transcribed by Veronika Redfern.









THE

NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XXX.--No. 5.

    BOSTON:
    THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY,
    NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET.
    1881.




    Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by
    THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

[Illustration: JOHN WILSON & SON UNIVERSITY PRESS]




[Illustration: Contents.]


IN PROSE.

                                                PAGE
    Where Jimmy Lives                            323
    Jessie and her Kitten                        324
    Fanchette                                    329
    Old Jack                                     333
    A Day in the Woods                           338
    Milly and Jip                                342
    Lawn-Tennis                                  344
    The Kitten's Necktie                         345
    A Basket from Home                           348
    A Letter from Honolulu                       350


IN VERSE.

    Hush-a-by                                    322
    Two Sides                                    326
    Sweet Good-day                               331
    My Garden                                    332
    Off for the Winter                           335
    Baby Bobby                                   341
    A Thrifty Family                             346
    When will the Snow come                      347
    Christmas-Time (_with music_)                352

[Illustration]




[Illustration: HUSH-A-BY.

VOL. XXX.--NO. 5.]




HUSH-A-BY.


    HUSH-A-BY baby: as the birds fly,
    We are off to the island of Lullaby:
    I am the captain, and you are the crew,
    And the cradle, I guess, is our birch-bark canoe;
    We'll drift away from this work-day shore,
    Forty thousand long leagues or more,
    Till we reach the strand where happy dreams wait,
    Whether we're early, or whether we're late.

    Hush-a-by baby: as the birds fly,
    Let us make the snug harbor of Lullaby:
    Some little folks are far on the way;
    Some have put in at Wide-awake Bay;
    Others, I fear, are long overdue;
    Don't let this happen, my darling, to you:
    Let us steer for the coast where happy dreams wait,
    Whether we're early, or whether we're late.

                                  MARY N. PRESCOTT.




[Illustration]




WHERE JIMMY LIVES.


JIMMY MASON lives on a ranche in Colorado. Do you know what a ranche is?
It is a kind of farm,--not a farm for raising wheat and potatoes and
oats and corn, but for rearing horses and cattle and sheep.

Jimmy's papa has about a hundred horses, as many cows, and a great many
hundred sheep. He does not keep them in barns, or feed them with hay,
but they roam over the hills, and feed on grass both in winter and
summer.

Mr. Mason's house is five miles from any neighbor, and fifteen miles
from town. There is no garden or fence round it, and there are no trees
to be seen anywhere near. But there are wild flowers in abundance. One
of them is a species of cactus. It bears beautiful yellow blossoms in
summer, after which comes the fruit, a prickly pear, not good to eat.
Another kind of cactus has crimson and scarlet blossoms, but no prickly
pears.

Both of these plants are covered with sharp thorns and prickles. Jimmy
thinks the blossoms are pretty; but he does not like to pick them. Can
you guess why?

Where do you suppose Jimmy goes to school? Well, he goes to his mamma,
and he has a very nice teacher. He never gets lonesome; for he has so
much to do and so much to think about, that he has no time to be
lonesome.

He helps his mother in the house, he takes care of the chickens, he
makes friends with the sheep. When he gets a little bigger, he will ride
on horseback and help his papa in taking care of the horses and cattle
out on the hills.

                                             EMMA MITCHELL.




JESSIE AND HER KITTEN.


"O MAMMA!" said little Jessie one stormy afternoon, "I'm tired of
playing with dolly, I'm tired of looking at pictures, I'm tired of my
blocks, and I'm tired of sitting still. What shall I do?"

"Call kitty," said her mother, "and let her try to catch this ball while
you hold the string."

"Oh, yes, that will be fun," said Jessie; "but if I make a noise, mamma,
you will be sure to say, 'Hush, my child! or you will wake grandma.'"

Her mamma laughed, and said, "I think we can manage that, dear. You
shall go down in the large front-hall, and there you can run and play as
much as you please."

Jessie was delighted with this plan, and presently stood holding the
ball just out of reach of the kitten's paws, saying, "Catch it if you
can, kitty; catch it if you can!"

As soon as kitty, standing on her hind-legs, had her paw almost upon it,
away Jessie would run, shouting and laughing, and kitty would follow her
as fast as she could go.

[Illustration]

When they had played till Jessie was quite tired, she went to her mamma
with kitty cuddled in her arms, and said, "We have had a jolly time,
mamma! Now I must give kitty some milk and put her to bed; for I think
she is hungry and sleepy after so much exercise." This last was a big
word for such a little girl, and she said it quite slowly.

"Yes, dear," mamma said, smiling, "and I think I know somebody else who
will soon be hungry and sleepy too."

                                             JANE OLIVER.




[Illustration]




TWO SIDES.


    OH, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past;
      The singing-birds have gone;
    The robin, from the maple-bough,
      Who waked me every morn;
    The bobolink that used to make
      The meadow-grass with music shake;
    The humming-bird that dipped his bill
      In lily-cup and rose,--
    Not one would stay; I only hear
      The cawing of the crows.
    The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear!
      The dismal autumn days are here.
    And all my pretty flowers are dead!
      My roses and sweet-peas;
    The hollyhocks, where, all the day,
      There was a crowd of bees;
    The lovely morning-glory vine,
      That round my window used to twine;
    The larkspur, with its horns of blue;
      The sunflower proud and tall,--
    That thief the Frost, so sly and still,
      Has come and stolen all!
    Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear!
      The dreary autumn days are here.

[Illustration]

    The hives are full of honeycomb;
      The barns are full of hay;
    The bins are heaped with ripened grain,
      That empty were in May;
    The red and yellow apples now
      Bend many a heavy orchard bough;
    Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves,
      The frost-grapes smell of musk;
    The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps;
      And, in its silver husk,
    The corn now shows a golden ear;
      Come! why be sorry autumn's here?
    The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs;
      The keen wind scatters down
    Upon the grass, for eager hands,
      The chestnuts ripe and brown;
    The orange woods, the flame-red bowers,
      Are brighter than the gayest flowers;
    'Tis constant changes make the year:
      Then why be sorry autumn's here?

                                  MARIAN DOUGLAS.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




FANCHETTE.


WHILE spending a winter in a quiet old town in Southern France, I used
to meet in my walks, a girl about ten years of age, trudging along,
bare-footed, carrying on her arm a large basket.

The first time we met she looked up at me with such a pleasant smile,
that I bowed and smiled in return. After a few days we became still
better acquainted, and she would say, "_Bon jour, madame!_" in answer to
my greeting.

One day, besides the basket, she carried a large fagot, and her apron
full of wild flowers and drooping vines. Then I thought I would like to
know more about her. So I said, "You look tired, my little girl: will
you not sit down under this old tree with me, and tell me where you
live, and where you go every day with that big basket?"

She seemed quite pleased to do so, and then told me that her father was
a wood-cutter, and that every day she had to walk three miles to the
forest to carry him his dinner, and sometimes to help bind fagots.

"My name," she said, "is Fanchette, and I have a sister Marie, and a
sister Claire, and a baby-brother named Pierre. My sister Marie is ill,
and cannot leave her bed, and I have gathered these flowers to take to
her."

"But are you not tired with walking so far?"

"A little tired, madam," she said; "but I do not mind, for Marie will be
so pleased with these flowers, and baby will clap his hands and laugh
when he sees me coming. Then mother will take this fagot and light the
fire, and give us our supper, and we shall be very merry.

"There is my home," she said, pointing to a small brown thatched cottage
under a hill not far away. "Will you not come to see us some day,
madam?"

I promised to do so, and when I kept my word soon after, I found all as
she had said. Though they were poor, and the mother had to work hard,
their home was so neat, and all seemed so happy in it, that it was a
pleasure to go there. I repeated my visits many times, carrying dainties
for the invalid, who was soon quite well and strong; and I shall never
forget bright, cheery little Fanchette.

                                             ANNA LIVINGSTON.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




SWEET GOOD-DAY.


    "WE are fading, little children;
      One by one, we flutter down;
    For the winds are harsh and chilly,
      And the meadows, bare and brown.
    We are fading," leaves of purple,
      Leaves of amber, softly say;
    "But we'll meet you in the May-time,
      Our merry, merry play-time:
      Little children, sweet good-day!"

    "We are going, little children,"
      Sigh the flowers in the sun;
    "Oh! we soon shall end our singing,"
      Lisp the brooklets as they run;
    And the birds, with silver warble,
      Long before they wing away,
    Pipe, "We'll meet you in the May-time,
      Our merry, merry play-time:
      Little children, sweet good-day!"

                                  GEORGE COOPER.




[Illustration]




MY GARDEN.


    WHEN fields are green, and skies are fair,
    And summer fragrance fills the air,
    I love to watch the budding rose
    That in my pleasant garden grows;
    But when old Winter, fierce and free,
    Has hushed the murmur of the bee,
    And all the fields and hills are hid
    Beneath his snowy coverlid,
    Oh! then my only garden-spot
    Is just this little flower-pot.

                                  X. V. Z.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




OLD JACK.


"DEAR me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, as she looked from the kitchen-window
of her farmhouse; "there are uncle Joe, and aunt Peggy, and all the
girls! They have come to tea, I'm certain, and I haven't a speck of
green tea in the house. Uncle Joe can't drink any thing else, and he
must have white sugar in it too.

"Here, Mike, Mike! take a basket, jump on old Jack, and go to the store
just as fast as you can. Get a pound of the best green tea and three
pounds of white lump sugar. Now mind you are back in half an hour."

Mike was delighted. He had come to live on the farm only the week
before, and in all his life had never been on the back of a horse or
donkey. He had looked every day with longing eyes at Jack grazing
quietly in the pasture, and had thought how happy he should be if he
were ever allowed to have a ride on him. So off he started in great
glee, saying to himself, "It will be easy enough to manage this little
fellow."

When about half a mile on the way, they came to a brook, and Mike
thought he would let Jack have a drink. This was all very well; but,
when Mike wanted to go on, Jack had changed his mind, and concluded not
to go any further.

Mike pulled and pulled on the bridle, trying to turn him back into the
road; but the obstinate creature planted his feet firmly, and would not
budge an inch.

Just then a kind old Irishman came, on the little foot-bridge, over the
brook, and Mike called to him to know what he should do. "Sure, you must
have a stick, sonny," said the man. "Donkeys won't go without the
stick."

So he cut a stick from a tree near by, and gave it to Mike, who used it
as hard as he could, but to no purpose. Then the old man took another,
and, going behind the little beast, touched him up smartly with it, at
the same time giving his tail a funny little twist.

This was more than Jack could stand. He gave in and jogged on. But he
would go very slowly, in spite of Mike's urging, and now and then he
would amuse himself by kicking out his hind-legs, and trying to throw
Mike off.

Once, too, just as they were starting back from the grocer's he suddenly
lay down flat, and threw Mike over his head, scattering basket and
bundles.

Poor Mike was half an hour late; but, when he told good Mrs. Smith all
his troubles, she excused him. She laughed hard, too, when Mike said,
like a true-born Irish boy, "Sure, marm, I never want to ride Jack again
till I've learned how."

                                             IDA FAY.




[Illustration]




OFF FOR THE WINTER.


        "O SWALLOWS! what can be the matter?
        And what do you mean by your chatter?
        You sit on the barn-roof by dozens,--
        Aunts, grandmothers, uncles, and cousins;
    You circle and wheel, then you twitter away:
    Oh, what are you saying? Do tell me, I pray."

        "My little one, cold winds are blowing;
        We swallows to South-land are going:
        We meet in the clear autumn weather,
        And plan our long journey together.
    When spring-time returns, with its green dancing leaves,
    We'll come back to our little nests under the eaves."

        "Sweet wild flowers, oh, where are you hiding?
        In what hidden nook are you biding?
        I've wandered the meadows all over,--
        There's no breath of wild rose or clover;
    No violets peeping through grass-blades I see,
    No daisies or buttercups nodding to me."

        Then up spake a gentian, late comer,
        The last blue-eyed darling of summer,--
        "To our long winter rest we betake us:
        Good-night, till May breezes awake us."
    Then her soft downy cap she drew over her head,
    And joined her sweet sisters asleep in their bed.

                                  RUTH REVERE.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: A DAY IN THE WOODS.

VOL. XXX.--NO. 5.]





A DAY IN THE WOODS.


"AUTUMN days are going fast. Who wants to spend a day in the woods?"
said uncle Tom to his nieces Jennie and Kate.

"I!" shouted Jennie; "and I!" shouted Kate; "and can aunt Jane and
cousins Tom and Ann go too?" said both.

"Yes," said uncle Tom: "I will take the big wagon, and there will be
room enough for all. Run and ask your mother to put up a lunch for us.
We must start early in the morning."

Off they ran, and soon came back with Tom and Ann and their little
brother Johnny, all eager for a frolic.

The next morning, as soon as the sun peeped out of the east, all the
children were up and dressed. By the time breakfast was over, the wagon
stood at the door. Into it they climbed one after another. The
lunch-basket was packed in safely. Aunt Jane sat on the front seat;
uncle Tom jumped up beside her with the reins in his hands; the children
shouted "Hurrah!" and off they started.

What fun they had as they rode along! The pure air of the country,
flavored with an odor of the sea (for the road lay along the side of the
ocean), seemed to put new life into them all.

When they reached the woods, they jumped out of the wagon and rambled
about at will. The girls filled their baskets with wild flowers; aunt
Jane twined some of them in Kate's hair; and Jennie made a lovely
wreath, which she placed on Tom's head.

[Illustration]

By and by they all began to feel very hungry. So they opened the
lunch-basket under a large tree, and found that mamma had put into it
just what they wanted. They had a grand feast. They laughed and sang,
and made the old woods ring with their merry voices. At last uncle Tom
said, "Now, girls, give us one song more, and then we must be getting
ready to go home."

While they were singing, uncle Tom went after the horse. Pretty soon he
drove up with the wagon and said, "Now pack in, every one of you, and we
will have a jolly ride home."

[Illustration]

They were about to take their seats in the wagon, when aunt Jane said,
"Where's Johnny? We can't go home without him."

Sure enough, Johnny was missing.

"He strolled off while we were singing," said cousin Tom: "I guess he
went down to the beach; for I saw him go in that direction, and he had
a box under his arm, probably to put shells in."

"I'll warrant that's where he's gone," said uncle Tom. "And he is there
exploring now, I dare say. But he can't be far off. We'll call him."

Then uncle Tom shouted in his deep voice, "Johnny!" Then aunt Jane and
all the girls joined in the chorus of "Johnny!"

"The boy must be deaf if he does not hear that," said uncle Tom. Then
they all shouted together once more. In a moment they heard Johnny's
voice in reply. "I'm coming in a minute," said he.

"Hurry up," cried uncle Tom. "We are waiting for you."

It was five minutes before Johnny appeared, and then he came holding
something in his hand triumphantly.

"What in the world have you there?" said aunt Jane.

"Something better than wild flowers," said Johnny.

Now what do you suppose it was? It was a live crab, which the boy had
found among the rocks on the shore.

"You are not going to take it home with you, are you?" said aunt Jane.

"Of course I am," said Johnny.

"Well, jump in," said uncle Tom, "crab and all. We can't stop any
longer."

So Johnny scrambled into the wagon with the rest, and off they drove.

                                             UNCLE SAM.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]





BABY BOBBY.

    I KNOW a house so full of noise,
    You'd think a regiment of boys,
    From early morn till close of day,
    Were busy with their romping play.
    And yet, I'm ready to declare,
    There is but one small youngster there,--
    A little golden-headed chap,
    Who used to think his mother's lap
    The nicest place that e'er could be,
    Until he grew so big that he
    Was most a man, and learned what fun
    It is to shout and jump and run.
    This restless, noisy little elf
    Has learned, alas! to think himself
    Too old in mother's arms to sleep;
    Yet his blue eyes he cannot keep
    From hiding 'neath their lids so white;
    And, climbing to the sofa's height,
    He snuggles down, forgets his play,
    And into Dreamland sails away;
    And then it is that mamma knows
    Why the whole house so silent grows.

                                  MARY D. BRINE.





MILLY AND JIP.


THIS is a little English girl. Her name is Mildred; but she is usually
called Milly. She has always lived in a fine old house, with lovely
grounds about it, not far from London. But now she is going, with her
father and mother, to India.

She thinks it will be very nice to be travelling so far away with them;
but she is sorry to leave her kind grandmother, and all her aunts and
cousins. She could not help crying when she said good-by to them.

"I cannot go without my Jip," she said to her mother the day before
leaving.

"Oh, no, darling!" said her mother. "I wouldn't think of leaving the
little dog behind. He will be a fine play-fellow for you on board the
ship."

So she has Jip cuddled close in her arms, you see. It is late in
November, and the weather is cold. But Milly has plenty of warm fur
wraps to protect her and her pet too.

[Illustration]

She will soon be far away from cold weather, and when she reaches India,
she will laugh at the thought of ever being bundled up in all that fur.

                                             JANE OLIVER.




LAWN-TENNIS.


[Illustration]

JOHN sits on a three-legged stool. What is he doing? We can't tell, for
we can't see through him: so we must guess. I guess he is watching a
game of lawn-tennis.

[Illustration]

I think I see one of the players that John has his eye on. It is a
bright little girl. Her name is Julia. Look at her. She is having fine
fun. John hopes that her side will win. And so do I. Let us all give
three cheers for her.

                                  M. L. O.




[Illustration]




THE KITTEN'S NECKTIE.


"PUSS, Puss, Puss! where are you?" said little Nellie Rich. She had tied
a new, bright, cherry ribbon on the kitten's neck, and told her to keep
it nice; "for," said Nellie, "my cousin Belle is coming to see me this
afternoon, and I want to show her how pretty you can look."

And now naughty puss had run off, and she would come back, perhaps, with
the new ribbon all rumpled and soiled. After searching through the
house, Nellie ran out to the barn to look for the lost pet.

Sure enough, there was the kitten, not taking the least care of her
necktie, just ready to pounce upon a big mouse.

Nellie's voice startled her so that she did not catch the mouse, after
all. The nimble little rogue darted into a hole before kitty could even
get her paw on his tail.

But the cherry bow was still safe and unsoiled. So, after giving pussy
a lecture on her disobedience, Nellie took her into the house.

She met Belle at the door, and told her what a search she had made;
while puss, cuddled in her arms, kept up a busy purring, as much as to
say, "I'm sorry you were displeased with me. I really thought you would
praise me for trying to catch that big mouse; for I'm not much more than
a kitten yet."

                                             DORA BURNSIDE.





A THRIFTY FAMILY.


    'TWAS a bitter cold morning; the new-fallen snow
    Had pierced every crack where a snowflake could go;
    The streams were all solid, the ice sharp and clear;
    And even the fishes were chilly, I fear.

    Almost all the wild creatures were troubled and cold,
    And sighed for sweet summer,--the shy and the bold;
    But one thrifty family, as you must know,
    Was breakfasting merrily under the snow.

    Close by a tall tree, in a hole in the ground,
    Which led to a parlor, with leaves cushioned round,
    Five jolly red squirrels were sitting at ease,
    And eating their breakfast, as gay as you please.

                                  D. H. R. GOODALE.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




WHEN WILL THE SNOW COME?


    WHEN will the snow come, mother dear?
    When will the soft white snow be here?
    Upon my sled I want to go:
    Oh for the snow! I long for snow.

    I want to see it falling fast,
    And covering all the ground at last,
    So Dick and I can snowballs throw:
    Oh for the snow, the splendid snow!

    I look, as soon as it is light,
    To see if all the earth is white;
    I watch the clouds each day, but no,
    There's not a single flake of snow.

    I want to plunge about, waist deep,
    In the great drifts so high and steep,
    And wash Dick's face,--oh, you don't know
    What lots of fun we have with snow!

    We're going to build a fort, and you'll
    See battles fought there after school!
    And cannon-balls will fly--hallo!
    Look! mother, look! here comes the snow!

                                  ELIZABETH SILL.




A BASKET FROM HOME.


"HALLOA, boys! Here's old Trott, the expressman, coming into the yard.
What do you suppose he has brought?" exclaimed one of a group of boys in
the playground of a country boarding-school.

"It is probably a box for me," said one of the older boys, with rather
an important air.

This boy, being somewhat selfish, was not a favorite with the little
ones, one of whom whispered to another, "I hope it isn't for him, don't
you? None of the rest of us will get a peep into it if it is."

Presently the wagon stopped; and Mr. Trott pulled out a basket, and
reading the address, "Master Robert Rand," said, "Is there any boy of
that name here?"

A bright little fellow answered quickly, "That is my name."

"Then this basket is yours," said the driver.

"Hurrah for you, Rob!" called out four other boys about his age. "Come
on, we'll help you carry it in."

In a few minutes the same boys stood around the basket with eager eyes;
and Rob and his cousin Willy were seated on the floor, unpacking it.

Oranges, lemons, and apples were soon displayed; then a pot of jam
appeared.

"Halloa, what's down in that corner?" cried Tom, a youngster in Scotch
cap and velveteen suit. "Isn't that a cake, though!" as a big round cake
well stuffed with plums appeared.

"And there's a box of sardines," shouted another boy.

[Illustration]

"What's in this paper bag?" said Rob. "First-rate! it's white sugar.
That's for lemonade. Mother hasn't forgotten how much I like it."

So all the good things that Rob's thoughtful mother had sent him were
one by one set out upon the floor.

Rob looked at each one with real delight, and, when the basket was
emptied, he said,--

"Now, boys, there's some eating to be done, and I want you all to help
me. It is Saturday afternoon: let us all go into the woods and have a
regular picnic."

All agreed that this would be jolly fun. One boy (who had a brother in
college) remarked that it would be "just immense."

Willy, the youngest boy, who was a great pet with the housekeeper, was
sent to borrow a pitcher and tumblers, and whatever else was needed.

[Illustration]

Instead of a pitcher, what do you think he brought back?--A teakettle,
just like this!

"Why, what did you bring that for?" said Rob.

"Because I thought a pitcher wouldn't hold lemonade enough," said Willy.

"There's something in that," said Tom.

"We'll put something in it, anyhow," said Rob; and they all had a good
laugh.

Several other boys joined them at Rob's invitation, and they soon found
a pleasant, shady spot near a cool spring.

"Very handy," said Tom, "for making lemonade."

We have not space to tell all the good things that were said at the
feast. In fact, there was no reporter present. But it was a jolly
affair. When it was ended, three cheers were given for Robby Rand, and
three more for his basket; and then the boys started for home, to wind
up the fun with a game of ball.

                                             UNCLE CHARLES.




A LETTER FROM HONOLULU.


LAST Christmas my mamma gave me a bound volume of "The Nursery," and I
have been wanting to tell you how much I like it.

I live in Honolulu, way off in the Pacific Ocean. I wonder if many of
your readers know what a pretty place Honolulu is. The town faces the
open sea; but those who have been accustomed to the stormy Atlantic or
the Northern Pacific would scarcely believe that this calm blue water is
the ocean.

Back of the town are two mountains,--"Punch-bowl" and "Diamond Head."
Between them there is a cocoanut-grove, near which there is a nice place
for sea-bathing. As it is a short drive from town, we often go there to
bathe, and have great fun. We have no winter here, and it is never too
cold to bathe. I am trying to learn to swim.

Sometimes I get tired of having it always summer, and wish for the fun
that the snow and ice bring, about which I read so much in "The
Nursery."

I go to a kindergarten, and we learn a great many of your songs. Some of
your poetry we have made into songs, and we like them very much. Last
summer, at the closing exercises of our class, we played the
"Kindergarten Game" published in the January number of last year, and
every one was delighted with it.

If you like this letter I may write again, and tell you about a feast
that I went to, in celebration of the birthday of the little
Victoria-Kawekin-Kaiulani-Lunalilo-Kalaninuiahilapalapa. Is it not a
pretty name? I cannot pronounce it all for I do not speak the native
language. I am a little German girl and my name is

                                             ALEXANDRA.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Music]




CHRISTMAS TIME.

    T. CRAMPTON.


    1. Come, stir the fire, 'tis Christmas time!
       While loud the winds howl o'er us,
       We'll hail the day with joyful lay,
       And raise the swelling chorus.
       Time, who brings both care and sorrow,
       Bids them slumber till to-morrow,
       Bids them slumber till to-morrow.

    2  To joyous music's merry strain
       Responsive hearts are beating,
       And happy voices join amain
       The carol, Christmas greeting.
       Hearts with fondest rapture swelling,
       Glow while lips their thoughts are telling.

    3  Then raise the song for Christmas time,
       While winds are loudly blowing,
       With carol old and chorus bold
       Our joyful praises showing,
       Bright the old yule-log is beaming,
       Let each soul of joy be dreaming.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

The original text for the July issue had a table of contents that
spanned six issues. This was divided amongst those issues.

Additionally, only the July issue had a title page. This page was copied
for the remaining five issues. Each issue had the number added on the
title page after the Volume number.





