transcribed by June Troyer.










THE

NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XXIX.--No. 4.

    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
    Lucy                                           97
    The Savoyard                                  100
    A Bear's Story                                102
    Take Care                                     108
    Letter from China                             109
    Drawing-Lesson                                113
    The Bird who has no Nest                      114
    A Shrine                                      115
    Susie's Dancing-Lesson                        117
    The Deserted House                            122
    Dame Trott and her Son                        124
    Bossy's Fright                                125


IN VERSE.

                                                 PAGE
    A Merry Go-round                               99
    Secrets                                       105
    Going to School                               106
    Kings and Queens                              110
    Good-Night                                    116
    Five Little Sparrows                          119
    Dobbin's Complaint                            121
    Tommy Tucker                                  123
    A Bluebird's Song                             127
    The Bird's Return (_with music_)              128




[Illustration: VOL. XXIX.--NO. 4.]

LUCY.


LUCY is three years old. She is one of the happiest little girls that I
know, and one of the sweetest too. That is saying a good deal; for I
know a great many very charming little girls.

You would not suppose that such a little tot could be left to herself a
great while. But often, when she is tired of running about, her mother
seats her in the great arm-chair, and there, with her doll in her arms,
she sits and amuses herself for hours.

Jip the dog is very fond of Lucy, and very jealous of the doll. If he
comes in and sees Lucy and her doll in the arm-chair, he begins to
whine.

Then Lucy says in her baby-way (for she cannot yet talk plain), "Come
here, Jip!"

Jip jumps up into the chair. Lucy puts her arm round him and pats him
fondly. Jip looks up in her face, as much as to say, "Don't you love me,
Lucy? Am I not as good as the doll? Why don't you pat me?"

Lucy knows what he means just as well as if he said it in words. "Yes,
Jip, you good little dog, I do love you," she says, "and Dolly loves you
too. You will take good care of us; won't you, Jip?"

And Jip seems to know what Lucy says; for he answers by another loving
look, "Yes, Lucy, I will take care of you. Nobody shall harm you while I
am here. I will be your watch-dog. But don't forget to pet me as well as
your doll. I like to be petted."

Then Lucy pats him, and says, "Good little Jip, I will never forget
you!" That makes him happy; and so they are both happy together.

                                                       UNCLE CHARLES.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

A MERRY GO-ROUND.


      WHAT a merry go-round!
      Not a ghost of a sound
    As the snowflakes dance and spin:
      Won't the wind play the flute,
      Now the birds are all mute,
    And the crickets have stopped their din?

      The brook would be glad
      To tinkle like mad,
    If the snowflakes would only wait
      Till the season is June,
      And its voice is in tune
    For their service, early and late.

      Then the brown bee would hum,
      And the frogs beat the drum,
    And robin would lead the band:
      Such a merry go-round,
      To such a sweet sound,
    Was ne'er known in snowflake-land.

                     MARY N. PRESCOTT.




THE SAVOYARD.


THIS boy, as you may see by his looks, is not one of our American boys.
He is a native of Savoy, and is dressed in the costume of the peasants
of that country.

Savoy is in the eastern part of France, just south of the Lake of
Geneva. You will easily find it on the map. It is a fertile country, but
there are many poor people there who live chiefly upon chestnuts and
potatoes.

Though fond of their birthplace, many of them leave it during the
winters, and go to Italy, Spain, and other parts of France in search of
work.

Carl, the boy in the picture, is one of this class. His parents are too
poor to support him, and he is sent out to seek his own living; but he
is not a beggar. He earns something by raising guinea-pigs, which he
sells to boys and girls for pets. He carries them, as you see, in a box
slung from his neck. But they are so tame that he takes them out and
lets them run up on his shoulders.

[Illustration]

The guinea-pig, when full-grown, is not much bigger than a large rat.
In shape it is a good deal like a fat pig. When hungry it grunts like a
pig. In color it is white, spotted with orange and black. It is a native
of Brazil.

[Illustration]

Guinea-pigs serve very well for pets. Some children are very fond of
them. But old folks like me prefer pets of another sort.

                                                       UNCLE SAM.




A BEAR'S STORY.


I WAS born in the wild woods of Michigan, and my home was in a large
hollow tree which stood near the Muskegon River. There I lived with my
mother and sister.

I was a careless young cub, and one day, when at play on the river-side,
I went too near the steep bank, fell over it, and went down splash into
the water. It was very deep, and there was a strong current. I had never
been taught to swim. I was in such a fright that I could not even cry
for help.

The water was choking me, and I was nearly drowned, when a kind log
came floating by to my rescue. It seemed like a friend sent from home. I
scrambled to the top of it, bade good-by to my sister, who stood crying
on the bank, and went drifting down the river.

Before long two queer-looking objects came toward me, paddling along in
a sort of hollow log. Seeing plainly that they were not bears, I felt
much afraid of them. My mother had often talked to me about some fierce
creatures called "men," and had told me always to keep out of their way.

I felt sure that these were men; but how could I get out of their way
when I was adrift on a log? They came right down upon me, and there I
sat, whining and crying and trembling. "What were these dreadful men
made for?" thought I. "Why can they not leave us poor bears in peace?"

[Illustration]

I fully expected to be killed. But, instead of killing me, one of the
men took me in his arms, and held me till we came to the shore. Then I
wanted to go back to my mother, and I tried to get away. But he held me
all the tighter, and after a while he tied my feet together. I could do
nothing but cry, and at last I cried myself to sleep.

When I awoke I found myself in this town, called "Big Rapids," and here
I have been ever since. It seemed to me very strange at first not to be
in the woods, but in the midst of queer-looking white objects called
"houses."

I started to take a walk, hoping to fall in with some bear of my
acquaintance; but a hard thing fastened to my neck held me back. It is
what men call a "chain," as I have since learned, and it compels me to
stay in one place all the time.

[Illustration]

I am no longer a cub, but am a full-grown bear. This kind of life does
not suit me very well, but I have got used to it. One can get used to
almost any thing. I have even got used to the society of men and women.

Their cubs (called boys and girls) often play with me, and sometimes
they tease me. Once, when a boy was teasing me, I gave him a scare which
will be apt to teach him better manners. I will tell you how it was.

The boy held out an apple, and, just as I was about to take it, he
pulled it away. This mean trick he played three times. He tried it once
more, and then I gave such a spring that my chain broke.

The boy dropped his apple, and ran. You ought to have seen that boy run!
He didn't dare even to look back. But, if he had looked back, he would
have seen me munching his apple with great relish.

I didn't want to hurt a cub like him; but some bears that I know
wouldn't have been so for-_bear_-ing.

                                                       BRUIN.




[Illustration]

SECRETS.


    "WHAT do you think?"
      "I'm sure I don't know!"
    "Don't tell anybody!"
      "Oh, no! oh, no!"

                  E. N. G.




GOING TO SCHOOL.


[Illustration]

    TRUDGE, trudge, along in the snow,
    That keenly creaks, it is frozen so:
    What does he care if the wind does blow?--
    Sturdy lad, with his face aglow,
    He likes the sound of his ringing heel,
    And loves to feel, as he tramps along,
    He is conquering something: it makes him strong,--
      Robert, the miller's boy.

    What does he conquer? Wind and frost.
    Hands in mittens, and tippet crossed
    Over his ears, and backward tossed
    Like a crimson banner that leads a host,
    Well indeed may the lad feel bold
    To battle the cold, and fight his way
    Early to school, and every day,--
        Robert, the miller's boy.

    He'll sing and whistle, he'll run and shout,
    To keep him warm; but he'll never pout:
    If the frost creeps in, he whips it out,
    With his two hands thrashing his shoulders stout;
    While on he goes, and the keen snow rings
    To the song he sings, for his sturdy feet
    The changing time of that music beat,--
        Robert, the miller's boy.

    You need not think to find him low
    When the busy classes stand in row;
    You need not think to find him slow
    When play-time comes, and the trampled snow
    Makes a path for his "lightning" sled:
    The boy at the head is the conquering lad
    Who makes his way if the road _is_ bad,--
        Robert, the miller's boy.

                         GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

[Illustration]




TAKE CARE.


YOUNG Tom mounts his old horse and takes a ride. He sits up like a bold
dragoon. The horse is not a gay one. He will not shy. He will not run
away. But he has one fault: he may take it into his head to roll. Tom
must take care.

[Illustration]

Young Bob climbs a rope hand over hand. He holds on tight, and climbs up
quite high. He is a bold boy. It is a good plan to climb. But take care,
or you may fall. Do not let go with one hand till you get hold with the
other.

[Illustration]

                                                         A. B. C.




[Illustration]

LETTER FROM CHINA.


NOT long ago I read in "The Nursery" a story about "Emperor Frank," and
how he ruled a whole family. I know a family that is ruled by two
emperors instead of one. They live in Pekin in far-off North China.

There are four boys and three girls. The two youngest boys, Dwight and
Louis, are twins. They are the emperors.

Their reign began nearly three years ago. Master Ted, the next elder
brother, who was then emperor, had to give way to them, and very sweetly
he did it. It was hard for him to see his dear old Chinese nurse
transfer her love and care to any one else; and even now, when he hears
her call one of the emperors her "little pet," he says to her, "But you
know you have a big pet too."

Thus far the twin-emperors have had none but loyal subjects; but, as
they grow out of their babyhood, there are signs of rebellion. The three
sisters rebel because Emperors Dwight and Louis will not let them
practise their music-lessons in peace. Ted says, "Do find me a place
where I can pound nails alone;" for the emperors will insist upon
helping him.

The emperors have already learned to walk, though they talk only in a
language of their own. When they begin to talk plainly in the language
of their subjects, I fear that their reign will come to an end.

The picture shows you how ten-year-old brother Ned takes his three
little brothers to ride on his donkey.

    TUNG CHO, NORTH CHINA.                          THE EMPERORS' MAMMA.




KINGS AND QUEENS.


TOMMY.

    UPON the lilac-bush I heard
      The earliest robin sing;
    I wished, what never will come true,
      That I could be a king;
      For, if I only were a king,
    I know what I would do:
      I'd have plum-cake, instead of bread,
    To eat the whole year through;
    Great heaps of oranges would be
      Upon my palace-floors,
    And fountains full of lemonade
      Spout up beside its doors.


FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL.

    Oh, shame upon you, Tommy Brown!
      You're such a greedy thing!
    We're glad you are not over us:
      You should not be our king.


JESSIE.

    And, if I were a queen, I'd wear
      A new dress every day;
    No princess in a fairy-tale
      Would have such fine array;
    With golden lace and glittering gems
      My robes my maids would deck,
    And diamonds large as pigeons' eggs
      Would hang about my neck.


FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL.

    And, oh, how proud and vain you'd be!
      How fond of being seen!
    We're glad you are not over us:
      You should not be our queen.


KARL.

    And, if I were a king, I'd have
      In every thing my way;
    My servants would stand waiting round,
      My wishes to obey;
    And I would do just what I pleased,
      And say just what I chose,
    And not a soul in all the land
      Would dare my will oppose.


FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL.

    And you would be the worst of all:
      What troubles you would bring!
    We want no tyrant over us;
      You should not be our king.


LILIAN.

    And, if I really were a queen,
      I would put on my crown,
    And through the country everywhere
      Go walking up and down;
    And all the old folks, sick, and poor,
      I would have warmed and fed,
    And every houseless little child
      Should home with me be led;
    And I would love them all, and try
      To do the best I could
    To make the sorry people glad,
      The naughty people good.


FRED, GRACIE, HARRY, ISABEL.

    And you would have the happiest reign
      That ever yet was seen;
    And, if we had a queen at all,
      Then you should be our queen.

                       MARIAN DOUGLAS.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.

VOL. XXIX.--NO. 4.]




THE BIRD WHO HAS NO NEST.


THIS is the cuckoo. She and her mate have no home of their own; but that
does not seem to trouble them. They peep here and there among the
leaves, until they find the nest of some other bird,--a lark, perhaps,
or a thrush, or a yellow-hammer; and, if the owner of the nest is away,
Mrs. Cuckoo leaves within it a small egg.

[Illustration]

There are some birds that can take care of themselves almost as soon as
they are born; but Mrs. Cuckoo never leaves her eggs in their nests. Oh,
no! she chooses a nest in which the young birds are well cared for by
their mothers, and fed with food on which the young cuckoos thrive best.

Why she is too idle to build her own nest, no one knows. Some people say
it is because she stays so short a time in the same country, that her
young ones would not get strong enough to fly away with her, if she
waited to build her nest. Others think it is because she is such a great
eater, that she cannot spend time to find food for her children.

But the kind foster-mothers, the larks and the thrushes, care for the
egg that the cuckoo leaves in their houses, although, if any other bird
leaves one, they will take no care of it at all, but roll it out upon
the ground.

The Scotch word for cuckoo, _gowk_, means, also, a foolish person. But I
think they ought rather to have named it a wicked person; for the young
cuckoo is so ungrateful and selfish, that he often gets one of the other
little birds on his back, and then, climbing to the top of the nest,
throws it over the edge. These are the English cuckoos of which I have
been telling you. I am glad to say that their American cousins take care
of their own children.

                                                       SOPHIE E. EASTMAN.




[Illustration]

A SHRINE.


IN countries where the Roman-Catholic religion prevails, a shrine
signifies a box or case containing an image of the Virgin Mary, or some
relics regarded as sacred.

This box is attached to a stone pillar or other fixed monument, and thus
marks a place at which the pious Catholics kneel to offer up their
prayers.

In Italy and Spain shrines are very common, not only in the churches,
but at the roadsides. The picture shows us one with a little girl
holding a bunch of flowers in front of the sacred image which she sees
in it.

In this country they are to be seen only in churches; but we often speak
of any hallowed place as a shrine.

                                                       IDA FAY.




[Illustration: GOOD-NIGHT.]


    LOOK at my night-cap so funny,
      And see how I've tied up my curls!
    Dolly and I are both going
      To bed now, like wise little girls.

    She sleeps on my pillow, the darling;
      Not once does she wake in the night;
    And, when the first sunbeam is peeping,
      We both get up, rosy and bright.

    How quiet she is, and how patient,
      As she waits till the breakfast-bell rings!
    She never is greedy or fussy,
      Never pouts, never breaks my nice things.

[Illustration]

    And now shake your hand, little dolly,
      For "good-night" to the folks, and "by-by!"
    Ah! she's tired with playing, poor Dolly,
        And so, my own mother, am I.

                                     W. G.




SUSIE'S DANCING-LESSON.


WHEN Susie is fretful and peevish,--which, I am glad to say, is not
often,--there is nobody who can put her in good humor so quickly as her
grown-up sister Ann. She knows just how to deal with the little girl.

Thus Ann will say, "What is the matter, Susie? Are you hungry? No. Are
you sleepy? Not a bit of it. Do you want me to tell you a story? No. Are
you tired? No. I have it: you want a good dose of exercise. That is the
very thing you need. Come here now, and I'll give you a dancing-lesson."

[Illustration]

She takes Susie's hands, and whirls her out on the floor before she has
time to say a word. Then Ann begins to sing,--

    "Here we go up, up, up,
     And here we go down, down, down-y;
     Here we go this way and that,
     And here we go round, round, round-y,"

dancing all the time, and whisking Susie about the room in such a lively
way, that the child has to laugh in spite of herself. Susie soon gets in
great glee, and always wants to have another dance.

"What!" says Ann. "Haven't you had dancing enough? Well, then, how would
you like a fancy dance? Mind your steps now. Do as you see me do. Keep
time with the music.

    "Up and down, fast and slow,
     Hop and skip, and away we go;
     Round and round, and jump Jim Crow:
     Oh, won't we dance the polka!"

So the little girl is danced about until she has to stop to take breath;
and by that time she is so full of fun, that there is no room for a
frown on her pretty face.

                                                       Jane Oliver.




FIVE LITTLE SPARROWS.


    FIVE little sparrows sitting in a row
    Under a bench, in the darkness and the snow,
    Homeless and cold in the lonesome city square:
    What are the little birdies doing there?

    Huddled up close in a wretched little heap,
    Uttering only a soft and plaintive "cheep,"
    Crowding together to keep each other warm,--
    Poor little birdies hiding from the storm!

[Illustration]

    Up in the tree-boughs, high above their heads,
    Are their pretty houses with straw and feather-beds:
    Why do the birdies leave their shelter warm
    To cuddle on a snow-bank, and shiver in the storm?

    But, in the morning when the sun came out,
    Then we could see how the trouble came about:
    Several saucy squirrels, the very day before,
    Had moved into their houses, and turned them out of door!

                                      ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.




DOBBIN'S COMPLAINT.


   "MY master, my master! why does he stay
    So long at the tavern across the way?
    I've waited and watched an hour and more,
    And there he stands at the tavern-door.

   "I've stamped my foot, and champed my bit;
    And this musty post, I've gnawed at it;
    I've pawed the ground, I've shaken my mane,
    And neighed and snorted again and again.

   "I'm tired and dusty and hungry too;
    I want my dinner! I'm getting blue!
    Its ten long miles we have yet to go,
    And that my master must surely know.

   "'Tis time for us to be on our way;
    I want my oats and my clover-hay;
    I want a roll on the smooth barn-floor.
    Ah! here comes master, I'll say no more!"

                         HELEN M. WHITNEY

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




THE DESERTED HOUSE.


THIS house has no roof, no chimney, no windows, no front-door, no
back-door. Yet it was once the home of a happy family; and, if you went
near it, you would hear their sweet low voices from morning till night.
Such was this little house when I visited it one fine day last summer.

To-day I called again. All was still. Not a voice did I hear. The
roofless house was filled with snow. The walls looked dark and sad. The
leaves that once cast lovely shadows about them were gone.

As I stood looking at the empty house, Ethel, who is very young but very
wise, exclaimed, "The family have gone south for the winter, but are
sure to come back in the spring. There will be gay times here pretty
soon."

Just then a sharp gust of wind came, and the old house shook as if about
to fall. Ethel stood ready to catch it.

What, a child catch a falling house, as if it were a baseball! What if
the timbers should strike her? Ah! but this house was a very light
building. Snow and all, it was not much heavier than a handful of roses.

Now you know what I mean. Vine Street runs from the floor to the top of
the piazza. The swallow homestead is just at the head of that street.
The timbers are sticks and straw. The roof is the sky. And, as to the
happy little family of Mr. and Mrs. Swallow, if you come here in the
month of May, I will show them to you in their home.

                                                GEORGE T. PACKARD.




[Illustration]




TOMMY TUCKER.


    THIS is Tommy Tucker,
    Whose mouth was in a pucker,
    Crying for his supper,
        A little while ago.

    But, now that Tommy Tucker
    Has had a hearty supper,
    He looks as bright and happy
        As any boy I know.

                          W. G.




DAME TROTT AND HER SON.


[Illustration]

IN this little house lives good Dame Trott, who keeps eggs and milk for
sale. She has two cows and a flock of hens. Her son John helps her to
take care of them. He is a very good boy.

[Illustration]

John is just ten years old. He goes to school. When the school is done
for the day, he goes out to the field to drive home the cows. Here you
may see him on a fence at the end of the lane. He wears a queer sort of
frock.

                                                        D. E. F.




[Illustration]




BOSSY'S FRIGHT.


OLD Bossy had been on the farm many years. She was a very fine cow in
her prime; but as she grew old she learned some bad tricks. Although
gentle and kind in the stable, she would push down fences, and open
every gate on the farm. She would get into the cornfields, make herself
at home in the wheat and oats, and do a great deal of mischief.

Some check had to be put upon her. So one day she went to the pasture
with her head tied down to her foot by a strong rope. In about three
hours a man came running up to the house, to tell us that old Bossy had
fallen over a log, and was lying on her back.

Now, if a cow gets down on her back, in this way, in a place where she
cannot turn over, she is in great danger. It is called being "cast."
This man said, "Come quickly, for old Bossy is cast." Every one ran to
the pasture, and by much pulling and lifting got the cow up. She looked
very happy to be on her feet once more; but as soon as the rope was cut
she was at her old tricks again.

The very next day she was found quietly eating down a neighbor's corn.
Something must be done. We did not like to tie her head down again: so
we concluded to put a board over her eyes.

The board was brought, and fastened with cords to her horns. She stopped
chewing her cud at once and stood still. The men left her in the lane
that led to the pasture, and went to their work. She did not move. I
don't think she even whisked her tail to drive away the flies.

When the men came home to dinner, they were surprised to see her still
standing in the very place where they left her. They patted her kindly,
took the board off, and saw on her forehead a spot as large as a man's
hand, where the hair had turned grayish-white. There was not a bit of
white on her forehead before the board was put on. The poor thing had
begun to turn gray from sheer fright.

We all felt sorry for her; and the board was never again tied to her
horns. After a time she began to chew her cud, and seemed all right; and
she went on pushing down the fences, and opening the gates, just as
often as before. This is a true story.

    ROYALSTON, WIS.                        MRS. LUCY EASTMAN ERMINE.




A BLUEBIRD'S SONG.


[Illustration]

    THERE'S a glad merry voice, children, calling to you,
    A gay burst of song from a wee bit of blue,
    Poised daintily there on the maple-twig now,
    Like a bright little blossom upon the bare bough,--
      "Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee,
      We're coming, you see:
    I'm building my nest in the old apple-tree.

    "To you, little children, this message I bring,
    The birds, every one, will return with the spring.
    What care I if cold winds are blowing around!
    The flowers are already awake under ground.
      Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee:
      If snowflakes I see,
    I'll dream they are blooms shaken off from the tree.

    "Hark! the shy little brooklet is humming a song
    As it breaks loose from winter, and dances along.
    How happy we'll be through the blithe summer hours,--
    The children, the sunbeams, the birds, and the flowers!
      Tu-ra-la, tu-ra-lee:
      How busy we'll be,
    My sweet mate and I, in the old apple-tree!"


                                            RUTH REVERE.




[Illustration: Music]




THE BIRD'S RETURN.

Words by GEO. COOPER.

Music by D. B. MOODY.


    1 "Where have you been, little birdie,
      Where have you been so long?"
          "Warbling in glee,
          Far o'er the sea,
      And learning for you a new song.
            My sweet,
      Learning for you a new song."

    2 "Why did you go, little birdie,
      Why did you go from me?"
          "Winter was here,
          Leafless and drear,
      And so I flew over the sea.
            My sweet,
      And so I flew over the sea."

    3 "What did you see, little birdie,
      What did you see each day?"
          "Sunshine and flowers,
          Blossoms and bowers,
      And pretty white lambkins at play.
             My sweet,
      Pretty white lambkins at play."

    4 "Who kept you safe, little birdie;
      Who kept you safe from harm?"
          "The Father of all,
          Of great and of small:
      He sheltered me under his arm.
             My sweet,
      Under his dear, loving arm."

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

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

Additionally, only the January 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.

Page 106, the final line of the first stanza of "Going to School" was
indented to follow the pattern of the remaining stanzas.





