thought.
There was one that seemed tamer than any of the rest. It came up close to him and said: "Tweet! Tweet!"
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The boy got a little stick and pushed it through the wires at little Tweet, and struck her. Poor little Tweet was frightened and hurt. She flew up to a branch of the tree and sat there, feeling very badly. When the boy found he could not reach her any more with his stick, he went away.
Tweet sat on the branch a long time. The other birds saw she was sick, and came and asked how she felt. Some of them carried nice seeds to her in their bills. But little Tweet could not eat anything. She ached all over, and sat very quietly with her head down on her breast.
She sat on that branch nearly all day. She had a little baby-bird, who was in a nest in one of the small houses, but the other birds said she need not go and feed it if she did not wish to move about. They would take it something to eat.
But, toward night, she heard her baby cry, and then she thought she must go to it. So she slowly flew over to her house; and her baby, who was in a little nest against the wall, was very glad to see her.
"I WILL BE A KIND MOTHER TO IT, FOR THE SAKE OF POOR LITTLE TWEET.
In the morning, two of the birds came to the house to see how little Tweet was, and found her lying on the floor, dead. The little baby-bird was looking out of its nest, wondering what it all meant. How sorry those two birds were when they found that their good little friend Tweet was really dead!
"Poor Tweet!" said one of them, "She was the gentlest and best of us all. And that poor little dear in the nest there, what will become of it?"
"Become of it!" replied the other bird, who was sitting by poor Tweet, "Become of it! Why, it shall never want for anything. I shall take it for my own, and I will be a kind mother to it, for the sake of poor little Tweet."
Now, do you not think that there were good, kind birds in that big cage? But what do you think of the boy?
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Hurrah for the new volume!—Volume V., I believe it is to be called. That reminds me of the names of Japanese children, hundreds of years ago. Instead of being known by the Japanese for Tom, Henry, or John, it was No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, and so on, through a whole family of little folks.
Once you had an article[1] on Japanese Games by a native of Japan, Ichy Zo Hattori. Well, this name, as you will all admit, is a fine-sounding appellative enough, but in English it means simply No. 1 Hattori.
So, welcome to the lovely new child, No. 5 St. Nicholas!—and that he may grow to be a brave, bright volume, beautiful to look at and useful to this and many a generation of little folks, is your Jack's earnest wish.
Of one thing the little fellow may be sure,—Jack and the Deacon, and the dear, blessed Little School-ma'am, will stand by him to the end. And so will you, my chicks, Jack verily believes. He'll be a good friend to you, bringing you any amount of fun, and telling you more good things every month than you'll remember in a thousand years.
Now we'll take up our next subject.
AN ARTIFICIAL HORSE THAT CAN GO.
Well, well! The birds must be joking, for who ever heard of a bird telling a deliberate lie? And yet it may be true. There have been artificial men,—manikins, automata, or whatever they are called,—so why shouldn't there be artificial horses?
Come to think of it, it was not the birds who told me about them. It was a letter; and "artificial horses" the letter said, as plainly as could be. It told how a fine specimen had just been exhibited in the capital of Prussia. The thing must look like a horse, too, for it is a hobby between two high wheels (the rider sits on the saddle), and it travels about as rapidly as a trotting horse. As I understand it, the rider moves his legs to make the machine go, and yet it isn't a bicycle. It goes over stony roads, turns corners, and, for aught Jack knows, rears and kicks like any ordinary charger—that is, when it's out of order.
I should like to see one among the boys of the red school-house. How they would make it go!
A LETTER FROM DEACON GREEN.
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I wish some of the boys and girls who think they never have any chance to read could know a little fellow of my acquaintance, named George. He is fourteen years old and employed as errand boy in a business house in New York. All day long he runs, runs,—up-town, down-town, across town,—until you would suppose that his little legs would be worn out. But, always on the alert as he is, and ready to do his duty whether tired or not, he still keeps constantly before his mind the idea of self-improvement, in business and out. Through a friend he has of late been able to procure books from the Mercantile Library. Although his time during the day, as I have said, is wholly taken up with his duties, yet he managed, during the evenings of last fall and winter (in five months), to read twelve books, some of them quite long ones and some of them in two volumes, all selected with his friend's assistance. From the list, I fancy the little fellow had an eye to enjoyment as well as profit, for they are not all what are called instructive books, although every one of them is a good book for a boy to read, and George tells me he enjoyed them all heartily.
As many of your youngsters, friend Jack, may like to know just what books the little fellow has read, I will give you the list that he wrote out at my request. It does not seem a very long list, perhaps, but I think very few hard-working boys in New York have read more than George in the same space of time. Here is the list:
"Robinson Crusoe;" "Benjamin Franklin," 2 vols.; "Life of Napoleon," 2 vols.; "Schoolmaster Stories;" "Hans Brinker;" "Swiss Family Robinson;" "Dickens's Child's History of England:" "Kenilworth;" "The Scottish Chiefs;" "The Boy Emigrants;" "Sparks' Life of Washington;" "Glaisher's Aerial Navigation."
This letter, dear Jack, is sent, not by way of puffing George, but as a sort of spur to studious boys and girls who may follow his example, if somebody puts them up to it.—Yours truly,
Silas Green.
"SEE HOW I HELP!"
One of Jack's good friends, L.W.J. sends you this new fable:
"See how I help!" said a little mouse
To the reapers that reaped the grain,
As he nibbled away, by the door of his house,
With all of his might and main.
"See how I help!" he went on with his talk;
But they laid all the wide field low
Before he had finished a single stalk
Of the golden, glittering row.
As the mouse ran into his hole, he said:
"Indeed, I cannot deny,
Although an idea I had in my head,
Those fellows work better than I."
AMONG THE CRANBERRY BOGS.
New Jersey, 1877.
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: You would not think, from their names, that cranberry bogs are pleasant places, but I enjoyed very much a visit to one last year in the fall. Seen merely from the road, a bog doesn't show very well, for the leaves are small, and the vines are crowded in heavy masses; but, when you get near, the white and red berries look pretty among the dark-green leaves.
The meadow is checquered with little canals by means of which the whole surface is flooded in winter-time, so as to protect the vines from the ill effects of frosts and thaws. In the spring, the water is drawn off at low tide through the flood-gates.
When the cranberry-pickers are at work, they make a curious sight, for there are people of all ages, odd dresses, and both sexes among them, and often a tottering old man may be seen working beside a small child. The little ones can be trusted to gather cranberries,[page 67] for the fruit is not easily crushed in handling. Where cranberries grow thickly, one can almost fill one's hand at a grasp.
The overseer's one-roomed shanty, where he cooks, eats and sleeps, is on a knoll, and near it are the barrels in which the berries are packed, after they have been sorted according to size and quality.
Picking cranberries may be pleasant enough in fine weather, but it must be miserable work on a cold, drizzly day.
I hope this short account will be news to some of your chicks, of whom I am one, dear Jack; and I remain yours truly,
H. S.
MORE CRYSTALLIZED HORSES.
Piermont, N. H.
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: You ask in the March number of the St. Nicholas if any of us have seen crystallized horses "with our own eyes." We (Willie and I) have seen them many times; so has everybody else who lives here; that is, we have seen something very much like it, though we do not call it the same. When the thermometer is from thirty to thirty-six degrees below zero, horses and oxen are all covered with a white frost, so you cannot tell a black horse or ox from a white one; nor can you tell young men from old ones. Their whiskers, eyebrows and eyelashes, are all perfectly white. I've often had my ears frost-bitten in going to the school-house, which is only about as far as two blocks in a city.
When we see these sights, Jack Frost cannot paint his delicate pictures on the windows, for a thick white frost covers them all over, or rubs them out.
We like the St. Nicholas very much, and even our little sister, Mary, likes to look at the pictures, and she said that she wished she could see Jack-in-the-Pulpit. We intend to introduce her next summer to some of your relations that live by the big brook. We live about one hundred miles north-west of Concord, in the Connecticut valley, about half a mile from the Connecticut River. I am thirteen years old.—Good-bye,
E. A. M.
A TURTLE CART.
Dear Jack: Looking over the fence into my neighbor's yard last summer, I saw what seemed to be a Liliputian load of hay in a tiny cart, going along the path. Whatever power drew it, was hidden from my sight; but the motion of the cart made me half expect to see a yoke of tiny oxen turn the corner. In a few moments, a small turtle appeared in sight, plodding leisurely along and drawing behind him the cart I had seen, which was very small and light.
I was assured by my little neighbor that the turtle liked the business very much; but, belonging to the S. P. C. A., I felt obliged to know the facts. I found that the turtle had his liberty nearly all the time, and a pond of water specially for his use; and that, when the haying season should end, he would be turned out to pasture in his native bog for the rest of the year.
It was a very comical sight, and, knowing my little friend's tenderness of heart, I was sure the turtle would receive nothing but kindness at his hands. The shell was not pierced, but the queer trotter was attached to the cart by means of a harness made of tape, allowing him free movement of the head, legs, and tail. If any of your boys should decide to follow my little friend's example, I trust that they will be as gentle as he in the treatment of their turtles.—Yours truly,
E. F. L.
ANOTHER TURTLE STORY.
Dear Jack: One day, Rob and I (he's my brother) heard sister Welthy screaming awfully. We were playing in the barn, but of course we rushed out as hard as we could to save her life, if possible. We did not know where she was, but the screams grew louder as we neared the house.
At last we found her near the side-door—and what do you think was the matter?
Why, she was screaming at a turtle!
A CORNER IN TURTLES.
You don't know how funny it did seem. But we captured the dreadful monster (?) and comforted her as well as we could.
Now, Jack, as you and the Little Schoolma'am can do everything, wont you please get ST. NICHOLAS to show us a picture of this scene? I do believe Sis would laugh as hard as any of us if she could see it.—Yours affectionately,
Ned G. P.
HALF SWEET, HALF SOUR.
The birds tell me that in a certain country grows an apple one half of which is sweet and the other half sour. I don't think I should like that sort of apple. The sweet side might do very well, as far as it went; but if you happened to bite on the other side,—ugh!
I like things that are good all through, so that I can be sure how to take them. Don't you?
Footnotes
[Footnote 1:] See St. Nicholas for January, 1874.]
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