A FUNNY FACT.
Taddy Pole and Polly Wogg
Lived together in a bog:
Here you see the very pool
Where they went to swimming-school.
By and by (it's true, but strange)
O'er them came a wondrous change:
Here you have them on a log,
Each a most decided frog.
M. A. C.
AN EXCITING SCENE.
Early last spring, Mistress Jenny Wren took possession of the little box nailed to a tree immediately in front of Mr. Philip's house. She had not really moved in, when who should peep in but Mr. English-Sparrow.
He was abroad house hunting, and never mistrusted that any one had got this house before him. He was thinking how well it would suit himself and mate, when whir-r-r-r! whir-r-r-r! up came Mrs. Jenny; and before he could offer a word of excuse, she began with, "Fie, fie! I took you for a gentleman! What business have you here?"
"My dear madam," began Mr. Sparrow; but Jenny would not hear him. "Out, out with you, you saucebox, you interloper!" she screamed; and she dashed at him and pecked him till he beat a speedy retreat.
The next day, however, he came round again; whether to express his regrets in due form, or to buy her off, I cannot say; but Mrs. Jenny was unwilling to accept anything but the most humble apology.
One look convinced her that he didn't want her pardon, but her house; and out she flew at his very eyes, and on she chased as far as Mr. Philip, who was sitting at the window, could see. But Mr. Sparrow was seen no more.
I knew Jenny Wren was spirited; but I should hardly have thought that of her; should you!
Mr. Periwinkle.
"MAKE A PIE."
The summer before our Mary was two years old, she and her brother used to make pies in the sand, cutting them out with the cover of a little tin pail, always using water to mix them, if they could obtain it.
About this time, Bertie was learning,—
"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land."
One day, Mary thought she would say it with him, so she began,—
"Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make a pie."
"Make the mighty ocean, Mary," said her brother.
"No, make a pie," said Mary; and she could not be induced to say it right till months afterwards.
Mary's Mamma.
From Sir Edwin Landseer's painting. In outline
by Mr. Harrison Weir,
as a drawing lesson. VOL. XVIII.—No. 1
A BIG DOG.
I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from the baby's hand.
For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of sight.
Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps, when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly; for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk together; then he takes himself off.
By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him. Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm, and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off.
Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him.
I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of
Bouncer.
Again, beside the roadside, blows
The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose;
Its purple head the clover raises;
And all the fields are full of daisies;
And in the sunshine flutters by
A little white-winged butterfly.
From flower to flower I watch him go;
He seems a floating flake of snow:
Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging;
There on a buttercup he's swinging;
And now he makes a little stop
Upon a scented thistle-top.
Could we change places, he and I,
And I should turn a butterfly,
How gayly, then, I'd hover over
The elder-flowers and tufts of clover!
I'd feast on honey all the day,
With nobody to say me nay.
But, could I only honey eat,
'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet:
The pretty flowers would quickly wither;
And, all day flying hither, thither,
My wings would ache: I'm glad that I
Am not that little butterfly.
Marian Douglas.
THE YOUNG CRITIC.
Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.
Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in the building.
Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for a quarter of an hour at a time.
One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he was himself the owner of one—made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton," said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than the other?"
Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."
Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one. He thinks it must be a charming occupation to make molasses-candy, and be able to eat as much as he wants. He must live and learn.
Arthur Selwyn.
PLAYING HORSE.
Among Ellen's playthings, there is none that pleases her more than the bright worsted reins which her aunt bought for her at the May fair.
"Reins!—what does a girl do with reins?" I think I hear somebody ask. Why, she plays horse with them, to be sure. She has a brother Charles. He is the horse sometimes; and sometimes he is the driver, and Ellen is the horse. Either way, it is good fun.
One fine June day, her elder brother, Ned, took part in the play. He said there should be a span of horses. He and Charles would be the span, and Ellen should drive. "No," said Ellen, "I would rather be one of the horses."
So Nelly and Ned were harnessed together, and Charley took the reins. "Get up!" said he, and away they went. As they crossed the lawn, they passed a lawn-mower, and the horse Ned shied badly. If he had not had such a steady horse as Nell by his side, there might have been an accident.
As it was, Charles held him in with a tight rein, and the two horses came trotting back to the starting-point at full speed. If Charles had had a watch to time them by, I think he would have found that they made a mile in less than three minutes.
A. B. C.
