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THE MAMMOTH CAVE.
"WHAT is the Mammoth Cave?"I hear the Children say,Where fishes have no eyes nor sight,And where 'tis dark by day?You all have seen a ledgeOf big rocks piled, or stone?--Now just suppose a door-way made,Or entrance to go in.{171}And when you're in, a pathLeads on, right under ground,And by-and-by you come to a placeLike a room with walls around.'Tis jagged and rough and rude,'Tis dark and damp as a grave,But whether 'tis large or small,'Tis always called a cave.Now, Mammoth meansmonstrous big,And the Mammoth cave, we claimAs the largest known in the world,And that's what gives the name.And it has many a room,Quite large and wondrous grand,And it has springs and streams and lakes,All dark, you understand.And here are fishes, too,Yes, fishes with no eyes,That have lived in the dark for ages past,As learned men surmise.
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THE CAMELS.
The Camels live in desert lands;Their feet are made to walk on sands;They carry burdens far and near,Where neither grass nor trees appear;Where there's no rain, no rivers, brooks,No water anywhere for folks;--But God has made in Camels' chestPeculiar sacs, for He knew bestWhat they must do, and that they'd die,If He did not their drink supply.Before they start they drink and drink,Till every sac is full, I think;--And at the mouth of every sac,A muscle strong, but loose and slack,Will tighten up when it is filled,So that no drink can e'er be spilled.And when on journey, last or first,The camel wants to slake his thirst,A bag-string loosens, and out-poursEnough to satisfy for hours.
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The laden camels, in a row,Are called a Caravan, you know;--Sometimes a caravan is lost,Being buried deep in sand and dust.
A storm of wind, a Simoon named,Will sweep across the desert sand,When camels, men, and every oneMust throw themselves their knees upon,And bury faces in the earth,For thus alone they save their breath;A fearful thing, but 'tis the bestThat they can do,--now hear the rest.
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Sometimes they're buried deep, and findWhen they dig out they're almost blindAnd cannot tell which way to go,And thus are lost, a serious woe!Sometimes, when lost, the drink for menGets short; is gone; they thirst, and thenThey kill a camel just for lackOf what he carries in his sac.
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In deserts bare and bleak and drear,The sun shines hot through all the year,But many an Oasis is found,Or spot where grass and trees abound.And here is drink, and here they rest,And take their fill of what is best;Then travel on in thankful mood,With song and shout! "Allah is good!"
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KEY-NOTES.
L M N RLIGHTLY flowing LIQUIDS, we,--Tethered with our brothers.Make we music, melody,More than all the others;Lulling, mellowy, nimble, rare,Reveling in rhythm,Running here and everywhere,Make me merry with 'em.
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THE BEARS.
Wild bears are found all over,From Northern lands to South,But largest, strongest, where 'tis coldAnd fiercest farthest North.All bears are fond of honey,Of berries, too, and roots;They hug or squeeze their prey to death,As this their nature suits.They mate in June-y weather;Their little ones are cubs;They sadly mourn when mates are killed,You'd almost hear their sobs.They'll try to feed a cubThat's lying cold and dead,And will not flee, but stand and takeThe fatal knife instead.
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They sleep through winter-time,But prowl in wildest storms,With hope to find some creature killed,Or struck with death's alarms.The bears are white, or black,Or brown or grizzly gray,The white 'mong polar snows are found,Where half the year is day.Their fur is used for robes,For coats, sometimes a muff,--Their meat is prized by some as food,While some would call it "stuff."{181}They nimbly climb a tree,But "back down," for their frameIs made so lungs would forward press,If they head-foremost, came.
THE BEAR A BLESSING.
To people of Kamtschatka,The bear a blessing proves;His skin forms beds and coverlets,And bonnets, shoes, and gloves.His flesh and fat are dainties,And of his intestine,Is made a mask for warding offThe glare of Sun in Spring.
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'Tis also used for windows,As substitute for glass;Of shoulder-blade a tool is made,That's used for cutting grass.Norwegians think the Bear isMore sensible than men;While Laplands call him "Dog of God,"And dare not him offend.
{183}
FRUITS
The fruits of the orchard and gardenAre beautiful, luscious and good,Partake of them freely, dear children,But eat them at meals with your food.
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THE RACCOON.
Come, child, and see our pet Raccoon,--The Raccoons live in the woods, you know;But ours was caught,And caged, and broughtFrom old Virginia, long ago.
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Oh, no, you need not be afraid.See, he is fastened with a chain;For ropes enoughHe has gnawed off,And he is hard to catch again.He e'en will climb this ten-foot fence,And, careless where his feet may strike,He tumbles, bang!And there will hang,His rope being caught by vine or spike.And once the rascal ran away;Was gone for days, and maybe weeks ;When children came,And charging blame,Said, "Your Raccoon has caught our chicks."
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"He's on our roof a-making mouth,And chatters when we would go near.We wish you'd comeand take time home,So that our chick need not fear."{187}So now he's chained; yet up he'll climbThe stake to which he's fastened tight,And mutter low,So pleading, Oh!'T would make you sorry for him, quite.Just see his nose, so pointed, sharp,--His ears as keen as keen can be,--His eyes so bright,So full of light,And see him leap right merrily!His fur, you see, is yellowish gray,--And he is nearly two feet long;He lives on roots,And nuts and fruits,When he's his native woods among.But here we give him bread and milk;He never eats like dogs or lambs,But takes it upFrom out the cupWith his fore-foot, as we use hands.
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You'd laugh to see him, I am sure;Of strawberries, too, he's very fond;Will poke aroundTill he has foundEach one among the hulls out-thrown.Then, too, he's fond of nice clean clothes,Will spring for sheet hung out to dry;And children dressedIn very best,Are sure to please his dainty eye.No matter where his feet have been,He'll spring and plant them, little pest,On something white,And then will fightTo hold, and hide it in his nest.* * * * *{189}You've "come again to see our Coon"?Well, he is gone; he plagued us so,We sent the "Rac"To Central Park,Where you can see him when you go.Oh yes, they're glad to get him, there;They have no clothes hung out to dry;And children ayeMust stand away,For there a keeper's always nigh.
* * * * *
A "Yes" and "No" are common, hard,But "yes'm," "no-sir," choice;--Let none but sweet and gentle wordsFlow from your gift of voice.
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THE BANK-SWALLOWS.
In a village of Bank-Swallows,You will find so many a nest,"That you scarce can tell their numberNor which one of them is best."{191}In the sand-hill, see the openings,Round or oval odd-shaped, some,Size and form depending often,On how loose the sand become.When with their short bills they pecked it,Clinging fast with claws the while,Till they made an open door-waySuiting them in size and style.Once within, they peck and peck it,--Sometimes quite a yard or more,While the nest is snugly builded,Farthest from the outer door.But, so wise are they, this archwayFrom the entrance to the nest,Is inclining ever upward,That no rain within may rest.So the pink-white eggs are laid there,Safe from harm, till baby-birdsChirrup forth to take their places,'Mongst the self-sustaining herds.{192}Smallest of the swallow species,Homeliest, too, yet favorites dear,For their graceful, airy movements,And their simple, social cheer.Found are they from North to South-land,Known of every tribe and race;--Swift in flight, yet swinging, swaying,Skimming low from place to place.Parent-birds care less for young ones,Than do other swallow-kind;--Push them off half-fledged and timid,Each his food and home to find.Thus they, many a time, fall prey toHawks and crows, their enemies;--Even the nest sometimes is enteredBy the snakes and fleas and flies.Swallows migrate in the Winter,From the cold to warmer climes,Flying back as Spring approaches,To the haunts of former times.
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"Ne'er one swallow makes a Summer,"Is a saying everywhere;--But when swallows come in myriads,Blessed Summer-time is here.
{194}
THE MOCKING-BIRD.
The New World boasts the Mocking-birdAnd whether caged or free,His wondrous voice pours forth in songsOf rarest melody.His notes swell out and die away,As if a joyous soulWere wrought to highest ecstacy,All music to control.
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His native notes are bold and full,And then he'll imitate,Till it would seem the feathered tribeWere all arrayed in state.He'll whistle for the dog or cat,Will squeak like chicken, hurt,And cluck and crow and bark and mew,So comical and curt.While blue-birds warble, swallows scream,Or hens will cackle clear.In robin's song, the whip-poor-willPours forth his plaint so near.{196}Canaries, hang-birds, nightingales,He echoes loud and long;While they stand silent, mortified,He triumphs in his song.
THE BUSY BEES.
Why do the little busy beesSo dearly love their queen,And wait upon and pay respect,With watchful care and mien?
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Because the queen lays all the eggs,And mothers all the young,While every father-bee that's hatchedIs nothing but a drone.
The working bees might all be queens,If cared for and well-fedWhen they are in the larvae state,But they're half-starved instead,--While those intended for young queensAre fattened overmuch,And nursed and petted every hour,That they full growth may reach.For every different kind of eggThat makes the different bees,A different kind of cell is made,The queen directing these.For drones or males, six-sided cells,Quite neat, and smooth, and nice;For working-bees a smaller cell,Uncouth, and rough, and coarse;
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While those for queens are large and free,And fashioned fine with care,And lined with softest, silken shredsSo daintily they fare.The queen-bee lays the worker-eggs,A dozen days, I ween,And then the drones as many more,Then workers, then the queen.Eggs, two or three, and sometimes fourAre laid in worker-cell;While drones and queens have each but one,As oft is proven well.The bluish eggs so close and warm,Hatch out with three days passed;{199}When larvae, white, as little worms,Are watched and fed and nursed.
These larvae, when some six days old,Close in their cells are shut,And there at once begin to weaveA silken web about.They turn and twist till all aroundThemselves 'tis woven quite,And then they rest for twenty days,--'Tis such a pretty sight.
The small cocoons of working-bees,The larger ones of drones,The large and plump and perfect onesOf all the coming queens.{200}In twenty days they now burst forth,Equipped from tip to toe,The working-bees and drones, I mean,For queens come forth more slow.The queen cocoons ope from behind,And I will tell you why,'Tis that the reigning queen may stingThe others till they die.If mother queen leads off a swarm,A young queen they release,And she may take another swarm,And leave the hive in peace.Another queen is then let out,Perhaps a third and fourth,As many as can raise a swarm,To follow them, not loath;
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But when no more can swarm and go,Because not bees enough,As I have said, the reigning queenStings all the rest to death.For in each hive and everywhere,One queen alone will reign,And any interloper meetsWith sure and sharp disdain.Of workers, some are strong to fly,While some are weak and small,Unfitted quite, for load or flight,Or outside work at all.These last complete the larvae-cells,And nurse and feed the young;They mix the bee-bread, cleanse the hive,And care for every drone.All bees have stings except the drones,And these, when Autumn nears,Are stung to death with furious wrath,As by the book appears.{202}And now I hope you children all,Will use your wondrous powerTo "gather honey all the day,From every opening flower."
{203}
BBB R YYYB U YY[Footnote: Bees are wises; Be you wise.]
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HONEY-SWEET.
"Ah, but how do bees make honey?"Now the children, eager, ask;And we'll try to give them answer,If we're able for the task.See, the under-lip is lengthened,Like a trunk or proboscis,Ending by a kind of button,Fringed with tiny moving hairs.All along its length, too, fringes,Just the same, are growing forth;And by means of these, the honeyIs conveyed from flowers to mouth.Then the bee has two small stomachs,In the first of which is storedAll the honey it can gather,But, when home, 'tis quick out-poured.{206}Bees have six legs; and in hindmost,There are baskets found, or bags,Into which the pollen gathered,Is brushed off by the other legs.And this pollen, for the bee-breadAnd as food for young, they use,Mixed with honey and with water,--Swallowed and disgorged like juiceBy the nurses, who digest itPartly, for the larvae-food,Taking care that each shall have it,Just according to the brood.
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Now we'll watch and see them working;See them brush off pollen-dust;See them, too, disgorge the honey,Into cells the sweetness thrust.Children, with your useful fingers,Hands and arms and feet and head,Do not let the bees surpass you,Making honey, nay, nor bread.
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WHAT THEY SAY.
Those creatures that chew the cud,The "RUMINANTS" we call,From "Rumen," or the stomach-pouch,In which their food doth fall.A "SPECIES" is a kindOf animals or plants;--Each species has a different name,And differing traits and wants,--And species may uniteTo form a RACE we know,Forracefromrootis always drawn,Androotsmust spread and grow.
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That men and women areThe race most choice and fine,We plainly see, and sometimes call,TheHuman Race Divine.
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The noble Horse neighs out,"I am the raceEquine,And nearest seem, and dearest toThe 'human race, divine.'"The Ox and Cow l-o-o, l-o-o,"We are the raceBovine;And we most useful are, untoThe 'human race, divine.'"
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The Ass and Mule bray out,"Our race isAssinine,And very like us seem some ofThe 'human race, divine.'"
The Dog bow-wows as raceCanine, Canine, Canine;{212}While Tigers, Cats and Catamounts,G-r-o-w-l, growl, as raceFeline.
The Lion, king of beasts(Feline), roars "Leonine;"--The Lamb that's to lie down with him,Ba-a, ba-as for raceOvine.
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Fishes in lakes or seasor rivers SportPiscine;While birds in air or cages close,Sing, "raceAvine, Avine."
All bees in hives or wild,Hum out the raceApine;{214}And reptiles all rejoicing crawlIn raceReptilian.
* * * * *
I've a name that's made up of three letters alone,--That reads backwards and forwards the same;I speak without sound,--yes, I talk without tongue.And to beauty I lay the first claim.* * * * *A word of three syllables, children, now find,That holds the whole twenty-six letters combined. [1]The B ing m t, John put some: [2]
[Footnote 1: Alphabet]
[Footnote 2: The grate being empty, John put some coal on.]
[Footnote 3: I understand you undertake to overthrow my undertaking.]
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BRITAIN'S RULERS.
Old Britain was under the RomansFrom fifty-five years before Christ (55 B. C.)To four hundred fifty-five (455 A. D.)Then her eight States on home-rule insist.{216}For many a year now they wrangle,Ah! yes, for quite three seventy-two,Being ruled now by this king, now that one,As each might the former o'erthrow.But ever since eight-twenty-seven (827),Britain's rulers have reigned by descent,From Egbert, first "Monarch of England,"To Victoria, daughter of Kent.A score reigned and fell.--Second HaroldIn ten-sixty-six (1066), proud; usurps,But soon in fierce battle is conqueredBy William of Normandy's troops.Then came William the Conqueror, a Norman,Then William the Second, his son;Then Henry and Stephen and Henry,Then Richard (Coeur de Lion), and John.Next Henry the Third, and First Edward,Edward Second and Third, Richard, two (II).Henrys Fourth, Fifth and Sixth, and Fourth EdwardFifth Edward,--Third Richard, they rue.Henry Seventh and Eighth, and Sixth Edward,Then Mary, Bess, James, and Charles First,--Eleven years then with no monarch;Second Charles, Second James, not the worst.{217}Then William and Mary, then Anne,Four Georges, Fourth William, untilCame Victoria, long live her queenship,For she wields her proud scepter with skill.
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OUR LAND.
A ship sailed over the blue, salt sea,For a man, Columbus called,Had thought that the world was round, and heOf the old ideas had palled.So, in fourteen hundred and ninety-two,He sailed across from Spain,And found our continent so new--The "land beyond the main."{219}But jealousies and rivalriesAnd bickerings begun,And Christopher Columbus nowWith grief was overborne.Americus Vespucius soonOur shores came sailing round,And stole the naming of the landColumbus sought and found;While he, Columbus, lay in chains,And died in sore distress;Yet won for us who tread his land,A lasting blessedness.* * * * *Young I-know is saucy and pert,And thinks himself wondrously wise;But I-know, the second, steps in all so curt,And you'd think that each might lose his eyes.
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SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC.
THE annual path of the Sun,TheEclipticis called, as we see,--And a belt, eight degrees, on each side,TheZodiacever will be.The principal planets all seemTo move in the zodiac lines,While the belt, of itself, is cut upInto twelve equal parts, called theSigns.And these signs were first named, we are told,From their fancied resemblance to beasts,Which astronomers thought they could seeIn the stars, from the West to the East.
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There is Aries, the Ram, then the Bull,Which is Taurus,--then Gemini, Twins;Then Cancer, a Crab and then Leo,A Lion, and Virgo, Virgin.Next Libra, the Balance or Scales,And Scorpio, a Scorpion (with sting),--Sagittarius, the Archer or Arrow,--Capricornus, a Goat's horn we bring.
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Aquarius, the Bearer of Water,--And Pisces, or Fish from the sea,--All together make twelve, and a wonderIt is, that these fancies should be.
{223}
GRAPHO.
Children, you ought to knowThatGraphocan but meanTo picture out, or tell about,Some object or some thing.NowGeomeans theearth;And so GeographyMeans picturing out or telling aboutThis earth of ours, you see.AsPhonomeans asound,Phonography so terse,Just pictures out or tells aboutThe sounds of the human voice.{224}AsPhotomeans thelight,Photography must meanA picturing of the light that fallsUpon a thing, I ween.NowAstromeans thestars;And hence AstrographyMeans to describe or tell aboutThe stars we all may see.And then AstronomyTells all the various lawsThat govern or relate to stars;Of their motions tells the cause.NowBiosmeans alife;And so BiographyMeans writing out the life of one,Which we may often see.Zoosmeansanimal;And your ZoographyDescribes the animals that liveOn land or in the sea.{225}Then there's Stenography,A writing narrow, small,Or, as so many call it now,"Short-hand," which tells it all.And then Xylography--Engraving upon wood;And Crystallography as well,That tells of crystals good.But these areographiesEnough for now, you think;Yet when you're older, wiser grown,You many more will link.
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THE STOP FAMILY.
"I'm a dot with a quirk," whispers little Miss Comma,"And you'll please not to pause long for me.""I'm a dot over Comma," says Miss Semicolon,"And you'll pause twice as long where I be.""I am dot over dot," Master Colon speaks out,"You'll pause longer for me than they say:""I am one dot alone," Period says with a toneThat means: "Stop when you see me obey!"{227}"I'm a hook over dot," says Dame Interrogation,"I ask questions; but answer? O, nay!""I'm a splash over dot," says old Sir Exclamation;"I show wonder, delight, or dismay!""I'm a line east and west," says Miss Dash, "and I'm bestAt changing of subjects, you know."--"I am Dash's small sister," says Hyphen, and kissed her;"I unite words, or syl-la-bles, so."Then said Marks of Parenthesis (carefully curved),"We inclose what you well may omit;But we're often displaced by Miss Dash (in your haste),Whom you sadly mistake for a wit."Now Apostrophe, Caret, Quotation, exclaimed:"We are commas and hyphens combined;We leave out, or put in, or reveal to your kinWhat you've said, when their backs you're behind."Then Star, Daggers, Parallels, Paragraph too,Started up, staring wildly about,{228}With "We rise to explain on the margin, 'tis plain,Or to point a new paragraph out."Of the whole Punctuation, each knew his own station.Each did his own duty, we see;If we do ours as well, and of their's, too, can tell,We shall soon learn good readers to be.
* * * * *
"All is not gold that glitters;"Yet think not, children mine,That all that glitters is not gold;The true must ring and shine.
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LITTLE MISCHIEF.
Little Master MischiefLives in Nellie's eye,Sitting in the corner,Peeping out so sly;Now he's crossed the snow-groundAnd in chamber blue,Thinking he is hidden,Peek-a-boos at you.Now he drops the curtain,Sure that he is hid,But you see him dancingEven on the lid.Now, the curtains lifting,You can see he's creptTo the inner chamber,Where the love-light slept.Watching now his momentHe pops out, and see,Mamma's spools and thimbleQuickly disagree.
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Shall we punish Mischief?Better teach the childHow to hold and lead him,Running now so wild.Would she like her playthingsScattered here and there,When she had arranged them?Would she think it fair?Would she like her puzzlePortions of it, lost?Would she like her dishesEverywhere uptossed?Would she like her apronWith a missing string,Mamma hunting, meanwhile,Thread and everything?Nellie, learn the lesson:Be to others true,Always do as you wouldHave them do to you.{232}This the dear Lord's precept,--This the Golden Rule,--This the highest lessonIn our Nellie's school.
* * * * *
Be gentle and loving,Be kind and polite;Be thoughtful for others,Be sure and do right.
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GRANDMA'S CANARY.
Grandma loves her birdy,And when he gaily sings,She will laugh and chat with him,At which he hops and springs.Fearing though, that birdyMight not understand,Grandma from the toy-shop,Brought a whistle grand.Tuning now the whistle,To his sweet bird-note,He in singing back to her,Nearly burst his throat,
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Birdy, free outflying,Often comes to lightOn Grandma's tip-of-fingerOr chair-back, pretty sight!From her hand she feeds him,And he oft will takeFrom her mouth the sugar,With a merry shake.Yester-morn the windowBeing open wide,Birdy thought it brighterOn the outer side.Grandma mourning sadly,Shed of tears a few,Then she prayed the Father,"Show me what to do."Soon she set his cage outOn the window-sill,Saying, "Birdy'll come now,Oh, I'm sure he will!"{235}Then she, hopeful, praying,"Bring my birdy home,"Took the sweet bird-whistle,Playing "Birdy, come."And the birdy hearing,Quickly came and litOn the cage, and shortlyFlitted into it.Thankful now was Grandma,To the dear Lord, who,Listening to her prayerTaught her what to do.