It was a cold day. Fred was tired of reading, tired of looking out of the window, and so he poked the fire for a change.
“I suppose there are a good many different sorts of fires,” he said to his mamma, as he laid down the poker.
“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “It is very interesting to know how people keep warm in all parts of the world, especially where fuel is scarce and dear. In Iceland, for example, fires are often made of fish-bones! Think of that. In Holland and other countries a kind of turf called peat is dug up in great quantities and used for fuel. And in France a coarse yellow and brown sea-weed, which is found in Finistere, is carefully dried and piled up for winter use. A false log, resembling wood, but made of some composition which does not consume, is often used in that country. It absorbs and throws out the heat, and adds to the looks of the hearth and to the comfort of the room.
“The French have also a movable stove, which can be wheeled from room to room, or even carried up or down stairs while full of burning coke. In Russia the poorer people use a large porcelain stove, flat on top like a great table, with a small fire inside which gives out a gentle, summer-like warmth. It often serves as a bed for the whole family, who sleep on top of it.
“There are, besides gas-stoves, oil-stoves, various methods of obtaining warmth by heated air and steam, and, doubtless, other devices that I never heard of.
“In some countries, however, no fires are needed. In looking at pictures of tropical towns you will at once notice the absence of chimneys.”
Fred looked admiringly at his mamma as she paused.
“There never was such a little mother,” he said; “you can think of something to say about everything.”
His mamma was pleased at this pleasant compliment.
“Oh!” she replied, laughing, “I could go on and tell you more about bonfires, beacon-fires, signals, drift-wood fires, and gypsy-tea fires; but I have told you enough for to-day.”
The sun had gone down with promises sweet,When, keen from the north, the windCame blustering along on its coursers fleet,And left frozen tracks behind.Maude stood at the window; the moon shimmered downOn whirling leaves, stiff and dead,All piteously driven; she turned with a frown,And soft to herself she said:—“The old tyrant Winter leaves nothing to prize,Leaves nothing that’s bright or fair;He has stolen the blue from the bending skies,The warmth from the earth and air.“The summer’s dear blossoms are withered and dead;My garden is brown and bare;The chipper of birds in the nest overheadIs hushed, for no birdlings are here.“The woodlands no longer are shady and sweet,Dry leafage encumbers the ground;The pathways, once verdant and soft to my feet,In fetters of ice are bound.“The pride of the barn-yard sits humped with the cold,One frozen foot under his wing;And the sheep huddle closely, for warmth, in their fold;The ice tyrant reigns as king.”She turns from this picture of ruin and death,And seeks the broad casement again;And, lo! from the dews of her wasted breathGreat forests have grown on the pane.Such beautiful trees! such ferns! and such flowers!Such rivers and mountains bold!Such charming cascades! she gazes for hours,And worships the ice king cold.
A poor man saw, by the roadside, a large white rat. It seemed to be dead. Moving it gently he found it was alive, but had a broken leg. He took it up and carried it to his lonely home. He bound up the bruised leg, fed the poor creature, and soon it was quite well.
Sam Tills trained the rat to gentle ways, and taught it many little tricks. Malmo was the only company Sam had. He worked in a cotton mill, and took Malmo with him. He rode in his master’s coat-pocket. It looked droll to see his white head peeping out.
Sundays both went to dine with Sam’s sister. Malmo’s funny ways made everybody laugh. When Sam said, “Malmo, go sit in my hat,” he went at once. He curled himself up in it, and nodded off to sleep.
When his master said, “Malmo, we’re going now; slip in,” the droll pet jumped from the hat, ran up to his pocket-nest, said good-by in his own fashion, and was ready to start. Evenings, when Sam was reading or singing from his mother’s hymn-book, Malmo had a nap on his master’s head. When it was time to go to bed Sam stroked Malmo’s soft fur. The rat rubbed himself against his master’s hand. It was their good-night to each other. Then Malmo crept into his basket, and the candle was blown out. Soon both were fast asleep.
It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else.
When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their stockings into her room to open them.
“You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual Christmas tree,” said mama, as they sat around her.
“Why, I NEVER had such a happy Christmas before,” said sweet little Agnes. “And it’s just because you are well again.”
“Now I think you must all run out for the rest of the day,” said the nurse, “because your mama wants to see you all again this evening.”
“I wish we could get up something expressly for mama’s amusement,” said Agnes, when they had gone into the nursery.
“How would you like to have some tableaux in here?” asked their French governess, Miss Marcelle.
“Oh, yes,” they all cried, “it would be fun, mama loves tableaux.”
So all day long they were busy arranging five tableaux for the evening. The tableaux were to be in the room which had folding-doors opening into Mrs. Wendell’s sitting-room.
At the proper time Miss Marcelle stepped outside the folding-doors and made a pretty little speech. She said that some young ladies and a young gentleman had asked permission to show some tableaux to Mrs. Wendell if she would like to see them. Mrs. Wendell replied that she would be charmed.
Then mademoiselle announced the tableaux; opening the doors wide for each one. This is a list of the tableaux: First, The Sleeping Beauty; second, Little Red Riding Hood third, The Fairy Queen; fourth, Old Mother Hubbard; fifth, The Lord High Admiral.
Miss Marcelle had arranged everything so nicely, and Celeste, the French maid, helped so much with the dressing, that the pictures all went off without a single mistake.
Mama was delighted. She said she must kiss those dear young ladies, and that delightful young man who had given her such a charming surprise.
So all the children came in rosy and smiling.
“Why, didn’t you know us?” asked the little Lord Admiral.
“I know this,” said mama, “I am like Agnes. I NEVER had such a happy Christmas before.”
Mrs. Bertram sat reading a book one morning, or trying to. It was not easy to do so, for her little boy, Roger, was out in the hall playing with his drum. Suddenly the drumming ceased, and in a moment Roger rushed into the room crying as if his heart would break.
“I’ve burst it. I’ve burst it,” he sobbed.
“Your drum,” asked his mother. “How did you do that?”
“I was beating it with the poker and the tongs and—”
“With the poker and tongs!” exclaimed his mother. “Why, where were your drum-sticks?”
Then Roger stopped crying, and hung his head with shame.
“Where are your drum-sticks?” asked his mother, again.
“I—I—don’t know,” sobbed Roger.
“Have you lost those, too?” said Mrs. Bertram. She needed no words for answer. Roger’s manner was quite enough. “You know, dear, what I said would happen the next time you lost anything.”
“Yes,” said Roger, “I you said I must give away all my toys to some little boys who would take care of them.”
“Yes,” said his mother. “I see you remember. I shall send them all to-night to the Children’s Hospital.”
“But, mama,” said Roger, “if I don’t have any toys to take care of, how can I learn to take care of them?”
Mrs. Bertram had to turn away so that Roger should not see her smile.
“I shall have to think of some other way to teach you to be careful. Now go and bring me all your toys.”
Roger went out of the room to do as his mother said. When he had gone, Mrs. Bertram sat thinking until he came back.
“I have decided that I want you to dust the library every morning.”
Roger looked astonished. “Boys don’t dust,” he said.
“Sometimes,” said his mother, smilingly. “Your Uncle Fred had to dust his own room when he was at West Point. Now if you dust the library every morning for two months faithfully, and do not break a single ornament, I shall know you have grown careful in one way, and that may help you to be careful in another.”
The next morning Roger began his work. At first he disliked it very much, but after a while he grew very particular. It was not pleasant to be without any toys, and he determined to earn them.
The day when his trial of two months would be up, would be Christmas Day. He did not know if his presents this year would be toys or useful things. All his mother had said about his work was, “My dear, you are improving.”
Christmas night came, and with it a beautiful tree. Imagine Roger’s delight when he saw on and about it new skates, a new sled, a new violin and a new drum.
And up in the highest branches, in letters of gold, these words: “For the boy who has proved he can be careful when he tries.”
Harry was playing with his letter blocks one afternoon, when a prince came to visit him.
Harry knew the prince very well, indeed. As soon as the prince came into the room Harry said:
“Hullo, old fellow, is that you?”
Was not that a very strange way to greet a prince?
And wasn’t it stranger yet for Harry to say next:
“Come, sit up, old boy, and give us your—”
Was it hand Harry was going to say? No, indeed, it was paw. “Sit up, old boy, and give us your paw.”
Prince was a beautiful dog, as black as a coal. Indeed, his real name, his whole name, was Edward, the Black Prince. Now you must ask somebody to tell you about the man who was called the “Black Prince,” the man for whom Harry’s dog was named.
When Harry asked Prince to give his paw, the dog did not do it as quickly as he ought to have done.
Did Harry beat him for that? No, indeed. Did he say, “Never mind, Prince, you need not obey me if you do not want to?” No, indeed, again.
He sat up himself, and then he made Prince sit up on his hind legs. Then he ordered Prince to give his paw. Prince did so. Then Harry made him do it again, then again and again and again, until the dog seemed to understand that he must learn to obey when he was spoken to.
After Prince appeared to have learned that lesson quite perfectly, Harry taught him something new.
He taught him to stand on his hind legs and hold a pipe in his mouth.
This he soon did so well that Harry clapped his hands and cried, “Good, good, you smoke as well as his royal highness, the Black Prince, himself.”
Which remark showed that Harry had not yet begun to study history. If he had, he would have known that in the country where the Black Prince lived, tobacco was never heard of until many, many, MANY years after his death.
Arthur Bancroft was feeling very cross one morning in December. He had a bad cold, and his mother did not think it would be wise for him to go out-of-doors. That was why he was cross. The skating was finer than it had been that season; every other boy he knew was enjoying it.
He walked about the house with a very sulky face; would take no notice of books or games, and seemed determined to be miserable.
He was standing looking out of the window when his sister Laura came into the room. Laura carried in her hand a basket filled with cranberries.
She put the basket on the table, took a needle from her mother’s needle book, threaded it with a long, stout thread, and began stringing the berries.
Laura was a dear little thing! She was always busy. No one ever heard her say, “I wish I had something to do.” And she was generally doing something for some one else.
She made a sweet little picture as she sat bending over the basket of crimson cranberries. Some such idea may have come into Arthur’s mind as he turned and looked at her. As he watched her silently for some moments, the cross expression on his face became a little less cross.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Stringing cranberries for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” answered Laura. “Don’t you want to help me?”
“It’s girls’ work,” replied Arthur.
“Isn’t a boy smart enough to do a girl’s work?” asked Laura.
“Of course, he’s SMART enough. I don’t mean that! Perhaps he doesn’t want to.”
“Oh,” said Laura, “I wish you did want to.”
“Why?” asked Arthur.
“I promised to string all these for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” replied Laura. “The market-man brought them so late, I have not much time now.”
“Thread another needle,” said Arthur.
In a few moments he was working as busily as Laura, herself. As Arthur finished his last long string, he tied the ends together and threw it around Laura’s neck. When she bent her head a little, it reached the floor.
“There,” said he, “that proves that a boy can do a girl’s work.”
“Yes,” said Laura, “when”—then she stopped and smiled.
“When what?” asked Arthur.
“When he has a girl to show him how,” laughed Laura, as she danced out of the room with the cranberry strings.
“To think that this is Christmas Day!”Said Harold to his aunt,“I know it really is, and yet,Believe it—well, I can’t!I’ve had a tree, my stocking, too,This morning full I found,But how can I believe itWith no snow upon the ground?Look at the sea so bright and blue,And feel the soft, warm air,And there are roses all in bloom,And lilies, I declare!I think that CaliforniaIs lovely, but it’s queer,How different Christmas is at homeFrom what it is out here.”“Ah, Harold!” gently said his aunt,“No matter where you go,In country strewn with flowers like this,Or clad in ice and snow,The birthday of the Christ-child isThe same in every place,And happy greetings in His name,Bring smiles to every face.”
We were going, on Saturday, ever so far,—My mamma and I,—to the Dollies’ Bazaar,Where fifty wax dollies,—the loveliest show,Went walking about when they wound ‘em, you know.You wouldn’t believe half the things they could do:Why, one said “Good morning,” as plainly as you.One played the piano, and one, dressed in lace,Walked up to a mirror and powdered her face.Well, when we were ready we stepped in the hall,And there was a lady a-coming to call.She said she just chanced to be passing that way,And she really had only a minute to stay.We waited and waited, and hoped she would go,Till I saw it was almost the time for the show,For I heard the clocks striking all over the town,And I knew that the dollies would all be run down.And so I just said, “I should s’pose, Mrs. Black,Your little girl wonders why don’t you come back.”That’s all that I spoke, every ‘dentical word;But she said, “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”I guess that’s a proverb, so maybe ‘tis true;But, if people won’t see, what can little girls do?My mamma looked queer, but that ended the call,And we went to the Dollies’ Bazaar, after all.
Bertie had the desire of his heart,—a corn-popper! He had wanted it for a long time,—three weeks, at least. Mamma brought it when she came home from the city, and gave it to him for his very own. A bushel of corn, ready popped, would not have been half so good. There was all the delight of popping in store for the long winter evenings.
Bertie could hardly wait to eat his supper before he tried his corn-popper. It proved to be a very good one. He popped corn that evening, and the next, and the next. He fed all the family, gave some to all his playmates, and carried a bag of pop-corn to school for his teacher.
Trip, the shaggy, little, yellow dog, came in for a share, and Mintie too. Who or what was Mintie?
Mintie was a bantam biddy, very small, white as snow, and very pretty. She had been left an orphan chick, and for a while kept in the house, near the kitchen fire. She had been Bertie’s especial charge, and he fed and tended her faithfully.
As she grew older she would rove about with the larger hens, but was very tame, and always liked the house. She would come in very often. When Bertie happened to pop corn in the daytime she was pretty apt to be around, and pick up the kernels he threw to her.
One night he left his corn-popper on the kitchen table. It was open, and two or three small kernels were still in it.
Early next morning, long before Bertie was dressed, Mintie came into the kitchen. She flew up on the table, and helped herself to the corn in the popper. The girl was busy getting breakfast, and did not mind much about her. Presently she went down cellar, and Mintie had the room to herself.
When Bertie came down to breakfast there was a white egg in the corn-popper! It was so small that it looked almost like a bird’s; but it was Mintie’s first egg.
Bertie clapped his hands; he was very much pleased.
“Mamma! mamma!” he shouted. “See this pretty egg! Mintie put it into my popper, and must have meant to give it to me.”
And mamma said, “Very likely she did.”
Where is it? Where is it? Why, it is in the water! Isn’t that funny? But you see it isn’t a real fire, but only a fire-fish. [*] Sweet creature, isn’t he? Suppose you were a little, innocent mermaid, swimming alone for the first time; how would you feel if you were to meet this fellow darting towards you with his great red mouth open? Why, you would scream with fright, and swim to your mother as fast as you could, and catch hold of her tail for protection. At least, that is what I should do if I were a mermaid. But Mrs. Mermaid won’t tell you that the fire-fish will not hurt you unless you hurt him first, in which case he will prick you dreadfully with his long, sharp spines.
* Project Gutenberg ed. note: The picture is of a fish alsoknown as a scorpionfish.
I never see his picture without thinking of a red Indian in his warpaint and feathers. Perhaps—who knows?-perhaps when Indians are greedy, and eat too much fish, they may turn into fire-fish, and have to swim about forever under water, and never see a green forest again. If you are an Indian I advise you to be careful, my dear.
Nobody knows why this fish has such enormous, wing-like fins. Wise men used to think that he could raise himself out of the water with them, like the flying-fish; but it is now proved that he cannot, and there seems to be no reason why a set of plain, small fins would not serve him just as well for swimming. He prefers warm water to cold; so he lives in the tropical seas, swimming about the coasts of India, Africa, and Australia. The natives of Ceylon call him Gini-maha, and they think he is very good to eat. They take great care in catching him, for they are very much afraid of him, thinking that his sharp spines are poisoned, and can inflict a deadly wound. But in this they are too hard upon the fellow. He can prick them deeply and painfully, and he will if they meddle with him; but he is a perfectly respectable fish, and would not think of such a cowardly thing as poisoning anybody.
“Mamma,” little Nellie asked, “is it right to give away things that have been given to you?”
Her mamma replied that it might be quite right sometimes; and she said, “But I should feel sorry if I had made a little friend a present she did not value, and so was glad to part with it.”
“O mamma!” said Nellie, “you know how I value my dollies, every one, that my dear aunts and cousins sent me because I was sick. Now I am well again. To-morrow is New-Year’s. Some sick little girls in the hospital want dollies. Could I, if I knew which one to choose, keep only one for myself, and send the whole five of them for those poor children who haven’t any?”
Her mamma liked the plan. She gave Nellie a box, and Nellie began kissing her babies, and laying them, one after another, in the box.
There were two of nearly the same size, that were very dear to this little mother. She called them twins. They wore white frocks and blue kid boots. They had real blonde hair and their eyes would open and shut.
These lovely twins Nellie held in her arms a long time before she could decide which to part with. When she did place one in the box, to be her own no more, a tear was on the doll’s cheek. I do not think the drop came from dolly’s eye.
A few days after the dolls were given Nellie’s mamma let her invite three little girls to play with her. Each girl brought her Christmas or her New-Year’s doll; and the three dolls, with Nellie’s, looked sweetly sitting together in a row.
By and by Nellie’s mamma came to her room, which she had given to the party for its use that afternoon. She told the children she would give them a little supper of cakes and pears and grapes, and it would be ready as soon as Biddy could bring the ice-cream from down street.
The smiling child-visitors gathered around the kind lady, saying, “We thank you, and we love you ever so much.”
Nellie said softly, “Mamma dear, I wouldn’t take my dollies back if I could. I love to think they amuse the sick children. But I do wish that for just a minute we had as many at this party.”
Her mamma turned to her dressing-case. It stood low enough for the smallest child to look into the mirror at the back easily. Moving off the toilet cushions and cologne-bottles, the lady put the four dolls in front of the looking-glass. Their reflection in the glass showed four more.
“Six, seven, eight,” cried the girls, delighted. “And all are twins—four pairs of twins!”
After supper they made, the twins sit, and stand, and dance, bow and shake hands, before the looking-glass. So they played till dusk, when the other little girls’ mammas sent to take them home, after kissing Nellie good-night.
Mamma Miller told Fay and Lonnie that they might have a party, so they tried to get ready for it. But the party was very different to what they expected. It always happens so about everything, if we pay no regard to one another’s wishes.
Mrs. Miller said they might invite ten children.
“You write to five little girls, Fay,” said she, “and Lonnie will write to the five little boys.”
So they went into the library. Lonnie sat down in papa’s big chair, while Fay climbed up on one arm, close beside him, and they tried to think whom they would like to come to their party.
“Make out your list first,” said Lonnie. Fay did, and her brother agreed to all the girls. But as soon as Lonnie commenced writing his names, Fay began to find fault.
“I don’t like boys, anyway,” said Fay, “only you, Lonnie. Let’s have all girls at our party.”
“But it won’t be my party,” said Lonnie, “if you have all girls.”
“I don’t care, all those are horrid,” pointing to his paper.
“You say that because you don’t like boys.” And then he told his sister that every little fellow whose name he had written was just as good as gold. And so they were just as good as Lonnie Miller, and he was one of the best boys that ever lived, so everybody said.
“I sha’n’t play with him if he comes,” Fay kept saying to every name Lonnie wrote.
“You can have your party,” said Lonnie, getting up out of the easy-chair and sitting down in a smaller one, “you and your girls. I’m going to learn some new pieces,” taking up his little silver blower.
“I don’t like boys,” Fay kept saying, jumping down off the arm of the chair, and aiming a blow at the spot where her brother had sat with the rustic stick their sister Lucia had brought home May Day.
Lucia was passing the door just then, so she thought she would see what all the noise was about.
“I’d better call you to lunch,” said she, and there they were just through breakfast.
Mamma herself came hurrying in at sound of the bell. When they told her about the invitations, she said, “I shall not let you have any party at all, now.”
“What makes you change your mind?” said Fay.
“Mamma will give her little girl just one week to find out why she has changed her mind,” said Mrs. Miller.
And for all Fay’s coaxing, she could not be persuaded to stay a minute longer.
Clara was the most unfortunate of dollies. She had had the mumps and whooping cough; and no sooner did she recover from the scarlet fever than she contracted pneumonia and nearly died. One morning Blanche was applying hot bandages to relieve bronchitis, and before night Clara had the small-pox.
The next day mamma stopped at the nursery door.
“Good morning, little nurse,” she said; “how is poor Clara this morning?”
“She’s DEADED,” said Blanche, with a long face.
“Dreadful! What did she die of, small-pox? It seems to me that that was what she was suffering from last evening.”
“No’m’” said Blanche, “‘twasn’t small-pox. She DID have that bad; but I think she DIED of measles. The SUNERAL (Blanche could not say ‘funeral’) is to be at twelve sharp. Will you come, mamma?”
“I’m so sorry, darling, but I must go to lunch with Mrs. Mathews at one. But Jack will go.”
The “suneral” took place at noon, and Blanche and Daisy, Jack and old Hector followed poor Clara in Benny’s wagon to the grave yard at the bottom of the orchard. It was rather a jolly “suneral,” for they had “refreshments” under the trees afterward.
In the afternoon, as mamma, came up the orchard path, she was surprised to see a doll’s foot and leg sticking straight up out of the ground.
“Why did you leave her foot out in this way?” asked mamma.
“Well,” said Blanche, “I thought perhaps she could get to Heaven easier.”
Little darling of the snow,Careless how the winds may blow,Happy as a bird can be,Singing, oh, so cheerily,Chickadee-dee! Chickadee-dee!When the skies are cold and gray,When he trills his happiest lay,Through the clouds he seems to seeHidden things to you and me.Chickadee-dee! chickadee-dee!Very likely little birdsHave their thoughts too deep for word,But we know, and all agree,That the world would dreary beWithout birds, dear chickadee!
What a merry, merry rout!See the wee ones dance about!Dickie’s leading off the ball;There,—he almost had a fall.Who’s his partner in the whirls,—Rosiest of all the girls?But a doll—a DOLL you say;Dancing in that sprightly way?Well I never! Oh, see there,See—just see those horses tear!Meg and Madge will sure be thrown.What a vicious looking roan!Not a real live horse you say,Prancing in that frightful way?Well, I never! Toys to-daySurely seem more “real” than “play.”
There were once two very beautiful cats named Tomasso and Lilia. It would be very hard indeed to say which was more beautiful than the other, Tomasso the husband, or Lilia his wife.
They were about the same size, although, perhaps, Tomasso was a little the stouter of the two. There could be no question that at times the expression of his face was decidedly more fierce than that of his gentle wife.
The fur of each of them was as white as the driven snow, and as soft, and fine, and glossy as the most perfect silk gloss.
Add to these natural charms the fact that they always kept themselves beautifully clean, and always wore round their necks cravats made of the richest satin ribbon, and I am sure you will agree with me in thinking that they were cats of very high degree.
Their neighbors considered them extremely proud and haughty. They never were known to play with any of the cats in their street. To be with each other was all they asked. Sometimes these neighbors took a great deal of pains to get a glimpse of Tomasso and Lilia as, paw in paw, they danced a minuet together.
Even the most grumpy grimalkin declared it was a beautiful sight. There was no doubt the young couple was very graceful and their manners were perfect. Then he said that cats brought up as Tomasso and his wife had always lived, OUGHT to be amiable and beautiful. He understood that a jar of Orange County cream was ordered for them every day. Then he muttered something which sounded very much as if he thought Tomasso would be not over courageous in a moment of danger. “Alone, white tail is all very fine,” said he, “but mark my word, at a sudden fright it would turn into a white feather. I should pity his wife if she had no one but him to protect her.”
Now it happened that that very afternoon Tomasso’s courage was put to the test. As he and Lilia were taking a quiet walk, suddenly a huge dog rushed out at them. In an instant Tomasso placed himself across Lilia’s trembling body. She had fallen to the ground in terror. The great dog made a jump at Tomasso, but was met with such a snarl, and then such a blow from a set of sharp claws that he ran away howling.
That night the news of Tomasso’s bravery spread through the whole neighborhood. But he was very quiet and modest. His proud wife was much disturbed at a bad scratch Tomasso had received in the struggle. They both examined it carefully with the aid of a hand-glass.
“I hope it will not leave a scar,” said Lilia, “but if it does it will only be a proof of the noble courage of my brave Tomasso.”
Tommy Frost was making his first visit in the country. He was enjoying it very much. He liked to ramble about in the woods close by the house of his aunt, Mrs. Drew. Tommy had never even seen any birds before this, but pigeons and sparrows. That is, any birds out of cages. He had lived all his short life in the centre of a great city. He wanted very much to see a wild animal. He had heard Mr. Drew and some of his friends talking about “bear tracks” in the woods. Mr. Drew said they must go off some day and hunt for that bear.
Now Tommy had no idea what a bear was like. He wished very much that he might see one. Every day he said to himself, “If I could only find the one the big men were talking about I’d feel proud.” One day as he was strolling about, he suddenly saw something moving in one of the trees. He stopped, and looked up excitedly, then he rushed for the house screaming at the top of his voice, “Aunt Maria! Aunt Maria! come quick, I’ve seen it, it’s in the woods.”
“What is in the woods?” asked Mrs. Drew.
“The bear!” cried Tommy.
“The bear?” repeated Mrs. Drew, hardly understanding.
Then she drew a long breath and turned very white as she stood a moment shielding her eyes from the sun, looking in the direction in which Tommy pointed. Then she ran back into the house, and came out in a moment, bringing with her a huge horn. It was a megaphone. She was trembling so she could scarcely lift it, but she managed to raise it to her mouth and call through it. “John! Murray! come! come this instant! The bear is in the woods back of the house.”
In a few moments her husband and brother came running from the field where they were at work.
They stopped for no questions, but rushed into the house for their guns. But as they came out Mr. Drew asked, “Who saw it? When, where?”
“I did,” said Tommy, not a bit frightened, but feeling very excited and proud. “I did, back there in a tree.”
“In a tree?” cried Mrs. Drew’s brother, stopping in his quick run for the woods.
“Yes,” said Tommy, “it was a bear, but it looked,—it LOOKED just like my picture of a wiggle-tail.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Drew, as she sank on the door-step, “the child has seen a gray squirrel!”
One little head so smooth and round,With soft hair covered, golden or brown,One little forehead smooth and white,Two little eye-brows dark or light.Two little eyes that we see through.See us looking, now, at you?Two little cheeks so plump and round,Where the red rose of health is found.Two little ears where sound comes in;One little nose and mouth and chin.Rows of little teeth all in white;Ready for use when lunch is in sight.One little tongue kind words to say—Bright little smiles which round them play.One little head where all are seen.One little neck which stands betweenHead and shoulders to hold them fast.Now are we ready to find, at last,One little body with arms and handsTwo legs and two feet on which it stands.