Page 84—Play Land

Page 84—Play LandOur Playhouse Coach.Little SailorsNow, Harry, pull the chairs up,And, Fanny, get the shawl;We'll play that we are sailors,And that we're in a squall.The fire will be a lighthouse,To warn us off the shore;And we will place the footstoolsFor rocks, out on the floor.Now this chair is the sternAnd that one is the bow;But there, you must be careful,And not lean hard, you know.Now, sailors, pull that sail up,And tuck the corners in—Well if you want it tighter,Ask mother for a pin.Now couldn't we sing somethingAbout the "Ocean Blue"?Well, never mind, "By-baby"Or anything will do.Take care, you careless sailors,And mind what you are about,You know the sea will drown you,If you should tumble out.Brother PlayingUp and down the play-room,Then behind the door,Now upon the sofa,Now upon the floor.In below the table,Round the big arm-chair,Goes my little brother,Crying "Are you there?"And when brother sees me,Then away I run;And he follows after,Merry with the fun.So at hide and seek we play.And pass the happy hours away.Girls and Boys, Come Out to PlayGirls and boys,Come out to play,The sun is shiningAway, away.Into the meadowOver the way,Tumbling and tossingThe new-mown hay.Into the hedgerowPicking the May;Over the hillsAnd far away.Down by the brookWhere the ripples play,Whirling and windingTheir silvery way,Then home againBy a different way,Picking an armfulOf wildflowers gay.For mother dearTo gladden her way,And wake in her heartA cheerful lay.For every leafHas it's sunny ray;All nature is happyAnd seems to say:Girls and boys,Come out to play.The sun is shiningAway, away.Two Merry MenTwo merry men,One summer day,Forsook their toys,And forgot their play.Two little faces,Full of fun,Two little heartsThat beat as one.Four little hands,At work with a will,Four little legsThat can't keep still.For labour is sweet,And toil is fun,When mother wantsAny work to be done.Mud PiesTell me little ladies,Playing in the sun,How many minutesTill the baking's done?Susy gets the flour,All of golden dust;Harry builds the oven,Lily rolls the crust.Pat it here, and pat it there;What a dainty size!Bake it on a shelf of stone,Nice mud pies!Now we want a shower—For we need it so—It would make a roadside,Such a heap of dough.Turn them in, and turn them out,How the morning flies!Ring the bell for dinner—Hot mud pies!The Playful GirlI know a little girl,Who is very fond of play:And if her ma would let her,Would do nothing else all day.She has a little doll,And another one quite large.She plays she has a little home,And house cares to discharge.But when her mamma calls her,Some real work to do,She does not like to leave her play,And pouts till she is through.Hay MakingIn the hay, in the hay,Toss we and tumble;No one to say us nay,All through this Summer's day!No one to grumble.In the hat, in the hay,Arthur we'll smother;Bring armfuls, heap them high,Pile them up—now good-bye,Poor little brother!In the hay, in the hay,Snugly reclining,Shaded from the noontide heat,Smelling the clover sweet,See us all dining;While the haymakers sitUnder the willows,Each with his bread and cheeseSpread out upon his knees,Hay for their pillows.Hark! how the laugh and chat,Happy, light hearted!Now to their work they go,Raking up one long row,Fit to be carted.Now comes the wagon near,Quickly they're loading;Rake away! rake away!While it's fine make the hay—Rain is foreboding.Now that the sunset raySays the day's over,Homeward we make our way,In the cart strewn with hay,Smelling of clover.Mrs. HawtreyAmerican Indian Boys at Play.Previous-Index-NextPage 85—Play LandThomas Mending his Bat.My Dog and I Dancing.Johnny the Stout"Ho! for a frolic!"Said Johnny the stout;"There's coasting and sledding;I'm going out."Scarcely had JohnnyPlunged in the snow,When there came a complaintUp from his toe:"We're cold" said the toe,"I and the rest;There's ten of us freezing,Standing abreast."Then up spoke an ear;"My, but it's labor—Playing in winter. Eh!Opposite neighbour!""Pooh!" said his nose,Angry and red;"Who wants to tingle?Go home to bed!"Eight little fingers,Four to a thumb,All cried together—"Johnny, we're numb!"But Johnny the stoutWouldn't listen a minute;Never a snow-bankBut Johnny was in it.Tumbling and jumping,Shouting with glee,Wading the snow-driftsUp to his knee.Soon he forgot them,Fingers and toes,Never once thought ofThe ear and the nose.Ah! What a frolic!All in a glow,Johnny grew warmerOut in the snow.Often his breathingCame with a joke;"Blaze away, Johnny!I'll do the smoke.""And I'll do the fire,"Said Johnny the bold."Fun is the fuelFor driving off cold."Going to dig Sand.Sorry He Played.Previous-Index-NextPage 86—Play LandOur Lamb Playing Tennis.Our Puss Blowing Bubbles.Training TimeSupper is over,Now for fun,This is the seasonChildren must run;Papa is reading;Says, of these boys;"Pray did you everHear such a noise?"Riding on "camels"Over the floor,See, one's a squirrelClimbing the door;There goes the babyFlat on his nose,Brother was tryingTo tickle his toes.Little he minds it,Though he would cry,Changed it to laughterAs Lyn galloped by;Order is nowhere,Fun is the rule;Think, they are childrenJust out of school.Home is their palace;They are the kingsLet them be masters,Of just a few things;Only one short hourOut of all day,Give them full freedom;Join in their play.Do not be angryDo not forgetYou liked to make noiseSometimes do yet;Home will be sweeterTill life is doneIf you will give themAn hour of fun.Our Puss Playing Cricket.Our Frogs Playing Cricket.Previous-Index-NextPage 87—Play LandPlaytimePlay-time, play-time, hurrah!Out in the fields together!Don't let us lose a moment's time,This fine, bright, glorious weather.Run, boys! Run, boys! faster!Ball and the bats for cricket;Jack, you're the fastest runner here,Be off, and pitch the wicket.Football for those who choose—The goal stick—go, Jim, fix it;Give us the ball; who's won the toss?Now, for the first who kicks it.No lazy ones today;Off, stretch your legs running!Now for the hip, hip, hip, hurrah!And let the noise be stunning.Hear how it echoes round!Another and another!No fear of noise, it won't disturbOld granny and poor mother.Hullo there! no foul play!Dick, what is that you're saying?No bad words and no cruel sport;We're come for fun and playing.RompingWhy now, my dear boys, this is always the way,You can't be contented with innocent play;But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,Is never left off till it ends in a cry.What! are there no games you can take a delight in,But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting?It is a sad thing to be forced to concludeThat boys can't be merry, without being rude.Now what is the reason you never can playWithout snatching each other's playthings away?Would it be any hardship to let them alone,When every one of you has toys of his own?I often have told you before, my dear boys,That I do not object to your making a noise;Or running and jumping about, anyhow,But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word,I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball,And not let you play with each other at all.Nurse's SongWhen the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still."Then come home my children, the sun is gone downAnd the dews of the night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,Till the morning appears in the skies.""No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are covered with sheep.""Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed,And all the hills echoed.W. BlakeOur See-Saw.Our Owls See-Sawing.Our Pigs See-Sawing.Previous-Index-NextPage 88—Play LandSwingingHere we go on the garden swing,Under the chestnut tree.Up in the branches birdies singSongs to Baby and me,Baby and Kitty and me.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.Up to the clustering leaves we go,Down we sweep to the grass,Touching the daisies there below,Bowing to let us pass,Smiling to us as we pass.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.SkatingOne day it chanced that Miss Maud did meetThe poet's little son,"I'm going skating, Sir," she said;"And so am I," said John."If you can skate and I can skate,Why let me skate with you,We'll go the whole world round and round,And skate the whole year through."They skated left, and skated right,Miss Maud and little John,That is—as long as there was iceFor them to skate upon.And then they did unstrap their skatesLike other girls and men,And never used them once—untilThey put them on again!The Skipping RopeLessons now at last are over,Books and slates are put away;Hymns attentively repeated,Copy without a blot completed,Now's the time for fun and play.Lessons done with cheerful spiritBring the sure reward of merit,Smiling face and heart so gay;In this bright and smiling weather,Merrily they all together,With the skipping rope will play;And if only Tom and PollyWill come too, it will be jolly!Here they are now, foot it lightly,Hand in hand they skip so sprightly,Bees are humming,Summer's coming.Birds are singing as they're bringingTwigs from many a distant tree;Lined with down, and moss, and feather,Where they'll sit and chirp together,Oh! how snug those homes will be!O'er the ropes so lightly skipping,O'er the grass so lightly tripping,The children are as glads as they.Lessons are done with cheerful spirit,Bring the sure reward of merit;And remember, too, that theyWho work hardest day by day,Always most enjoy their play.Our Piggy Swinging.Our Kangaroos Jumping.Our Kangaroos Skipping.Previous-Index-NextPage 89—Play LandThe Baby's DebutMy brother Jack was nine in May,And I was eight on New Year's day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang with might and main,It's head against the parlor door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot.Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury-lane for you to-day!"And while papa said "Pooh, she may!"Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to Pentonville,Stood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While molly mopp'd it with a mop,And brush'd it with a broom.My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise among the flags,And leaves me where I am.My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.Let the Child PlayHe who checks a child with terror,Stops its play and stills its song,Not alone commits an errorBut a great and grievous wrong.Give it play, and never fear it;Active life is no defect.Never, never break its spirit;Curb it only to direct.Would you stop the flowing river,Thinking it would cease to flow?Onward in must flow forever;Better teach it where to go.Our Pussies' Fan Dance.Our Dog Dance.Our Round Dance.Previous-Index-NextPage 90—Reading LandOur Pussies Reading Childland.Our Monkey Learning From Childland.Reading"And so you do not like to spell,Mary, my dear, oh, very well:'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say,And you had rather be at play."Then bring me all your books again;Nay, Mary, why do you complain?For as you do not choose to read,You shall not have your books, indeed."So, as you wish to be a dunce,Pray go and fetch me them at once;For if you will not learn to spell,'Tis vain to think of reading well."Do you not think you'll blush to ownWhen you become a woman grown,Without one good excuse to plead,That you have never learnt to read?""Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then,"Do let me have my books again;I'll not fret any more indeed,If you will let me learn to read."Jane TaylorMrs Grammar's BallMrs Grammar once gave a fine ballTo the nine different parts of our speech;To the short and the tall,To the stout and the small,There were pies, plums and puddings for each.And first little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—FatA,An, andThe;But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.The Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand,Rough,rougherandroughest,Tough,tougherandtoughest,Fat,merry,good-naturedandgrand.The Nouns were indeed on their way,Tens of thousands, and more, I should think;For each name we could utter,Shop,shoulder, orshutter,Is a noun:lady,lionorlink.The Pronouns were hastening fastTo push the Nouns out of their places:I,thou,he, andshe,You,it,they, andwe,With their sprightly intelligent faces.Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs!A great crowd is coming in view!"Tolightand tosmile,Tofightand tobite,Tobe, and tohave, and todo.The Adverbs attended on the Verbs,Behind as their footmen they ran;As this, "to fightbadly,"And "runaway gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.Prepositions camein,by, andnear;With Conjunctions, a wee little band,Aseitheryouorhe,ButneitherInorshe;They held their great friends by the hand.Then, too, with ahip,hip,hurrah!Rushed in Interjections uproarious;Dear me!well-a-day!When they saw the display,"Ha! Ha!" they all shouted out, "glorious!"But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feasting pleased each,Pounced on them at onceA monster—a Dunce!And confounded the nine parts of speech!Help! friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Verb and Article call;Oh! give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!Grammar In RhymeThree little words we often see,And Article,a,an,the.Noun's the name of anything,Asschoolorgarden,hooporstring.Adjective tells the kind of noun,Asgreat,small,pretty,whiteorbrown.Instead of nouns, the Pronoun standJohn's head,hisface,myarm,yourhand.Verbs tell us of something being done,Toread,write,count,sing,jump, orrun.How things are done, the Adverbs tell,Asslowly,quickly,ill, orwell.A Preposition stands beforeA noun, asinorthrougha door.Conjunctions join the nouns togetheras menandchildren, windandweather.The Interjection shows surprise,AsOh, how pretty!Ah, how wise!The whole are called nine parts of speech,Which reading, writing, speaking teach.Value of ReadingThe poor wretch who digs the mine for bread,Or ploughs so that others may be fed,—Feels less fatigue, than that decreedTo him that cannot think or read!Hannah MorePrevious-Index-NextPage 91—Reading LandOur Dogs Reading Childland.Our Rook Reading Childland.Our Rabbit Reading Childland.Our Storks Reading Childland.Previous-Index-NextPage 92—Writing LandLittle Flo Writing Letter.Little Flo's LetterA sweet little baby brotherHad come to live with Flo,And she wanted it brought to the table,That it might eat and grow."It must wait a while," said grandma,In answer to her plea,"For a little thing that hasn't teethCan't eat like you and me.""Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?"Asked Flo in great surprise,"O my, but isn't it funny?—No teeth, but nose and eyes."I guess," after thinking gravely,They must have been forgot.Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?I'd like to know why not."That afternoon, to the corner,With paper, and pen, and ink,Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me;If you do, it'll 'sturb my think.I'm writing a letter, grandma,To send away to-night,An' 'cause it's very 'portant,I want to get it right."At last the letter was finished,A wonderful thing to see,And directed to "God, in Heaven."Please read it over to me,"Said little Flo to her grandma,"To see if it's right, you know."And here is the letter writtenTo God by little Flo:—"Dear God: The baby you brought usIs awful nice and sweet,But 'cause you forgot his tooffiesThe poor little thing can't eat.That's why I'm writing this letter,A purpose to let you know.Please come and finish the baby,That's all—From Little Flo."Eben. E. RexfordExercise Makes PerfectTrue ease in writingComes from art, not chance,As those move easiestWho have learned to dance.PopeHurrah for the PostmanHurrah for the postmanWho brings us the news!What a lot it must takeTo pay for his shoes.For he walks many milesEach day of the week,And though he would like to,Must not stay to speak.Red stripes round his blue cap,With clothing to match it;If he lost any letters,Oh, wouldn't he catch it!Two LettersFIRSTDear Grandmamma—I write to say(And you'll be glad, I know,)That I am coming, Saturday,To spend a week or so.I'm coming, too, without mamma,You know I'm eight years old!And you shall see how good I'll be,To do as I am told.I'll help you lots about your word—There's so much I can do—I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs,And feed the chickens, too.And maybe I will be so goodYou'll keep me there till fall;Or, better still, perhaps you'll sayI can't go home at all!Now grandmamma, please don't forgetTo meet me at the train,For I'll be sure to come—unlessIt should cloud up and rain!SECONDDear Mamma—Please put on your things,And take the next express;I want to go back home again—I'm very sick, I guess!My grandma's very good to me,But grandma isn't you;And I forgot, when I came here,I'd got to sleep here, too!Last night I cried myself to sleep,I wanted you so bad!To day, I cannot play or eat,I feel so very sad.Please, mamma, come, for I don't seeHow I can bear to wait!You'll find me, with my hat and sackOut by the garden gate.And grandma will not care a bitIf you should come, I know;Because I am your own little girl,And I do love you so.Nell's LetterDear Grandmamma, I will try to writeA very little letter;If I don't spell the words all right,Why next time I'll do better.My little rabbit is alive,And likes his milk and clover,He likes to se me very much,But is afraid of Rover.I have a dove as white as snow,I hall her "Polly Feather";She flies and hops about the yard,In every kind of weather.The hens are picking off the grass,And singing very loudly;While our old peacock struts about,And shows his feathers proudly.I think I'll close my letter now,I've nothing more to tell;Please answer soon, and come to seeYour loving, little Nell.Baby's Letter to UncleDear Old Uncle—I dot oor letter;My dear mamma, she ditten better;She every day a little bit stronger,Don't mean to be sick very much longer.Dear little baby had a bad colic;Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic.Toot a dose of tatnip—felt worse as ever;Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad;Worse fit of sickness ever I had!Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill?Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.I used to sleep all day, and cry all night;Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite.Got a head of hair jess as black as nightAnd big boo eyes, yat look very bright.My mamma say, never did seeAny ozzer baby half as sweet as me.Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too;Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all,Aunties and cousins, big folks and small.Can't say any more, so dood by—Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!The First Letter"Did you ever get a letter?I did the other day.It was in a real envelope,And it came a long, long way.A stamp was in the cornerAnd some printing when it came,And the one that wrote the letterHad put 'Miss' before my name.Then there came a lot more written,I forget now what it read,But it told the office peopleWhere I lived, mamma said.Don't you s'pose those letter-persons,If they hadn't just been told,Would have thought 'twas for a ladyWho was awful, awful old?For it looked real big and heavy,The outside was stuck with glue,So they couldn't know I'm little,I don't think they could. Do you?"Youth's CompanionPrevious-Index-NextPage 93—Writing LandI'm Going to Write to PapaI'm going to write to papa,I guess he'd like to hearWhat his little girl is doing,The same as when he is near;I'll tell him how I miss him,And how I'd wish he'd come,And never, never, leave us,But always stay at home.I'll tell him 'bout my dolly,She's sleeping on the floor,I fear that noise will wake her,Oh! please don't slam the door.For I must not be bothered,That's just what ma would say,When she begins a letter,And sends me off to play.I'll send him lots of kisses,And one bright shining curl,I'll ask him to rememberHis lonely little girl;I want so much to see him,But I won't cry a wink,Cause when I write my letter,The tears would blot my ink.I'm going to write to papa,And oh! how glad he'll be.To get a little letterThat was written all by me.Old LettersI gaze upon ye, once again,Old records of the past,And o'er the dim and faded linesMy tears are falling fast;I deem'd not there was a power yet,In these few simple words,To stir within my quiet heartSuch old familiar chords.Ye bring me back mine early dreams—Oh, but to dream them now,With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,And pure unsadden'd brow!The loved—the lost—the changed—The dead—all these we conjure up,And mingled in the draughtThat lies in memory's magic cup.Old letters—sad mementoes ye,Of friendship's shatter'd chain,Oh! that the hand these pages traced,My own might clasp again.They tell me yet of early love,Of feelings glad and gay,Of childhood's April hopes and fears—The writers, where are they?Time's changes are for deeper thingsThan folly's vain pursuit,Spring blossoms fade, to leave a placeFor autumn's ripen'd fruit.Look back upon the buried past,But not with vain regret,Be grateful for the many joysThat bloom around thee yet.Bend heavenward thine onward course,That years of coming ageMay leave an impress in life's book,Pure as its opening page!Papa's LetterI was sitting in my study,Writing letters, when I heard:"Please, dear mamma, Mary told meThat you mustn't be disturbed.But I'se tired of the kitty,Want some ozzer thing to do.Writing letters is 'ou mamma?Tan't I write a letter, too?""Not now, darling, mamma's busy;Run and play with kitty now.""No—no mamma; me wite letter,Ten you will show me how."I would paint my darling's portrait,As his sweet eyes searched my face—Hair of gold and eyes of azure,Form of childish witching grace.But the eager face was clouded,As I slowly shook my head,Till I said: "I'll make a letter,Of you, darling boy, instead."So I parted back the tressesFrom his forehead high and white,And a stamp in sport I pasted,'Mid its waves of golden light.Then I said: "Now, little letter,Go away and bear good news,"And I smiled as down the staircaseClattered loud the little shoes.Leaving me, the darling hurriedDown to Mary in his glee:"Mamma's witting lots of letters;I'se a letter, Mary, see."No one heard the little prattler,As once more he climbed the stair.Reached his little cap and tippet,Standing on the table there.No one heard the front door open,No one saw the golden hair,As it floated o'er his shouldersOn the crisp October air.Down the street the baby hastened,Till he reached the office door:"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,Is there room for any more?'Cause this letter's going to papa;Papa lives with God, 'ou know:Mamma sent me for a letter;Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"But the clerk in wonder answered,"Not to-day, my little man;""Den I'll find anozzer office,'Cause I must go if I tan."Fain the clerk would have detained him,But the pleading face was gone,And the little feet were hastening,By the busy crowd swept on.Suddenly the crowd was parted,People fled to left and right,As a pair of maddened horsesAt that moment dashed in sight.No one saw the baby figure,No one saw the golden hair,Till a voice of frightened sweetnessRang out on the autumn air.'Twas too late: a moment onlyStood the beauteous vision there:Then the little face lay lifelessCovered o'er with golden hair.Rev'rently they raised my darling,Brushed away the curls of gold,Saw the stamp upon the foreheadGrowing now so icy cold.Not a mark left the face disfigured,Showing where a hoof had trod;But the little life was ended—"Papa's letter" was with God.Bessie's LetterI have got a letter,A letter of my own,It has my name upon it,Miss Bessie L. Stone.My papa sent it to me,He's away from home—you seeI guess the postman wonderedWho Bessie Stone could be.I'd like to send an answer,But I don't know how to spell;I'll get mamma to do it,And that will do as well.A Little Boy's ValentineLittle girl across the way,You are so very sweet,I shouldn't be a bit surprisedIf you were good to eat.Now what I'd like if you would too,Would be to go and play—Well, all the time, and all my life,On your side of the way.I don't know anybody yetOn your side of the street,But often I look over thereAnd watch you—you're so sweet.When I am big, I tell you what,I don't care what they say,I'll go across—and stay there, too,On your side of the way.Letter WritingHeaven first taught lettersFor some wretch's aid,Some banish'd lover,Or some captive maid.They live, they speak,They breathe what love inspires,Warm from the soul,And faithful to its fires;The virgin's wishWithout her fears impart,Excuse the blush,And pour out all the heart—Speed the soft intercourseFrom soul to soul,And waft a sighFrom Indus to the pole.Boil it DownWhatever you have to say my friend,Whether witty, grave, or gay,Condense as much as ever you can,And that is the readiest way;And whether you write of rural affairs,Or particular things in town,Just take a word of friendly advice—"Boil it down."Letters from HomeLetters from home! How musical to the earOf the sailor-boy on the far-off main,When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,Across the billow floats the gentle strain,The words the tear-drops of his memory move;They tell a mother's or a sister's love;And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him comeOut to him on the sea, in letters from his home.How warmly there the tender home-light shines!What household music lives in those dear tender lines.Previous-Index-NextPage 94—Writing LandPolly's Letter to Brother BenDear Brother Ben,I take my penTo tell you where,And how, and when,I found the nestOf our speckled hen.She would never lay,In a sensible way,Like other hens,In the barn or the hay;But here and thereAnd everywhere,On the stable floor,And the wood-house stair,And once on the groundHer eggs I found.But yesterdayI ran away,With mother's leave,In the barn to play.The sun shone brightOn the seedy floor,And the doves so whiteWere a pretty sightAs they walked in and outOf the open door,With their little red feetAnd their features neat,Cooing and cooingMore and more.Well, I went outTo look aboutOn the platform wide,Where side by sideI could see the pig-pensIn their pride;And beyond them both,On a narrow shelf,I saw the speckled henHide herselfBehind a pileOf hoes and rakesAnd pieces of boardsAnd broken stakes."Ah! ha! old hen,I have found you now,But to reach your nestI don't know how,Unless I could creepOr climb or crawlAlong the edgeOf the pig-pen wall."And while I stoodIn a thoughtful meed,The speckled hen cackledAs loud as she could,And flew away,As much as to say,"For once my treasureIs out of your way."I did not waitA moment then:I couldn't be conqueredBy that old hen!But along the edgeOf the slippery ledgeI carefully crept,For the great pigs slept,And I dared noteven look to seeIf they were thinkingOf eating meBut all at once,Oh, what a dunce!I dropped my basketInto the pen,The one you gave me,Brother Ben;There were two eggs in it,By the way,That I found in the mangerUnder the hay.Then the pigs got upAnd ran aboutWith a noise betweenA grunt and a shout.And when I saw them,Rooting, rooting,Of course I slippedAnd lost my footing,And tripped,And jumped,And finally fellRight down amongThe pigs pell-mell.For once in my lifeI was afraid;For the door that ledOut to the shedWas fastened tightWith and iron hook,And father was downIn the fields by the brook,Hoeing and weedingHis rows of corn,And here was his PollySo scared and forlorn,But I called him, and called him,As loud as I could.I knew he would hear me—He must and he should."O father! O father!(Get out, you old pig).O father! oh! oh!"For their mouths are so big.Then I waited a minuteAnd called him again,"O father! O father!I am in the pig pen!"And father did hear,And he threw down his hoe,And scampered as fastAs a father could go.The pigs had pushed meClose to the wall,And munched my basket,Eggs and all,And chewed my sun-bonnetInto a ball.And one had rubbedHis muddy noseAll over my apron,Clean and white;And they sniffed at me,And stepped on my toes,But hadn't takenThe smallest bite,When father openedThe door at last,And oh! in his armsHe held me fast.E. W. DenisonWritingLittle pens of metal,Little drops of ink,Make the wicked tremble,And the people think.Value of WritingBlest be that gracious powerWho taught mankindTo stamp a lasting imageOn the mind:Beasts may convey,And tuneful birds may singTheir mutual feelingsIn the opening spring;But man alone has skillAnd power to sendThe heart's warm dictatesTo the distant friend:Tis his also to please,Instruct, advise,Ages remote,And nations yet to rise.CrabbeUse the PenUse the pen! there's magic in it,Never let it lag behind;Write thy thought, the pen can win itFrom the chaos of the mind.Many a gem is lost foreverBy the careless passer-by,But the gems of thought should neverOn the mental pathway lie.Use the pen! reck not that othersTake a higher flight than thine.Many an ocean cave still smothersPearls of price beneath the brine.So thy words and thoughts securingHonest praise from wisdom's tongue,May, in time, be as enduringAs the strains which Homer sung.J. E. CarpenterPower of the PenBeneath the rule of men entirely great,The pen is mightier than the sword.Lord LyttonLettersSuch a little thing—a letter,Yet so much it may contain:Written thoughts and mute expressionsFull of pleasure, fraught with pain.When our hearts are sad at parting,Comes a gleam of comfort bright,In the mutual promise given:"We will not forget to write."Plans and doings of the absent;Scraps of news we like to hear,All remind us, e'en though distant,Kind remembrance keeps us near.Yet sometimes a single letterTurns the sunshine into shade;Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,Blights our hopes and makes them fade.Messengers of joy or sorrow,Life or death, success, despair,Bearers of affection's wishes,Greetings kind or loving prayer.Prayer or greeting, were we present,Would be felt, but half unsaid;We can write—because our letters—Not our faces—will be read?Who has not some treasured letters,Fragments choice of other's lives;Relics, some, of friends departed,Friends whose memory still survives?Touched by neither time nor distance,Will their words unspoken last?Voiceless whispers of the present,Silent echoes of the past!The Right Method of CompositionNever be in haste in writing:Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But onceBegun, work thou all things into thy work:And set thyself about it, as the seaAbout the earth, lashing it day and night:And leave the stamp of thine own soul in itAs thorough as the fossil flower in clay:The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.P. J. BaileyCat and Dog Sending Letters.Previous-Index-NextPage 95—Drawing LandOur Lady Artist.Our Gentleman Artist.The Sunday Fisherman: A story with Symbols.Drawing Pussy's Likeness.Working for a Prize.Previous-Index-NextPage 96—Drawing LandJust cast your beautiful, your sparkling,your penetrating, your discriminatingEyes.Over this page, and read, mark, learn,and inwardly digest its Contents.A Room Hung With Pictures Is A Room Hung WithThoughts.THE two greatest educating powers in the ancient world were Pictures and Poetry—the two greatest educating powers are pictures and poetry still, and pictures and poetry blended in an interesting manner is the intended educating feature of this PLEASANT-LEARNING-LAND, but my object in this place is to speak of pictures only, as perhaps the greatest of all educating powers, and to demonstrate that they are not sufficiently used for educational purposes. Firstly: pictures are in a universal language—when they are true to nature every person on the earth can understand them. Show a picture of a person or a bird, a horse or a house, a ship, a tree, or a landscape, and everyone knows what is meant, and this is why most of the peoples of the ancient world conveyed their ideas in picture language. FLETCHER, in hisCyclopedia of Education, says:— "It has long been accepted as an axiom that the best explanation of a thing is the sight and study of the thing itself, and the next best a true picture of the thing." DRYDEN, speaking of poetry and painting says:—"The poets are confined to narrow space,To speak the language of their native place;The painter widely stretches his command,His pencil speaks the tongue of every land."Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:—A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:—"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:—"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:—"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:—"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:—"His pictured morals mend the mind,And through the eye improve the heart."But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:—"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:— "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:—"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:—"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:— "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:—Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:—"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view,Reflects the image, and retains it too!Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face,Revives each look, and rivals every grace:In thee the banished lover finds relief,His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief:Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power,The father feels thee in affliction's hour;When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies.To take its angel station in the skies,The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair,And sheds a comfort, even in despair."Or—"The widow'd husband sees his sainted wifeIn pictures warm, and smiling as in life,—And—While he gazes with convulsive thrill,And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still,He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid,That half restores the substance in the shade."But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish—pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings—outside and inside if you like —but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive—so it would if they were costly pictures—but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:—"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:—"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:—Every cottage,Two-roomed cottage,Should contain fullTwenty PICTURES.Every cottage,Four-roomed cottage,Should contain fullForty PICTURES.Every cottage,Six-roomed cottage,Should contain fullSixty PICTURES.Every villa,Eight-roomed villa,Should contain fullEighty PICTURES.Every mansion,Ten-roomed mansion,Should contain aHundred PICTURES.Every large schoolFor instructionShould contain aTHOUSAND PICTURES.Walls are made toKeep out weatherAnd also toDisplay PICTURES.Count your PICTURESAll your walls on.See if you haveQuite the number,You will want moreYou will wish more,You will get moreShouldn't wonder.PICTURES they areMade to please you—First to please youWhen you buy them;Next to please yourOwn dear children,Pictures please andTeach them too.Next to please yourFriends and neighboursWhen they kindlyCall on you.They'll admire them,Then they'll praise them.Then that pleasesYou again.PICTURES please andTeach for ever,All the Children,Women, Men.Even in the poorest houses pictures must always be a blessing. Many a poor man's cheerless home would be made much more comfortable and endurable if a few shilling's worth of good pictures were posted or hung round its bare walls. If houses were universally decorated with true speaking pictures what an immense influence for good it would bring them. What intellectual and refined tastes it would create and nurture. One most important thing in selecting pictures to cover the walls it to always choose good subjects. A poor picture takes up as much room as a good one, and generally costs as much. Always choose live speaking pictures that will interest and instruct. There is an immense multitude of poor, tame, an uninteresting pictures produced in the world, and which in millions of instances keep out the good ones. If these poor ones could be kept back or destroyed, and the best ones only take their place, the world would be better for it. In choosing materials to build up a bright, happy home, always select the best—the best books—the best music—the best pictures. In conclusion, there is one more suggestion I would make on the picture question, and I think it is the most important of all; it is that a good clear map of the world should be hung in every house in the world, to give every person an idea of the world they live in. For it is a most deplorable fact that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the inhabitants, even of the civilized world, have a very poor conception of the geography and ethnology of the world. And this should not be, for every person ought to have a clear idea of their world-fatherland, and of their fellow creatures, and a knowledge of the map of the world is the first lesson to be learned in that most desirable direction.E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.A Single Picture Often Conveys More Than Volumes.Previous-Index-NextPage 97—Drawing LandDrawing Doggy's Likeness.The New SlateSee my slate. I dot it newCos I b'oke the other,Put my 'ittle foot right froo,Runnin' after modder.I tan make you lots of sings,Fass as you tan tell 'em,T's and B's and O rings,Only I tan't spell 'emI tan make an elephant,Wid his trunk a hangin';An' a boy—who says I tan't?Wid his dun a bangin'An' the smoke a tummin' out;(Wid my t'umb I do it,Rubbin' all the white about,)Sparks a flying froo it.I tan make a pretty house,Wid a tree behind it,And a 'ittle mousey-mouseRunnin' round to find it.I tan put my hand out flatOn the slate and draw it;(Ticklin' is the worst of that!)Did you ever saw it?Now, then, s'all I make a treeWid a birdie on it?All my pictures you s'all seeIf you'll wait a minute.No, I dess I'll make a manJuss like Uncle Rolly,See it tummin', fass it tan!Bet my slate is jolly!Do Not Stare.Doggy Drawing Pussy's Likeness.Our Baby Artist.Previous-Index-NextPage 98—Drawing LandDoggies Sitting to have Their Portraits Taken.Learning to DrawCome, here is a slate,And a pencil, and string.And now sit you down, dear,And draw pretty thing;A man and a cow,And a horse and a tree,And when you have finishedPray show them to me.What! cannot you do it?Shall I show you how?Come, give me your pencil;I'll draw you a cow.You've made the poor creatureLook very forlorn!She has but three legs, dear,And only one horn.Now look, I have drawn youA beautiful cow;And see, here's a dicky-bird,Perched on a bough,And there are some moreFlying down from above;There now, is not thatVery pretty, my love?Oh, yes, very pretty!Now make me some more—A house with a gate,And a window, and a door,And a little boy flyingHis kite with a string;Oh, thank you, mamma,Now I'll draw pretty thing.Young Artist Touching Up.A Fairy in Great Danger.Our Picture Gallery.Previous-Index-Next

Our Playhouse Coach.

Little SailorsNow, Harry, pull the chairs up,And, Fanny, get the shawl;We'll play that we are sailors,And that we're in a squall.The fire will be a lighthouse,To warn us off the shore;And we will place the footstoolsFor rocks, out on the floor.Now this chair is the sternAnd that one is the bow;But there, you must be careful,And not lean hard, you know.Now, sailors, pull that sail up,And tuck the corners in—Well if you want it tighter,Ask mother for a pin.Now couldn't we sing somethingAbout the "Ocean Blue"?Well, never mind, "By-baby"Or anything will do.Take care, you careless sailors,And mind what you are about,You know the sea will drown you,If you should tumble out.Brother PlayingUp and down the play-room,Then behind the door,Now upon the sofa,Now upon the floor.In below the table,Round the big arm-chair,Goes my little brother,Crying "Are you there?"And when brother sees me,Then away I run;And he follows after,Merry with the fun.So at hide and seek we play.And pass the happy hours away.

Little Sailors

Now, Harry, pull the chairs up,And, Fanny, get the shawl;We'll play that we are sailors,And that we're in a squall.

The fire will be a lighthouse,To warn us off the shore;And we will place the footstoolsFor rocks, out on the floor.

Now this chair is the sternAnd that one is the bow;But there, you must be careful,And not lean hard, you know.

Now, sailors, pull that sail up,And tuck the corners in—Well if you want it tighter,Ask mother for a pin.

Now couldn't we sing somethingAbout the "Ocean Blue"?Well, never mind, "By-baby"Or anything will do.

Take care, you careless sailors,And mind what you are about,You know the sea will drown you,If you should tumble out.

Brother Playing

Up and down the play-room,Then behind the door,Now upon the sofa,Now upon the floor.

In below the table,Round the big arm-chair,Goes my little brother,Crying "Are you there?"

And when brother sees me,Then away I run;And he follows after,Merry with the fun.

So at hide and seek we play.And pass the happy hours away.

Girls and Boys, Come Out to Play

Girls and boys,Come out to play,The sun is shiningAway, away.Into the meadowOver the way,Tumbling and tossingThe new-mown hay.Into the hedgerowPicking the May;Over the hillsAnd far away.Down by the brookWhere the ripples play,Whirling and windingTheir silvery way,Then home againBy a different way,Picking an armfulOf wildflowers gay.For mother dearTo gladden her way,And wake in her heartA cheerful lay.For every leafHas it's sunny ray;All nature is happyAnd seems to say:Girls and boys,Come out to play.The sun is shiningAway, away.Two Merry MenTwo merry men,One summer day,Forsook their toys,And forgot their play.Two little faces,Full of fun,Two little heartsThat beat as one.Four little hands,At work with a will,Four little legsThat can't keep still.For labour is sweet,And toil is fun,When mother wantsAny work to be done.Mud PiesTell me little ladies,Playing in the sun,How many minutesTill the baking's done?Susy gets the flour,All of golden dust;Harry builds the oven,Lily rolls the crust.Pat it here, and pat it there;What a dainty size!Bake it on a shelf of stone,Nice mud pies!Now we want a shower—For we need it so—It would make a roadside,Such a heap of dough.Turn them in, and turn them out,How the morning flies!Ring the bell for dinner—Hot mud pies!The Playful GirlI know a little girl,Who is very fond of play:And if her ma would let her,Would do nothing else all day.She has a little doll,And another one quite large.She plays she has a little home,And house cares to discharge.But when her mamma calls her,Some real work to do,She does not like to leave her play,And pouts till she is through.Hay MakingIn the hay, in the hay,Toss we and tumble;No one to say us nay,All through this Summer's day!No one to grumble.In the hat, in the hay,Arthur we'll smother;Bring armfuls, heap them high,Pile them up—now good-bye,Poor little brother!In the hay, in the hay,Snugly reclining,Shaded from the noontide heat,Smelling the clover sweet,See us all dining;While the haymakers sitUnder the willows,Each with his bread and cheeseSpread out upon his knees,Hay for their pillows.Hark! how the laugh and chat,Happy, light hearted!Now to their work they go,Raking up one long row,Fit to be carted.Now comes the wagon near,Quickly they're loading;Rake away! rake away!While it's fine make the hay—Rain is foreboding.Now that the sunset raySays the day's over,Homeward we make our way,In the cart strewn with hay,Smelling of clover.Mrs. HawtreyAmerican Indian Boys at Play.

Into the meadowOver the way,Tumbling and tossingThe new-mown hay.

Into the hedgerowPicking the May;Over the hillsAnd far away.

Down by the brookWhere the ripples play,Whirling and windingTheir silvery way,

Then home againBy a different way,Picking an armfulOf wildflowers gay.

For mother dearTo gladden her way,And wake in her heartA cheerful lay.

For every leafHas it's sunny ray;All nature is happyAnd seems to say:

Girls and boys,Come out to play.The sun is shiningAway, away.

Two Merry Men

Two merry men,One summer day,Forsook their toys,And forgot their play.

Two little faces,Full of fun,Two little heartsThat beat as one.

Four little hands,At work with a will,Four little legsThat can't keep still.

For labour is sweet,And toil is fun,When mother wantsAny work to be done.

Mud Pies

Tell me little ladies,Playing in the sun,How many minutesTill the baking's done?

Susy gets the flour,All of golden dust;Harry builds the oven,Lily rolls the crust.

Pat it here, and pat it there;What a dainty size!Bake it on a shelf of stone,Nice mud pies!

Now we want a shower—For we need it so—It would make a roadside,Such a heap of dough.

Turn them in, and turn them out,How the morning flies!Ring the bell for dinner—Hot mud pies!

The Playful Girl

I know a little girl,Who is very fond of play:And if her ma would let her,Would do nothing else all day.

She has a little doll,And another one quite large.She plays she has a little home,And house cares to discharge.

But when her mamma calls her,Some real work to do,She does not like to leave her play,And pouts till she is through.

Hay Making

In the hay, in the hay,Toss we and tumble;No one to say us nay,All through this Summer's day!No one to grumble.

In the hat, in the hay,Arthur we'll smother;Bring armfuls, heap them high,Pile them up—now good-bye,Poor little brother!

In the hay, in the hay,Snugly reclining,Shaded from the noontide heat,Smelling the clover sweet,See us all dining;

While the haymakers sitUnder the willows,Each with his bread and cheeseSpread out upon his knees,Hay for their pillows.

Hark! how the laugh and chat,Happy, light hearted!Now to their work they go,Raking up one long row,Fit to be carted.

Now comes the wagon near,Quickly they're loading;Rake away! rake away!While it's fine make the hay—Rain is foreboding.

Now that the sunset raySays the day's over,Homeward we make our way,In the cart strewn with hay,Smelling of clover.

Mrs. Hawtrey

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Thomas Mending his Bat.

My Dog and I Dancing.

Johnny the Stout"Ho! for a frolic!"Said Johnny the stout;"There's coasting and sledding;I'm going out."Scarcely had JohnnyPlunged in the snow,When there came a complaintUp from his toe:"We're cold" said the toe,"I and the rest;There's ten of us freezing,Standing abreast."Then up spoke an ear;"My, but it's labor—Playing in winter. Eh!Opposite neighbour!""Pooh!" said his nose,Angry and red;"Who wants to tingle?Go home to bed!"Eight little fingers,Four to a thumb,All cried together—"Johnny, we're numb!"But Johnny the stoutWouldn't listen a minute;Never a snow-bankBut Johnny was in it.Tumbling and jumping,Shouting with glee,Wading the snow-driftsUp to his knee.Soon he forgot them,Fingers and toes,Never once thought ofThe ear and the nose.Ah! What a frolic!All in a glow,Johnny grew warmerOut in the snow.Often his breathingCame with a joke;"Blaze away, Johnny!I'll do the smoke.""And I'll do the fire,"Said Johnny the bold."Fun is the fuelFor driving off cold."Going to dig Sand.

Johnny the Stout

"Ho! for a frolic!"Said Johnny the stout;"There's coasting and sledding;I'm going out."

Scarcely had JohnnyPlunged in the snow,When there came a complaintUp from his toe:

"We're cold" said the toe,"I and the rest;There's ten of us freezing,Standing abreast."

Then up spoke an ear;"My, but it's labor—Playing in winter. Eh!Opposite neighbour!"

"Pooh!" said his nose,Angry and red;"Who wants to tingle?Go home to bed!"

Eight little fingers,Four to a thumb,All cried together—"Johnny, we're numb!"

But Johnny the stoutWouldn't listen a minute;Never a snow-bankBut Johnny was in it.

Tumbling and jumping,Shouting with glee,Wading the snow-driftsUp to his knee.

Soon he forgot them,Fingers and toes,Never once thought ofThe ear and the nose.

Ah! What a frolic!All in a glow,Johnny grew warmerOut in the snow.

Often his breathingCame with a joke;"Blaze away, Johnny!I'll do the smoke."

"And I'll do the fire,"Said Johnny the bold."Fun is the fuelFor driving off cold."

Sorry He Played.

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Our Lamb Playing Tennis.

Our Puss Blowing Bubbles.

Training TimeSupper is over,Now for fun,This is the seasonChildren must run;Papa is reading;Says, of these boys;"Pray did you everHear such a noise?"Riding on "camels"Over the floor,See, one's a squirrelClimbing the door;There goes the babyFlat on his nose,Brother was tryingTo tickle his toes.Little he minds it,Though he would cry,Changed it to laughterAs Lyn galloped by;Order is nowhere,Fun is the rule;Think, they are childrenJust out of school.Home is their palace;They are the kingsLet them be masters,Of just a few things;Only one short hourOut of all day,Give them full freedom;Join in their play.Do not be angryDo not forgetYou liked to make noiseSometimes do yet;Home will be sweeterTill life is doneIf you will give themAn hour of fun.Our Puss Playing Cricket.

Training Time

Supper is over,Now for fun,This is the seasonChildren must run;

Papa is reading;Says, of these boys;"Pray did you everHear such a noise?"

Riding on "camels"Over the floor,See, one's a squirrelClimbing the door;

There goes the babyFlat on his nose,Brother was tryingTo tickle his toes.

Little he minds it,Though he would cry,Changed it to laughterAs Lyn galloped by;

Order is nowhere,Fun is the rule;Think, they are childrenJust out of school.

Home is their palace;They are the kingsLet them be masters,Of just a few things;

Only one short hourOut of all day,Give them full freedom;Join in their play.

Do not be angryDo not forgetYou liked to make noiseSometimes do yet;

Home will be sweeterTill life is doneIf you will give themAn hour of fun.

Our Frogs Playing Cricket.

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PlaytimePlay-time, play-time, hurrah!Out in the fields together!Don't let us lose a moment's time,This fine, bright, glorious weather.Run, boys! Run, boys! faster!Ball and the bats for cricket;Jack, you're the fastest runner here,Be off, and pitch the wicket.Football for those who choose—The goal stick—go, Jim, fix it;Give us the ball; who's won the toss?Now, for the first who kicks it.No lazy ones today;Off, stretch your legs running!Now for the hip, hip, hip, hurrah!And let the noise be stunning.Hear how it echoes round!Another and another!No fear of noise, it won't disturbOld granny and poor mother.Hullo there! no foul play!Dick, what is that you're saying?No bad words and no cruel sport;We're come for fun and playing.RompingWhy now, my dear boys, this is always the way,You can't be contented with innocent play;But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,Is never left off till it ends in a cry.What! are there no games you can take a delight in,But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting?It is a sad thing to be forced to concludeThat boys can't be merry, without being rude.Now what is the reason you never can playWithout snatching each other's playthings away?Would it be any hardship to let them alone,When every one of you has toys of his own?I often have told you before, my dear boys,That I do not object to your making a noise;Or running and jumping about, anyhow,But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word,I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball,And not let you play with each other at all.Nurse's SongWhen the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still."Then come home my children, the sun is gone downAnd the dews of the night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,Till the morning appears in the skies.""No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are covered with sheep.""Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed,And all the hills echoed.W. BlakeOur See-Saw.

Playtime

Play-time, play-time, hurrah!Out in the fields together!Don't let us lose a moment's time,This fine, bright, glorious weather.

Run, boys! Run, boys! faster!Ball and the bats for cricket;Jack, you're the fastest runner here,Be off, and pitch the wicket.

Football for those who choose—The goal stick—go, Jim, fix it;Give us the ball; who's won the toss?Now, for the first who kicks it.

No lazy ones today;Off, stretch your legs running!Now for the hip, hip, hip, hurrah!And let the noise be stunning.

Hear how it echoes round!Another and another!No fear of noise, it won't disturbOld granny and poor mother.

Hullo there! no foul play!Dick, what is that you're saying?No bad words and no cruel sport;We're come for fun and playing.

Romping

Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way,You can't be contented with innocent play;But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,Is never left off till it ends in a cry.

What! are there no games you can take a delight in,But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting?It is a sad thing to be forced to concludeThat boys can't be merry, without being rude.

Now what is the reason you never can playWithout snatching each other's playthings away?Would it be any hardship to let them alone,When every one of you has toys of his own?

I often have told you before, my dear boys,That I do not object to your making a noise;Or running and jumping about, anyhow,But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.

So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word,I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball,And not let you play with each other at all.

Nurse's Song

When the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still.

"Then come home my children, the sun is gone downAnd the dews of the night arise;Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,And we cannot go to sleep;Besides in the sky the little birds fly,And the hills are covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,And then go home to bed."The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed,And all the hills echoed.

W. Blake

Our Owls See-Sawing.

Our Pigs See-Sawing.

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SwingingHere we go on the garden swing,Under the chestnut tree.Up in the branches birdies singSongs to Baby and me,Baby and Kitty and me.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.Up to the clustering leaves we go,Down we sweep to the grass,Touching the daisies there below,Bowing to let us pass,Smiling to us as we pass.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.SkatingOne day it chanced that Miss Maud did meetThe poet's little son,"I'm going skating, Sir," she said;"And so am I," said John."If you can skate and I can skate,Why let me skate with you,We'll go the whole world round and round,And skate the whole year through."They skated left, and skated right,Miss Maud and little John,That is—as long as there was iceFor them to skate upon.And then they did unstrap their skatesLike other girls and men,And never used them once—untilThey put them on again!The Skipping RopeLessons now at last are over,Books and slates are put away;Hymns attentively repeated,Copy without a blot completed,Now's the time for fun and play.Lessons done with cheerful spiritBring the sure reward of merit,Smiling face and heart so gay;In this bright and smiling weather,Merrily they all together,With the skipping rope will play;And if only Tom and PollyWill come too, it will be jolly!Here they are now, foot it lightly,Hand in hand they skip so sprightly,Bees are humming,Summer's coming.Birds are singing as they're bringingTwigs from many a distant tree;Lined with down, and moss, and feather,Where they'll sit and chirp together,Oh! how snug those homes will be!O'er the ropes so lightly skipping,O'er the grass so lightly tripping,The children are as glads as they.Lessons are done with cheerful spirit,Bring the sure reward of merit;And remember, too, that theyWho work hardest day by day,Always most enjoy their play.Our Piggy Swinging.

Swinging

Here we go on the garden swing,Under the chestnut tree.Up in the branches birdies singSongs to Baby and me,Baby and Kitty and me.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.

Up to the clustering leaves we go,Down we sweep to the grass,Touching the daisies there below,Bowing to let us pass,Smiling to us as we pass.Then up, high up, for the ropes are long,And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

And there's room on the seat for three,Just Baby and Kitty and meMerrily swinging,Merrily singing,Under the chestnut tree.

Skating

One day it chanced that Miss Maud did meetThe poet's little son,"I'm going skating, Sir," she said;"And so am I," said John.

"If you can skate and I can skate,Why let me skate with you,We'll go the whole world round and round,And skate the whole year through."

They skated left, and skated right,Miss Maud and little John,That is—as long as there was iceFor them to skate upon.

And then they did unstrap their skatesLike other girls and men,And never used them once—untilThey put them on again!

The Skipping Rope

Lessons now at last are over,Books and slates are put away;Hymns attentively repeated,Copy without a blot completed,Now's the time for fun and play.

Lessons done with cheerful spiritBring the sure reward of merit,Smiling face and heart so gay;In this bright and smiling weather,Merrily they all together,With the skipping rope will play;

And if only Tom and PollyWill come too, it will be jolly!Here they are now, foot it lightly,Hand in hand they skip so sprightly,Bees are humming,Summer's coming.

Birds are singing as they're bringingTwigs from many a distant tree;Lined with down, and moss, and feather,Where they'll sit and chirp together,Oh! how snug those homes will be!

O'er the ropes so lightly skipping,O'er the grass so lightly tripping,The children are as glads as they.Lessons are done with cheerful spirit,Bring the sure reward of merit;

And remember, too, that theyWho work hardest day by day,Always most enjoy their play.

Our Kangaroos Jumping.

Our Kangaroos Skipping.

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The Baby's DebutMy brother Jack was nine in May,And I was eight on New Year's day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang with might and main,It's head against the parlor door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot.Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury-lane for you to-day!"And while papa said "Pooh, she may!"Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to Pentonville,Stood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While molly mopp'd it with a mop,And brush'd it with a broom.My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise among the flags,And leaves me where I am.My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.Let the Child PlayHe who checks a child with terror,Stops its play and stills its song,Not alone commits an errorBut a great and grievous wrong.Give it play, and never fear it;Active life is no defect.Never, never break its spirit;Curb it only to direct.Would you stop the flowing river,Thinking it would cease to flow?Onward in must flow forever;Better teach it where to go.Our Pussies' Fan Dance.

The Baby's Debut

My brother Jack was nine in May,And I was eight on New Year's day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang with might and main,It's head against the parlor door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot.Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury-lane for you to-day!"And while papa said "Pooh, she may!"Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to Pentonville,Stood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While molly mopp'd it with a mop,And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise among the flags,And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.

Let the Child Play

He who checks a child with terror,Stops its play and stills its song,Not alone commits an errorBut a great and grievous wrong.

Give it play, and never fear it;Active life is no defect.Never, never break its spirit;Curb it only to direct.

Would you stop the flowing river,Thinking it would cease to flow?Onward in must flow forever;Better teach it where to go.

Our Dog Dance.

Our Round Dance.

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Our Pussies Reading Childland.

Our Monkey Learning From Childland.

Reading"And so you do not like to spell,Mary, my dear, oh, very well:'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say,And you had rather be at play."Then bring me all your books again;Nay, Mary, why do you complain?For as you do not choose to read,You shall not have your books, indeed."So, as you wish to be a dunce,Pray go and fetch me them at once;For if you will not learn to spell,'Tis vain to think of reading well."Do you not think you'll blush to ownWhen you become a woman grown,Without one good excuse to plead,That you have never learnt to read?""Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then,"Do let me have my books again;I'll not fret any more indeed,If you will let me learn to read."Jane TaylorMrs Grammar's BallMrs Grammar once gave a fine ballTo the nine different parts of our speech;To the short and the tall,To the stout and the small,There were pies, plums and puddings for each.And first little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—FatA,An, andThe;But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.The Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand,Rough,rougherandroughest,Tough,tougherandtoughest,Fat,merry,good-naturedandgrand.The Nouns were indeed on their way,Tens of thousands, and more, I should think;For each name we could utter,Shop,shoulder, orshutter,Is a noun:lady,lionorlink.The Pronouns were hastening fastTo push the Nouns out of their places:I,thou,he, andshe,You,it,they, andwe,With their sprightly intelligent faces.Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs!A great crowd is coming in view!"Tolightand tosmile,Tofightand tobite,Tobe, and tohave, and todo.The Adverbs attended on the Verbs,Behind as their footmen they ran;As this, "to fightbadly,"And "runaway gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.Prepositions camein,by, andnear;With Conjunctions, a wee little band,Aseitheryouorhe,ButneitherInorshe;They held their great friends by the hand.Then, too, with ahip,hip,hurrah!Rushed in Interjections uproarious;Dear me!well-a-day!When they saw the display,"Ha! Ha!" they all shouted out, "glorious!"But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feasting pleased each,Pounced on them at onceA monster—a Dunce!And confounded the nine parts of speech!Help! friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Verb and Article call;Oh! give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!Grammar In RhymeThree little words we often see,And Article,a,an,the.Noun's the name of anything,Asschoolorgarden,hooporstring.Adjective tells the kind of noun,Asgreat,small,pretty,whiteorbrown.Instead of nouns, the Pronoun standJohn's head,hisface,myarm,yourhand.Verbs tell us of something being done,Toread,write,count,sing,jump, orrun.How things are done, the Adverbs tell,Asslowly,quickly,ill, orwell.A Preposition stands beforeA noun, asinorthrougha door.Conjunctions join the nouns togetheras menandchildren, windandweather.The Interjection shows surprise,AsOh, how pretty!Ah, how wise!The whole are called nine parts of speech,Which reading, writing, speaking teach.Value of ReadingThe poor wretch who digs the mine for bread,Or ploughs so that others may be fed,—Feels less fatigue, than that decreedTo him that cannot think or read!Hannah More

Reading

"And so you do not like to spell,Mary, my dear, oh, very well:'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say,And you had rather be at play.

"Then bring me all your books again;Nay, Mary, why do you complain?For as you do not choose to read,You shall not have your books, indeed.

"So, as you wish to be a dunce,Pray go and fetch me them at once;For if you will not learn to spell,'Tis vain to think of reading well.

"Do you not think you'll blush to ownWhen you become a woman grown,Without one good excuse to plead,That you have never learnt to read?"

"Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then,"Do let me have my books again;I'll not fret any more indeed,If you will let me learn to read."

Jane Taylor

Mrs Grammar's Ball

Mrs Grammar once gave a fine ballTo the nine different parts of our speech;To the short and the tall,To the stout and the small,There were pies, plums and puddings for each.

And first little Articles came,In a hurry to make themselves known—FatA,An, andThe;But none of the threeCould stand for a minute alone.

The Adjectives came to announceThat their dear friends the Nouns were at hand,Rough,rougherandroughest,Tough,tougherandtoughest,Fat,merry,good-naturedandgrand.

The Nouns were indeed on their way,Tens of thousands, and more, I should think;For each name we could utter,Shop,shoulder, orshutter,Is a noun:lady,lionorlink.

The Pronouns were hastening fastTo push the Nouns out of their places:I,thou,he, andshe,You,it,they, andwe,With their sprightly intelligent faces.

Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs!A great crowd is coming in view!"Tolightand tosmile,Tofightand tobite,Tobe, and tohave, and todo.

The Adverbs attended on the Verbs,Behind as their footmen they ran;As this, "to fightbadly,"And "runaway gladly,"Shows how fighting and running were done.

Prepositions camein,by, andnear;With Conjunctions, a wee little band,Aseitheryouorhe,ButneitherInorshe;They held their great friends by the hand.

Then, too, with ahip,hip,hurrah!Rushed in Interjections uproarious;Dear me!well-a-day!When they saw the display,"Ha! Ha!" they all shouted out, "glorious!"

But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh!While the fun and the feasting pleased each,Pounced on them at onceA monster—a Dunce!And confounded the nine parts of speech!

Help! friends! to the rescue! on youFor aid Verb and Article call;Oh! give your protectionTo poor Interjection,Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!

Grammar In Rhyme

Three little words we often see,And Article,a,an,the.

Noun's the name of anything,Asschoolorgarden,hooporstring.

Adjective tells the kind of noun,Asgreat,small,pretty,whiteorbrown.

Instead of nouns, the Pronoun standJohn's head,hisface,myarm,yourhand.

Verbs tell us of something being done,Toread,write,count,sing,jump, orrun.

How things are done, the Adverbs tell,Asslowly,quickly,ill, orwell.

A Preposition stands beforeA noun, asinorthrougha door.

Conjunctions join the nouns togetheras menandchildren, windandweather.

The Interjection shows surprise,AsOh, how pretty!Ah, how wise!

The whole are called nine parts of speech,Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

Value of Reading

The poor wretch who digs the mine for bread,Or ploughs so that others may be fed,—Feels less fatigue, than that decreedTo him that cannot think or read!

Hannah More

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Our Dogs Reading Childland.

Our Rook Reading Childland.

Our Rabbit Reading Childland.

Our Storks Reading Childland.

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Little Flo Writing Letter.

Little Flo's LetterA sweet little baby brotherHad come to live with Flo,And she wanted it brought to the table,That it might eat and grow."It must wait a while," said grandma,In answer to her plea,"For a little thing that hasn't teethCan't eat like you and me.""Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?"Asked Flo in great surprise,"O my, but isn't it funny?—No teeth, but nose and eyes."I guess," after thinking gravely,They must have been forgot.Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?I'd like to know why not."That afternoon, to the corner,With paper, and pen, and ink,Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me;If you do, it'll 'sturb my think.I'm writing a letter, grandma,To send away to-night,An' 'cause it's very 'portant,I want to get it right."At last the letter was finished,A wonderful thing to see,And directed to "God, in Heaven."Please read it over to me,"Said little Flo to her grandma,"To see if it's right, you know."And here is the letter writtenTo God by little Flo:—"Dear God: The baby you brought usIs awful nice and sweet,But 'cause you forgot his tooffiesThe poor little thing can't eat.That's why I'm writing this letter,A purpose to let you know.Please come and finish the baby,That's all—From Little Flo."Eben. E. RexfordExercise Makes PerfectTrue ease in writingComes from art, not chance,As those move easiestWho have learned to dance.PopeHurrah for the PostmanHurrah for the postmanWho brings us the news!What a lot it must takeTo pay for his shoes.For he walks many milesEach day of the week,And though he would like to,Must not stay to speak.Red stripes round his blue cap,With clothing to match it;If he lost any letters,Oh, wouldn't he catch it!Two LettersFIRSTDear Grandmamma—I write to say(And you'll be glad, I know,)That I am coming, Saturday,To spend a week or so.I'm coming, too, without mamma,You know I'm eight years old!And you shall see how good I'll be,To do as I am told.I'll help you lots about your word—There's so much I can do—I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs,And feed the chickens, too.And maybe I will be so goodYou'll keep me there till fall;Or, better still, perhaps you'll sayI can't go home at all!Now grandmamma, please don't forgetTo meet me at the train,For I'll be sure to come—unlessIt should cloud up and rain!SECONDDear Mamma—Please put on your things,And take the next express;I want to go back home again—I'm very sick, I guess!My grandma's very good to me,But grandma isn't you;And I forgot, when I came here,I'd got to sleep here, too!Last night I cried myself to sleep,I wanted you so bad!To day, I cannot play or eat,I feel so very sad.Please, mamma, come, for I don't seeHow I can bear to wait!You'll find me, with my hat and sackOut by the garden gate.And grandma will not care a bitIf you should come, I know;Because I am your own little girl,And I do love you so.Nell's LetterDear Grandmamma, I will try to writeA very little letter;If I don't spell the words all right,Why next time I'll do better.My little rabbit is alive,And likes his milk and clover,He likes to se me very much,But is afraid of Rover.I have a dove as white as snow,I hall her "Polly Feather";She flies and hops about the yard,In every kind of weather.The hens are picking off the grass,And singing very loudly;While our old peacock struts about,And shows his feathers proudly.I think I'll close my letter now,I've nothing more to tell;Please answer soon, and come to seeYour loving, little Nell.Baby's Letter to UncleDear Old Uncle—I dot oor letter;My dear mamma, she ditten better;She every day a little bit stronger,Don't mean to be sick very much longer.Dear little baby had a bad colic;Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic.Toot a dose of tatnip—felt worse as ever;Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad;Worse fit of sickness ever I had!Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill?Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.I used to sleep all day, and cry all night;Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite.Got a head of hair jess as black as nightAnd big boo eyes, yat look very bright.My mamma say, never did seeAny ozzer baby half as sweet as me.Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too;Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all,Aunties and cousins, big folks and small.Can't say any more, so dood by—Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!The First Letter"Did you ever get a letter?I did the other day.It was in a real envelope,And it came a long, long way.A stamp was in the cornerAnd some printing when it came,And the one that wrote the letterHad put 'Miss' before my name.Then there came a lot more written,I forget now what it read,But it told the office peopleWhere I lived, mamma said.Don't you s'pose those letter-persons,If they hadn't just been told,Would have thought 'twas for a ladyWho was awful, awful old?For it looked real big and heavy,The outside was stuck with glue,So they couldn't know I'm little,I don't think they could. Do you?"Youth's Companion

Little Flo's Letter

A sweet little baby brotherHad come to live with Flo,And she wanted it brought to the table,That it might eat and grow."It must wait a while," said grandma,In answer to her plea,"For a little thing that hasn't teethCan't eat like you and me."

"Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?"Asked Flo in great surprise,"O my, but isn't it funny?—No teeth, but nose and eyes."I guess," after thinking gravely,They must have been forgot.Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?I'd like to know why not."

That afternoon, to the corner,With paper, and pen, and ink,Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me;If you do, it'll 'sturb my think.I'm writing a letter, grandma,To send away to-night,An' 'cause it's very 'portant,I want to get it right."

At last the letter was finished,A wonderful thing to see,And directed to "God, in Heaven."Please read it over to me,"Said little Flo to her grandma,"To see if it's right, you know."And here is the letter writtenTo God by little Flo:—

"Dear God: The baby you brought usIs awful nice and sweet,But 'cause you forgot his tooffiesThe poor little thing can't eat.That's why I'm writing this letter,A purpose to let you know.Please come and finish the baby,That's all—From Little Flo."

Eben. E. Rexford

Exercise Makes Perfect

True ease in writingComes from art, not chance,As those move easiestWho have learned to dance.

Pope

Hurrah for the Postman

Hurrah for the postmanWho brings us the news!What a lot it must takeTo pay for his shoes.

For he walks many milesEach day of the week,And though he would like to,Must not stay to speak.

Red stripes round his blue cap,With clothing to match it;If he lost any letters,Oh, wouldn't he catch it!

Two Letters

FIRST

Dear Grandmamma—I write to say(And you'll be glad, I know,)That I am coming, Saturday,To spend a week or so.

I'm coming, too, without mamma,You know I'm eight years old!And you shall see how good I'll be,To do as I am told.

I'll help you lots about your word—There's so much I can do—I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs,And feed the chickens, too.

And maybe I will be so goodYou'll keep me there till fall;Or, better still, perhaps you'll sayI can't go home at all!

Now grandmamma, please don't forgetTo meet me at the train,For I'll be sure to come—unlessIt should cloud up and rain!

SECOND

Dear Mamma—Please put on your things,And take the next express;I want to go back home again—I'm very sick, I guess!

My grandma's very good to me,But grandma isn't you;And I forgot, when I came here,I'd got to sleep here, too!

Last night I cried myself to sleep,I wanted you so bad!To day, I cannot play or eat,I feel so very sad.

Please, mamma, come, for I don't seeHow I can bear to wait!You'll find me, with my hat and sackOut by the garden gate.

And grandma will not care a bitIf you should come, I know;Because I am your own little girl,And I do love you so.

Nell's Letter

Dear Grandmamma, I will try to writeA very little letter;If I don't spell the words all right,Why next time I'll do better.

My little rabbit is alive,And likes his milk and clover,He likes to se me very much,But is afraid of Rover.

I have a dove as white as snow,I hall her "Polly Feather";She flies and hops about the yard,In every kind of weather.

The hens are picking off the grass,And singing very loudly;While our old peacock struts about,And shows his feathers proudly.

I think I'll close my letter now,I've nothing more to tell;Please answer soon, and come to seeYour loving, little Nell.

Baby's Letter to Uncle

Dear Old Uncle—I dot oor letter;My dear mamma, she ditten better;She every day a little bit stronger,Don't mean to be sick very much longer.

Dear little baby had a bad colic;Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic.Toot a dose of tatnip—felt worse as ever;Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!

Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad;Worse fit of sickness ever I had!Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill?Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.

I used to sleep all day, and cry all night;Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite.Got a head of hair jess as black as nightAnd big boo eyes, yat look very bright.

My mamma say, never did seeAny ozzer baby half as sweet as me.Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too;Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.

Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all,Aunties and cousins, big folks and small.Can't say any more, so dood by—Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!

The First Letter

"Did you ever get a letter?I did the other day.It was in a real envelope,And it came a long, long way.

A stamp was in the cornerAnd some printing when it came,And the one that wrote the letterHad put 'Miss' before my name.

Then there came a lot more written,I forget now what it read,But it told the office peopleWhere I lived, mamma said.

Don't you s'pose those letter-persons,If they hadn't just been told,Would have thought 'twas for a ladyWho was awful, awful old?

For it looked real big and heavy,The outside was stuck with glue,So they couldn't know I'm little,I don't think they could. Do you?"

Youth's Companion

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I'm Going to Write to PapaI'm going to write to papa,I guess he'd like to hearWhat his little girl is doing,The same as when he is near;I'll tell him how I miss him,And how I'd wish he'd come,And never, never, leave us,But always stay at home.I'll tell him 'bout my dolly,She's sleeping on the floor,I fear that noise will wake her,Oh! please don't slam the door.For I must not be bothered,That's just what ma would say,When she begins a letter,And sends me off to play.I'll send him lots of kisses,And one bright shining curl,I'll ask him to rememberHis lonely little girl;I want so much to see him,But I won't cry a wink,Cause when I write my letter,The tears would blot my ink.I'm going to write to papa,And oh! how glad he'll be.To get a little letterThat was written all by me.Old LettersI gaze upon ye, once again,Old records of the past,And o'er the dim and faded linesMy tears are falling fast;I deem'd not there was a power yet,In these few simple words,To stir within my quiet heartSuch old familiar chords.Ye bring me back mine early dreams—Oh, but to dream them now,With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,And pure unsadden'd brow!The loved—the lost—the changed—The dead—all these we conjure up,And mingled in the draughtThat lies in memory's magic cup.Old letters—sad mementoes ye,Of friendship's shatter'd chain,Oh! that the hand these pages traced,My own might clasp again.They tell me yet of early love,Of feelings glad and gay,Of childhood's April hopes and fears—The writers, where are they?Time's changes are for deeper thingsThan folly's vain pursuit,Spring blossoms fade, to leave a placeFor autumn's ripen'd fruit.Look back upon the buried past,But not with vain regret,Be grateful for the many joysThat bloom around thee yet.Bend heavenward thine onward course,That years of coming ageMay leave an impress in life's book,Pure as its opening page!Papa's LetterI was sitting in my study,Writing letters, when I heard:"Please, dear mamma, Mary told meThat you mustn't be disturbed.But I'se tired of the kitty,Want some ozzer thing to do.Writing letters is 'ou mamma?Tan't I write a letter, too?""Not now, darling, mamma's busy;Run and play with kitty now.""No—no mamma; me wite letter,Ten you will show me how."I would paint my darling's portrait,As his sweet eyes searched my face—Hair of gold and eyes of azure,Form of childish witching grace.But the eager face was clouded,As I slowly shook my head,Till I said: "I'll make a letter,Of you, darling boy, instead."So I parted back the tressesFrom his forehead high and white,And a stamp in sport I pasted,'Mid its waves of golden light.Then I said: "Now, little letter,Go away and bear good news,"And I smiled as down the staircaseClattered loud the little shoes.Leaving me, the darling hurriedDown to Mary in his glee:"Mamma's witting lots of letters;I'se a letter, Mary, see."No one heard the little prattler,As once more he climbed the stair.Reached his little cap and tippet,Standing on the table there.No one heard the front door open,No one saw the golden hair,As it floated o'er his shouldersOn the crisp October air.Down the street the baby hastened,Till he reached the office door:"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,Is there room for any more?'Cause this letter's going to papa;Papa lives with God, 'ou know:Mamma sent me for a letter;Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"But the clerk in wonder answered,"Not to-day, my little man;""Den I'll find anozzer office,'Cause I must go if I tan."Fain the clerk would have detained him,But the pleading face was gone,And the little feet were hastening,By the busy crowd swept on.Suddenly the crowd was parted,People fled to left and right,As a pair of maddened horsesAt that moment dashed in sight.No one saw the baby figure,No one saw the golden hair,Till a voice of frightened sweetnessRang out on the autumn air.'Twas too late: a moment onlyStood the beauteous vision there:Then the little face lay lifelessCovered o'er with golden hair.Rev'rently they raised my darling,Brushed away the curls of gold,Saw the stamp upon the foreheadGrowing now so icy cold.Not a mark left the face disfigured,Showing where a hoof had trod;But the little life was ended—"Papa's letter" was with God.Bessie's LetterI have got a letter,A letter of my own,It has my name upon it,Miss Bessie L. Stone.My papa sent it to me,He's away from home—you seeI guess the postman wonderedWho Bessie Stone could be.I'd like to send an answer,But I don't know how to spell;I'll get mamma to do it,And that will do as well.A Little Boy's ValentineLittle girl across the way,You are so very sweet,I shouldn't be a bit surprisedIf you were good to eat.Now what I'd like if you would too,Would be to go and play—Well, all the time, and all my life,On your side of the way.I don't know anybody yetOn your side of the street,But often I look over thereAnd watch you—you're so sweet.When I am big, I tell you what,I don't care what they say,I'll go across—and stay there, too,On your side of the way.Letter WritingHeaven first taught lettersFor some wretch's aid,Some banish'd lover,Or some captive maid.They live, they speak,They breathe what love inspires,Warm from the soul,And faithful to its fires;The virgin's wishWithout her fears impart,Excuse the blush,And pour out all the heart—Speed the soft intercourseFrom soul to soul,And waft a sighFrom Indus to the pole.Boil it DownWhatever you have to say my friend,Whether witty, grave, or gay,Condense as much as ever you can,And that is the readiest way;And whether you write of rural affairs,Or particular things in town,Just take a word of friendly advice—"Boil it down."Letters from HomeLetters from home! How musical to the earOf the sailor-boy on the far-off main,When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,Across the billow floats the gentle strain,The words the tear-drops of his memory move;They tell a mother's or a sister's love;And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him comeOut to him on the sea, in letters from his home.How warmly there the tender home-light shines!What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

I'm Going to Write to Papa

I'm going to write to papa,I guess he'd like to hearWhat his little girl is doing,The same as when he is near;

I'll tell him how I miss him,And how I'd wish he'd come,And never, never, leave us,But always stay at home.

I'll tell him 'bout my dolly,She's sleeping on the floor,I fear that noise will wake her,Oh! please don't slam the door.

For I must not be bothered,That's just what ma would say,When she begins a letter,And sends me off to play.

I'll send him lots of kisses,And one bright shining curl,I'll ask him to rememberHis lonely little girl;

I want so much to see him,But I won't cry a wink,Cause when I write my letter,The tears would blot my ink.

I'm going to write to papa,And oh! how glad he'll be.To get a little letterThat was written all by me.

Old Letters

I gaze upon ye, once again,Old records of the past,And o'er the dim and faded linesMy tears are falling fast;

I deem'd not there was a power yet,In these few simple words,To stir within my quiet heartSuch old familiar chords.

Ye bring me back mine early dreams—Oh, but to dream them now,With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,And pure unsadden'd brow!

The loved—the lost—the changed—The dead—all these we conjure up,And mingled in the draughtThat lies in memory's magic cup.

Old letters—sad mementoes ye,Of friendship's shatter'd chain,Oh! that the hand these pages traced,My own might clasp again.

They tell me yet of early love,Of feelings glad and gay,Of childhood's April hopes and fears—The writers, where are they?

Time's changes are for deeper thingsThan folly's vain pursuit,Spring blossoms fade, to leave a placeFor autumn's ripen'd fruit.

Look back upon the buried past,But not with vain regret,Be grateful for the many joysThat bloom around thee yet.

Bend heavenward thine onward course,That years of coming ageMay leave an impress in life's book,Pure as its opening page!

Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study,Writing letters, when I heard:"Please, dear mamma, Mary told meThat you mustn't be disturbed.

But I'se tired of the kitty,Want some ozzer thing to do.Writing letters is 'ou mamma?Tan't I write a letter, too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;Run and play with kitty now.""No—no mamma; me wite letter,Ten you will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait,As his sweet eyes searched my face—Hair of gold and eyes of azure,Form of childish witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,As I slowly shook my head,Till I said: "I'll make a letter,Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tressesFrom his forehead high and white,And a stamp in sport I pasted,'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said: "Now, little letter,Go away and bear good news,"And I smiled as down the staircaseClattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurriedDown to Mary in his glee:"Mamma's witting lots of letters;I'se a letter, Mary, see."

No one heard the little prattler,As once more he climbed the stair.Reached his little cap and tippet,Standing on the table there.

No one heard the front door open,No one saw the golden hair,As it floated o'er his shouldersOn the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened,Till he reached the office door:"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,Is there room for any more?

'Cause this letter's going to papa;Papa lives with God, 'ou know:Mamma sent me for a letter;Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,"Not to-day, my little man;""Den I'll find anozzer office,'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,But the pleading face was gone,And the little feet were hastening,By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,People fled to left and right,As a pair of maddened horsesAt that moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure,No one saw the golden hair,Till a voice of frightened sweetnessRang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late: a moment onlyStood the beauteous vision there:Then the little face lay lifelessCovered o'er with golden hair.

Rev'rently they raised my darling,Brushed away the curls of gold,Saw the stamp upon the foreheadGrowing now so icy cold.

Not a mark left the face disfigured,Showing where a hoof had trod;But the little life was ended—"Papa's letter" was with God.

Bessie's Letter

I have got a letter,A letter of my own,It has my name upon it,Miss Bessie L. Stone.

My papa sent it to me,He's away from home—you seeI guess the postman wonderedWho Bessie Stone could be.

I'd like to send an answer,But I don't know how to spell;I'll get mamma to do it,And that will do as well.

A Little Boy's Valentine

Little girl across the way,You are so very sweet,I shouldn't be a bit surprisedIf you were good to eat.

Now what I'd like if you would too,Would be to go and play—Well, all the time, and all my life,On your side of the way.

I don't know anybody yetOn your side of the street,But often I look over thereAnd watch you—you're so sweet.

When I am big, I tell you what,I don't care what they say,I'll go across—and stay there, too,On your side of the way.

Letter Writing

Heaven first taught lettersFor some wretch's aid,Some banish'd lover,Or some captive maid.

They live, they speak,They breathe what love inspires,Warm from the soul,And faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wishWithout her fears impart,Excuse the blush,And pour out all the heart—

Speed the soft intercourseFrom soul to soul,And waft a sighFrom Indus to the pole.

Boil it Down

Whatever you have to say my friend,Whether witty, grave, or gay,Condense as much as ever you can,And that is the readiest way;And whether you write of rural affairs,Or particular things in town,Just take a word of friendly advice—"Boil it down."

Letters from Home

Letters from home! How musical to the earOf the sailor-boy on the far-off main,When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,Across the billow floats the gentle strain,The words the tear-drops of his memory move;They tell a mother's or a sister's love;And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him comeOut to him on the sea, in letters from his home.How warmly there the tender home-light shines!What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

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Polly's Letter to Brother BenDear Brother Ben,I take my penTo tell you where,And how, and when,I found the nestOf our speckled hen.She would never lay,In a sensible way,Like other hens,In the barn or the hay;But here and thereAnd everywhere,On the stable floor,And the wood-house stair,And once on the groundHer eggs I found.But yesterdayI ran away,With mother's leave,In the barn to play.The sun shone brightOn the seedy floor,And the doves so whiteWere a pretty sightAs they walked in and outOf the open door,With their little red feetAnd their features neat,Cooing and cooingMore and more.Well, I went outTo look aboutOn the platform wide,Where side by sideI could see the pig-pensIn their pride;And beyond them both,On a narrow shelf,I saw the speckled henHide herselfBehind a pileOf hoes and rakesAnd pieces of boardsAnd broken stakes."Ah! ha! old hen,I have found you now,But to reach your nestI don't know how,Unless I could creepOr climb or crawlAlong the edgeOf the pig-pen wall."And while I stoodIn a thoughtful meed,The speckled hen cackledAs loud as she could,And flew away,As much as to say,"For once my treasureIs out of your way."I did not waitA moment then:I couldn't be conqueredBy that old hen!But along the edgeOf the slippery ledgeI carefully crept,For the great pigs slept,And I dared noteven look to seeIf they were thinkingOf eating meBut all at once,Oh, what a dunce!I dropped my basketInto the pen,The one you gave me,Brother Ben;There were two eggs in it,By the way,That I found in the mangerUnder the hay.Then the pigs got upAnd ran aboutWith a noise betweenA grunt and a shout.And when I saw them,Rooting, rooting,Of course I slippedAnd lost my footing,And tripped,And jumped,And finally fellRight down amongThe pigs pell-mell.For once in my lifeI was afraid;For the door that ledOut to the shedWas fastened tightWith and iron hook,And father was downIn the fields by the brook,Hoeing and weedingHis rows of corn,And here was his PollySo scared and forlorn,But I called him, and called him,As loud as I could.I knew he would hear me—He must and he should."O father! O father!(Get out, you old pig).O father! oh! oh!"For their mouths are so big.Then I waited a minuteAnd called him again,"O father! O father!I am in the pig pen!"And father did hear,And he threw down his hoe,And scampered as fastAs a father could go.The pigs had pushed meClose to the wall,And munched my basket,Eggs and all,And chewed my sun-bonnetInto a ball.And one had rubbedHis muddy noseAll over my apron,Clean and white;And they sniffed at me,And stepped on my toes,But hadn't takenThe smallest bite,When father openedThe door at last,And oh! in his armsHe held me fast.E. W. DenisonWritingLittle pens of metal,Little drops of ink,Make the wicked tremble,And the people think.Value of WritingBlest be that gracious powerWho taught mankindTo stamp a lasting imageOn the mind:Beasts may convey,And tuneful birds may singTheir mutual feelingsIn the opening spring;But man alone has skillAnd power to sendThe heart's warm dictatesTo the distant friend:Tis his also to please,Instruct, advise,Ages remote,And nations yet to rise.CrabbeUse the PenUse the pen! there's magic in it,Never let it lag behind;Write thy thought, the pen can win itFrom the chaos of the mind.Many a gem is lost foreverBy the careless passer-by,But the gems of thought should neverOn the mental pathway lie.Use the pen! reck not that othersTake a higher flight than thine.Many an ocean cave still smothersPearls of price beneath the brine.So thy words and thoughts securingHonest praise from wisdom's tongue,May, in time, be as enduringAs the strains which Homer sung.J. E. CarpenterPower of the PenBeneath the rule of men entirely great,The pen is mightier than the sword.Lord LyttonLettersSuch a little thing—a letter,Yet so much it may contain:Written thoughts and mute expressionsFull of pleasure, fraught with pain.When our hearts are sad at parting,Comes a gleam of comfort bright,In the mutual promise given:"We will not forget to write."Plans and doings of the absent;Scraps of news we like to hear,All remind us, e'en though distant,Kind remembrance keeps us near.Yet sometimes a single letterTurns the sunshine into shade;Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,Blights our hopes and makes them fade.Messengers of joy or sorrow,Life or death, success, despair,Bearers of affection's wishes,Greetings kind or loving prayer.Prayer or greeting, were we present,Would be felt, but half unsaid;We can write—because our letters—Not our faces—will be read?Who has not some treasured letters,Fragments choice of other's lives;Relics, some, of friends departed,Friends whose memory still survives?Touched by neither time nor distance,Will their words unspoken last?Voiceless whispers of the present,Silent echoes of the past!The Right Method of CompositionNever be in haste in writing:Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But onceBegun, work thou all things into thy work:And set thyself about it, as the seaAbout the earth, lashing it day and night:And leave the stamp of thine own soul in itAs thorough as the fossil flower in clay:The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.P. J. BaileyCat and Dog Sending Letters.

Polly's Letter to Brother Ben

Dear Brother Ben,I take my penTo tell you where,And how, and when,I found the nestOf our speckled hen.She would never lay,In a sensible way,Like other hens,In the barn or the hay;

But here and thereAnd everywhere,On the stable floor,And the wood-house stair,And once on the groundHer eggs I found.But yesterdayI ran away,With mother's leave,In the barn to play.

The sun shone brightOn the seedy floor,And the doves so whiteWere a pretty sightAs they walked in and outOf the open door,With their little red feetAnd their features neat,Cooing and cooingMore and more.

Well, I went outTo look aboutOn the platform wide,Where side by sideI could see the pig-pensIn their pride;And beyond them both,On a narrow shelf,I saw the speckled henHide herself

Behind a pileOf hoes and rakesAnd pieces of boardsAnd broken stakes."Ah! ha! old hen,I have found you now,But to reach your nestI don't know how,Unless I could creepOr climb or crawlAlong the edgeOf the pig-pen wall."

And while I stoodIn a thoughtful meed,The speckled hen cackledAs loud as she could,And flew away,As much as to say,"For once my treasureIs out of your way."I did not waitA moment then:I couldn't be conqueredBy that old hen!

But along the edgeOf the slippery ledgeI carefully crept,For the great pigs slept,And I dared noteven look to seeIf they were thinkingOf eating meBut all at once,Oh, what a dunce!

I dropped my basketInto the pen,The one you gave me,Brother Ben;There were two eggs in it,By the way,That I found in the mangerUnder the hay.Then the pigs got upAnd ran aboutWith a noise betweenA grunt and a shout.

And when I saw them,Rooting, rooting,Of course I slippedAnd lost my footing,And tripped,And jumped,And finally fellRight down amongThe pigs pell-mell.For once in my lifeI was afraid;For the door that ledOut to the shed

Was fastened tightWith and iron hook,And father was downIn the fields by the brook,Hoeing and weedingHis rows of corn,And here was his PollySo scared and forlorn,But I called him, and called him,As loud as I could.I knew he would hear me—He must and he should.

"O father! O father!(Get out, you old pig).O father! oh! oh!"For their mouths are so big.Then I waited a minuteAnd called him again,"O father! O father!I am in the pig pen!"And father did hear,And he threw down his hoe,And scampered as fastAs a father could go.

The pigs had pushed meClose to the wall,And munched my basket,Eggs and all,And chewed my sun-bonnetInto a ball.And one had rubbedHis muddy noseAll over my apron,Clean and white;

And they sniffed at me,And stepped on my toes,But hadn't takenThe smallest bite,When father openedThe door at last,And oh! in his armsHe held me fast.

E. W. Denison

Writing

Little pens of metal,Little drops of ink,Make the wicked tremble,And the people think.

Value of Writing

Blest be that gracious powerWho taught mankindTo stamp a lasting imageOn the mind:

Beasts may convey,And tuneful birds may singTheir mutual feelingsIn the opening spring;

But man alone has skillAnd power to sendThe heart's warm dictatesTo the distant friend:

Tis his also to please,Instruct, advise,Ages remote,And nations yet to rise.

Crabbe

Use the Pen

Use the pen! there's magic in it,Never let it lag behind;Write thy thought, the pen can win itFrom the chaos of the mind.

Many a gem is lost foreverBy the careless passer-by,But the gems of thought should neverOn the mental pathway lie.

Use the pen! reck not that othersTake a higher flight than thine.Many an ocean cave still smothersPearls of price beneath the brine.

So thy words and thoughts securingHonest praise from wisdom's tongue,May, in time, be as enduringAs the strains which Homer sung.

J. E. Carpenter

Power of the Pen

Beneath the rule of men entirely great,The pen is mightier than the sword.

Lord Lytton

Letters

Such a little thing—a letter,Yet so much it may contain:Written thoughts and mute expressionsFull of pleasure, fraught with pain.

When our hearts are sad at parting,Comes a gleam of comfort bright,In the mutual promise given:"We will not forget to write."

Plans and doings of the absent;Scraps of news we like to hear,All remind us, e'en though distant,Kind remembrance keeps us near.

Yet sometimes a single letterTurns the sunshine into shade;Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,Blights our hopes and makes them fade.

Messengers of joy or sorrow,Life or death, success, despair,Bearers of affection's wishes,Greetings kind or loving prayer.

Prayer or greeting, were we present,Would be felt, but half unsaid;We can write—because our letters—Not our faces—will be read?

Who has not some treasured letters,Fragments choice of other's lives;Relics, some, of friends departed,Friends whose memory still survives?

Touched by neither time nor distance,Will their words unspoken last?Voiceless whispers of the present,Silent echoes of the past!

The Right Method of Composition

Never be in haste in writing:Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But onceBegun, work thou all things into thy work:And set thyself about it, as the seaAbout the earth, lashing it day and night:And leave the stamp of thine own soul in itAs thorough as the fossil flower in clay:The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.

P. J. Bailey

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Our Lady Artist.

Our Gentleman Artist.

The Sunday Fisherman: A story with Symbols.

Drawing Pussy's Likeness.

Working for a Prize.

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Eyes.

Over this page, and read, mark, learn,and inwardly digest its Contents.

A Room Hung With Pictures Is A Room Hung WithThoughts.

THE two greatest educating powers in the ancient world were Pictures and Poetry—the two greatest educating powers are pictures and poetry still, and pictures and poetry blended in an interesting manner is the intended educating feature of this PLEASANT-LEARNING-LAND, but my object in this place is to speak of pictures only, as perhaps the greatest of all educating powers, and to demonstrate that they are not sufficiently used for educational purposes. Firstly: pictures are in a universal language—when they are true to nature every person on the earth can understand them. Show a picture of a person or a bird, a horse or a house, a ship, a tree, or a landscape, and everyone knows what is meant, and this is why most of the peoples of the ancient world conveyed their ideas in picture language. FLETCHER, in hisCyclopedia of Education, says:— "It has long been accepted as an axiom that the best explanation of a thing is the sight and study of the thing itself, and the next best a true picture of the thing." DRYDEN, speaking of poetry and painting says:—"The poets are confined to narrow space,To speak the language of their native place;The painter widely stretches his command,His pencil speaks the tongue of every land."Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:—A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:—"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:—"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:—"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:—"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:—"His pictured morals mend the mind,And through the eye improve the heart."But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:—"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:— "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:—"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:—"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:— "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:—Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:—"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view,Reflects the image, and retains it too!Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face,Revives each look, and rivals every grace:In thee the banished lover finds relief,His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief:Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power,The father feels thee in affliction's hour;When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies.To take its angel station in the skies,The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair,And sheds a comfort, even in despair."Or—"The widow'd husband sees his sainted wifeIn pictures warm, and smiling as in life,—And—While he gazes with convulsive thrill,And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still,He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid,That half restores the substance in the shade."But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish—pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings—outside and inside if you like —but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive—so it would if they were costly pictures—but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:—"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:—"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:—

"The poets are confined to narrow space,To speak the language of their native place;The painter widely stretches his command,His pencil speaks the tongue of every land."

Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:—A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:—"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:—"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:—"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:—"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:—

"His pictured morals mend the mind,And through the eye improve the heart."

But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:—"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:— "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:—"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:—"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:— "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:—Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."

Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:—

"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view,Reflects the image, and retains it too!Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face,Revives each look, and rivals every grace:In thee the banished lover finds relief,His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief:Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power,The father feels thee in affliction's hour;When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies.To take its angel station in the skies,The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair,And sheds a comfort, even in despair."Or—"The widow'd husband sees his sainted wifeIn pictures warm, and smiling as in life,—And—While he gazes with convulsive thrill,And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still,He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid,That half restores the substance in the shade."

But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish—pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.

There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings—outside and inside if you like —but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive—so it would if they were costly pictures—but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:—"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:—"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."

I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:—

Every cottage,Two-roomed cottage,Should contain fullTwenty PICTURES.Every cottage,Four-roomed cottage,Should contain fullForty PICTURES.Every cottage,Six-roomed cottage,Should contain fullSixty PICTURES.Every villa,Eight-roomed villa,Should contain fullEighty PICTURES.Every mansion,Ten-roomed mansion,Should contain aHundred PICTURES.Every large schoolFor instructionShould contain aTHOUSAND PICTURES.Walls are made toKeep out weatherAnd also toDisplay PICTURES.Count your PICTURESAll your walls on.See if you haveQuite the number,You will want moreYou will wish more,You will get moreShouldn't wonder.PICTURES they areMade to please you—First to please youWhen you buy them;Next to please yourOwn dear children,Pictures please andTeach them too.Next to please yourFriends and neighboursWhen they kindlyCall on you.They'll admire them,Then they'll praise them.Then that pleasesYou again.PICTURES please andTeach for ever,All the Children,Women, Men.

Every cottage,Four-roomed cottage,Should contain fullForty PICTURES.

Every cottage,Six-roomed cottage,Should contain fullSixty PICTURES.

Every villa,Eight-roomed villa,Should contain fullEighty PICTURES.

Every mansion,Ten-roomed mansion,Should contain aHundred PICTURES.

Every large schoolFor instructionShould contain aTHOUSAND PICTURES.

Walls are made toKeep out weatherAnd also toDisplay PICTURES.

Count your PICTURESAll your walls on.See if you haveQuite the number,You will want moreYou will wish more,You will get moreShouldn't wonder.

PICTURES they areMade to please you—First to please youWhen you buy them;Next to please yourOwn dear children,Pictures please andTeach them too.Next to please yourFriends and neighboursWhen they kindlyCall on you.

They'll admire them,Then they'll praise them.Then that pleasesYou again.PICTURES please andTeach for ever,All the Children,Women, Men.

Even in the poorest houses pictures must always be a blessing. Many a poor man's cheerless home would be made much more comfortable and endurable if a few shilling's worth of good pictures were posted or hung round its bare walls. If houses were universally decorated with true speaking pictures what an immense influence for good it would bring them. What intellectual and refined tastes it would create and nurture. One most important thing in selecting pictures to cover the walls it to always choose good subjects. A poor picture takes up as much room as a good one, and generally costs as much. Always choose live speaking pictures that will interest and instruct. There is an immense multitude of poor, tame, an uninteresting pictures produced in the world, and which in millions of instances keep out the good ones. If these poor ones could be kept back or destroyed, and the best ones only take their place, the world would be better for it. In choosing materials to build up a bright, happy home, always select the best—the best books—the best music—the best pictures. In conclusion, there is one more suggestion I would make on the picture question, and I think it is the most important of all; it is that a good clear map of the world should be hung in every house in the world, to give every person an idea of the world they live in. For it is a most deplorable fact that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the inhabitants, even of the civilized world, have a very poor conception of the geography and ethnology of the world. And this should not be, for every person ought to have a clear idea of their world-fatherland, and of their fellow creatures, and a knowledge of the map of the world is the first lesson to be learned in that most desirable direction.E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.A Single Picture Often Conveys More Than Volumes.

E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.

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Drawing Doggy's Likeness.

The New SlateSee my slate. I dot it newCos I b'oke the other,Put my 'ittle foot right froo,Runnin' after modder.I tan make you lots of sings,Fass as you tan tell 'em,T's and B's and O rings,Only I tan't spell 'emI tan make an elephant,Wid his trunk a hangin';An' a boy—who says I tan't?Wid his dun a bangin'An' the smoke a tummin' out;(Wid my t'umb I do it,Rubbin' all the white about,)Sparks a flying froo it.I tan make a pretty house,Wid a tree behind it,And a 'ittle mousey-mouseRunnin' round to find it.I tan put my hand out flatOn the slate and draw it;(Ticklin' is the worst of that!)Did you ever saw it?Now, then, s'all I make a treeWid a birdie on it?All my pictures you s'all seeIf you'll wait a minute.No, I dess I'll make a manJuss like Uncle Rolly,See it tummin', fass it tan!Bet my slate is jolly!Do Not Stare.

The New Slate

See my slate. I dot it newCos I b'oke the other,Put my 'ittle foot right froo,Runnin' after modder.

I tan make you lots of sings,Fass as you tan tell 'em,T's and B's and O rings,Only I tan't spell 'em

I tan make an elephant,Wid his trunk a hangin';An' a boy—who says I tan't?Wid his dun a bangin'

An' the smoke a tummin' out;(Wid my t'umb I do it,Rubbin' all the white about,)Sparks a flying froo it.

I tan make a pretty house,Wid a tree behind it,And a 'ittle mousey-mouseRunnin' round to find it.

I tan put my hand out flatOn the slate and draw it;(Ticklin' is the worst of that!)Did you ever saw it?

Now, then, s'all I make a treeWid a birdie on it?All my pictures you s'all seeIf you'll wait a minute.

No, I dess I'll make a manJuss like Uncle Rolly,See it tummin', fass it tan!Bet my slate is jolly!

Doggy Drawing Pussy's Likeness.

Our Baby Artist.

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Doggies Sitting to have Their Portraits Taken.

Learning to DrawCome, here is a slate,And a pencil, and string.And now sit you down, dear,And draw pretty thing;A man and a cow,And a horse and a tree,And when you have finishedPray show them to me.What! cannot you do it?Shall I show you how?Come, give me your pencil;I'll draw you a cow.You've made the poor creatureLook very forlorn!She has but three legs, dear,And only one horn.Now look, I have drawn youA beautiful cow;And see, here's a dicky-bird,Perched on a bough,And there are some moreFlying down from above;There now, is not thatVery pretty, my love?Oh, yes, very pretty!Now make me some more—A house with a gate,And a window, and a door,And a little boy flyingHis kite with a string;Oh, thank you, mamma,Now I'll draw pretty thing.Young Artist Touching Up.

Learning to Draw

Come, here is a slate,And a pencil, and string.And now sit you down, dear,And draw pretty thing;A man and a cow,And a horse and a tree,And when you have finishedPray show them to me.

What! cannot you do it?Shall I show you how?Come, give me your pencil;I'll draw you a cow.You've made the poor creatureLook very forlorn!She has but three legs, dear,And only one horn.

Now look, I have drawn youA beautiful cow;And see, here's a dicky-bird,Perched on a bough,And there are some moreFlying down from above;There now, is not thatVery pretty, my love?

Oh, yes, very pretty!Now make me some more—A house with a gate,And a window, and a door,And a little boy flyingHis kite with a string;Oh, thank you, mamma,Now I'll draw pretty thing.

A Fairy in Great Danger.

Our Picture Gallery.

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