A BED-TIME STORY.Mamma dear, tell us a pretty story; tell us of what you and papa saw when you were traveling; and my sturdy Harold, and his wee baby sister, tired with their play, sank at my feet at the close of the long summer day. Kissing the hot up-turned faces, and lifting the little one to my lap, I began an oft repeated simple tale of how papa and I, while in Switzerland, drove, one evening, from the village where we were stopping, way out in the country, over green wooden bridges and sparkling streams, past dazzling white villas, through shady lanes bordered by high, thorny hedges; where it was so lifeless and still, the sound of our shaggy pony’s hoofs could hardly be heard.A little girl sitting on the doorstepComing to a low, brown, thatched cottage, the door stood open, and we drove slowly; inside could be seen the table, spread with its frugal repast of oaten cakes and milk; a high, old-fashioned dresser, with its curious jugs of blue delf; a distaff, with the flax still attached, and on the broad door-step sat the prettiest little blue-eyed maiden, wearing a quaint white cap over her yellow locks, a striped kirtle and black waist over a snowy blouse. Like a picture she sat, eating her oat-cake, while tame gray and white doves circled about her or lit on the stones, hoping to get a crumb. Farther on, we stoppedat a more pretentious house, called a Swiss chalet, to buy a drink of goat’s milk. Here they were quite well-to-do gardeners; and while the peasant wife was gone for the milk, the little daughter, who was rather sweetly dressed, and was very bright and talkative, showed us, with much pride, the heap of garden produce her father was to take to market, early the next morning.A pretty sight it was too—the great wooden table, loaded with the fresh greens and reds of the vegetables, and at one end, guarded by a tall pewter flagon, polished till it glowed like silver; an old oaken cabinet on the wall, bearing glittering decanters and brass candle sticks; the chattering little maiden, and over all, the golden rays of fading sun-light stealing through the deep tiny-paned windows. We—ah, my darlings are asleep.A little girl showing off garden produce
Mamma dear, tell us a pretty story; tell us of what you and papa saw when you were traveling; and my sturdy Harold, and his wee baby sister, tired with their play, sank at my feet at the close of the long summer day. Kissing the hot up-turned faces, and lifting the little one to my lap, I began an oft repeated simple tale of how papa and I, while in Switzerland, drove, one evening, from the village where we were stopping, way out in the country, over green wooden bridges and sparkling streams, past dazzling white villas, through shady lanes bordered by high, thorny hedges; where it was so lifeless and still, the sound of our shaggy pony’s hoofs could hardly be heard.
A little girl sitting on the doorstep
Coming to a low, brown, thatched cottage, the door stood open, and we drove slowly; inside could be seen the table, spread with its frugal repast of oaten cakes and milk; a high, old-fashioned dresser, with its curious jugs of blue delf; a distaff, with the flax still attached, and on the broad door-step sat the prettiest little blue-eyed maiden, wearing a quaint white cap over her yellow locks, a striped kirtle and black waist over a snowy blouse. Like a picture she sat, eating her oat-cake, while tame gray and white doves circled about her or lit on the stones, hoping to get a crumb. Farther on, we stoppedat a more pretentious house, called a Swiss chalet, to buy a drink of goat’s milk. Here they were quite well-to-do gardeners; and while the peasant wife was gone for the milk, the little daughter, who was rather sweetly dressed, and was very bright and talkative, showed us, with much pride, the heap of garden produce her father was to take to market, early the next morning.A pretty sight it was too—the great wooden table, loaded with the fresh greens and reds of the vegetables, and at one end, guarded by a tall pewter flagon, polished till it glowed like silver; an old oaken cabinet on the wall, bearing glittering decanters and brass candle sticks; the chattering little maiden, and over all, the golden rays of fading sun-light stealing through the deep tiny-paned windows. We—ah, my darlings are asleep.
A little girl showing off garden produce
A little boy asleep on the groundTHE LESSON AFTER RECESS.A bright little urchin out west,Thought going to school was a pest.He said, “I don’t care,I just won’t stay there,I’ll have a good time like the rest.”He said, “I’ll run off at recess,They’ll never once miss me, I guess;A fellow can’t stopWhen he’s got a new top.There’ll just be one good scholar less.”Now the “rest” was a crowd of rough boys,Who with rudeness and mischief and noise,Made one afraidTo go where they played,But their riotous play he enjoys.So away from his lessons he ran,This promising western young man.They pushed him down flat,Tore the rim off his hat,Said, “There’s nothing so healthy as tan.”And they did what was very much worse;They stole his new knife and his purse.They gave him a shake,And they called him a “cake;”Said, “Next time, bub, come with your nurse.”Near sundown this urchin was foundFast asleep on some very hard ground;He looked tired and grieved;He’d been so deceived,And quite ready for home, I’ll be bound.The primary teacher, Miss Small,When she heard his sad fate, forgave all,“My teacher’s a daisy!I’m through being lazy.”He said, “School’s not bad after all.”
A little boy asleep on the ground
A bright little urchin out west,Thought going to school was a pest.He said, “I don’t care,I just won’t stay there,I’ll have a good time like the rest.”He said, “I’ll run off at recess,They’ll never once miss me, I guess;A fellow can’t stopWhen he’s got a new top.There’ll just be one good scholar less.”Now the “rest” was a crowd of rough boys,Who with rudeness and mischief and noise,Made one afraidTo go where they played,But their riotous play he enjoys.So away from his lessons he ran,This promising western young man.They pushed him down flat,Tore the rim off his hat,Said, “There’s nothing so healthy as tan.”And they did what was very much worse;They stole his new knife and his purse.They gave him a shake,And they called him a “cake;”Said, “Next time, bub, come with your nurse.”Near sundown this urchin was foundFast asleep on some very hard ground;He looked tired and grieved;He’d been so deceived,And quite ready for home, I’ll be bound.The primary teacher, Miss Small,When she heard his sad fate, forgave all,“My teacher’s a daisy!I’m through being lazy.”He said, “School’s not bad after all.”
A bright little urchin out west,Thought going to school was a pest.He said, “I don’t care,I just won’t stay there,I’ll have a good time like the rest.”
He said, “I’ll run off at recess,They’ll never once miss me, I guess;A fellow can’t stopWhen he’s got a new top.There’ll just be one good scholar less.”
Now the “rest” was a crowd of rough boys,Who with rudeness and mischief and noise,Made one afraidTo go where they played,But their riotous play he enjoys.
So away from his lessons he ran,This promising western young man.They pushed him down flat,Tore the rim off his hat,Said, “There’s nothing so healthy as tan.”
And they did what was very much worse;They stole his new knife and his purse.They gave him a shake,And they called him a “cake;”Said, “Next time, bub, come with your nurse.”
Near sundown this urchin was foundFast asleep on some very hard ground;He looked tired and grieved;He’d been so deceived,And quite ready for home, I’ll be bound.
The primary teacher, Miss Small,When she heard his sad fate, forgave all,“My teacher’s a daisy!I’m through being lazy.”He said, “School’s not bad after all.”
THE LION AT THE “ZOO.”In the jungles, where the sun is so fierce at noonday that the black natives, themselves, cannot endure it, but hide in huts and caverns and in the shadows of rocks, dwelt this lion.He did not mind heat, or storm, or the tireless hunters. He was braver and stronger than any other creature in that tropical wilderness, and his very appearance and the sound of his terrible roar had sent many a band of hunters flying back to their safe retreats.He prowled about the fountains at night, and woe to any belated native or domestic animal that happened to be near; he would leap upon them, and kill them with one blow of his huge paw.One day a bushman sighted a fine deer, and incautiously separated himself from his companions; the ardor of the pursuit led him into the pathless wilderness, and farther and farther from help, if he should need any.Pausing a moment, he looked about him; he could not believe his eyes! He saw, not forty rods from him, this creature, regarding him! intense excitement flashing from his eyes, his tail swaying from side to side, and striking the ground with a heavy thud.The bushman fled in wild terror, and with a bound the lion began the chase. No match, indeed, could any one man hope to be for such an enemy—no outrunning this fleet patrol of the forest; roaring and foaming he came up with the doomed hunter and struck him down and killed him.The roaring over his success was something too terrible to hear. The other creatures of the forest fled to their dens and coverts, and the party of hunters, dimly locating the lion’s whereabouts, betook themselves to other grounds, not caring to encounter so formidable a foe. Little did they suspect the fate of their comrade, and they never knew of it until, a long time afterward, they found the remains of his hunting gear. The beast had torn him to pieces and devoured him.The devastations of this scourge of the wilderness became so great in time, that he depopulated whole villages, and the superstitious natives, believing him to be a demon, became so stricken with fear that they would not attempt to hunt him, and thus rid the forest of him.Some agents of a business firm in Holland, who negotiate for the purchase of these ferocious wild animals for menageries, secured, by promises of great help and large reward, a band of intrepid native hunters, to procure, if it were within the range of possibility, this famed lion, alive.A BEAUTIFUL DEER.White men joined in the hunt. Brave Englishmen and fearless Americans attached themselves to the party, and many were the hair-breadth escapes and critical situations that crowded upon their path.On reaching the lion’s neighborhood, they took counsel as to the best way of coming upon him, not knowing just where his lair might be; but soon they were guided to him by a distant roaring. The advance hunters caught their first glimpse of him before he was aware of their presence. He had slain his prey—the pretty creature lay near the jungle lake, the sword grass andthe poisonous marsh flowers flaunting their lush growth all about. The animal’s smooth coat was brown and glossy, and its black hoofs shone bright in the sunshine. The lion repeated the same expressions of gratified savagery he had indulged in when he had devoured the native. He strode about, lashing his tail and roaring.A huge lionHE WAS FINALLY CAGED.The fearful encounter began! Many of the natives were killed. One young English nobleman was thought to have received his death wound, when they came to close quarters. The creature was overcome by numbers and heroic bravery at last. He was maimed, disabled and secured, in the deft and expeditious way they have learned in dealing with these animals. He was finally caged, and the rejoicings of the natives knew no bounds; the exploit was celebrated with feasting, dancing and wild observances, the women and the children joining in the uncouth festivities.He was removed by his foreign purchasers, and eventually secured by a City Park Commission, and was liberated to walk about a spacious cage, to delight the thousands who visit the menagerie, that affords so much instructive amusement. He usually lies down in one corner, and although he has lost muchof his magnificent appearance, he is still worthy to be called the “Forest King.”If you happen to be in his section when he gets hungry and calls for his dinner, you will be greatly astonished, if not frightened, at the sound of his voice. It is like nothing else in nature. It vibrates to the roof of the vast structure, and the windows rattle in their frames. He tramps about and lashes his tail against the bars and stamps his feet, and his keeper hurries to throw him his ration of raw meat. When he is satisfied, he lies down and purrs as good-naturedly as a pussy cat, and looks you in the eyes with an unwinking stare.You and I most earnestly hope that he may never contrive to escape.A kitten asleep in a slipper
In the jungles, where the sun is so fierce at noonday that the black natives, themselves, cannot endure it, but hide in huts and caverns and in the shadows of rocks, dwelt this lion.
He did not mind heat, or storm, or the tireless hunters. He was braver and stronger than any other creature in that tropical wilderness, and his very appearance and the sound of his terrible roar had sent many a band of hunters flying back to their safe retreats.
He prowled about the fountains at night, and woe to any belated native or domestic animal that happened to be near; he would leap upon them, and kill them with one blow of his huge paw.
One day a bushman sighted a fine deer, and incautiously separated himself from his companions; the ardor of the pursuit led him into the pathless wilderness, and farther and farther from help, if he should need any.
Pausing a moment, he looked about him; he could not believe his eyes! He saw, not forty rods from him, this creature, regarding him! intense excitement flashing from his eyes, his tail swaying from side to side, and striking the ground with a heavy thud.
The bushman fled in wild terror, and with a bound the lion began the chase. No match, indeed, could any one man hope to be for such an enemy—no outrunning this fleet patrol of the forest; roaring and foaming he came up with the doomed hunter and struck him down and killed him.
The roaring over his success was something too terrible to hear. The other creatures of the forest fled to their dens and coverts, and the party of hunters, dimly locating the lion’s whereabouts, betook themselves to other grounds, not caring to encounter so formidable a foe. Little did they suspect the fate of their comrade, and they never knew of it until, a long time afterward, they found the remains of his hunting gear. The beast had torn him to pieces and devoured him.
The devastations of this scourge of the wilderness became so great in time, that he depopulated whole villages, and the superstitious natives, believing him to be a demon, became so stricken with fear that they would not attempt to hunt him, and thus rid the forest of him.
Some agents of a business firm in Holland, who negotiate for the purchase of these ferocious wild animals for menageries, secured, by promises of great help and large reward, a band of intrepid native hunters, to procure, if it were within the range of possibility, this famed lion, alive.
A BEAUTIFUL DEER.
White men joined in the hunt. Brave Englishmen and fearless Americans attached themselves to the party, and many were the hair-breadth escapes and critical situations that crowded upon their path.
On reaching the lion’s neighborhood, they took counsel as to the best way of coming upon him, not knowing just where his lair might be; but soon they were guided to him by a distant roaring. The advance hunters caught their first glimpse of him before he was aware of their presence. He had slain his prey—the pretty creature lay near the jungle lake, the sword grass andthe poisonous marsh flowers flaunting their lush growth all about. The animal’s smooth coat was brown and glossy, and its black hoofs shone bright in the sunshine. The lion repeated the same expressions of gratified savagery he had indulged in when he had devoured the native. He strode about, lashing his tail and roaring.
A huge lion
HE WAS FINALLY CAGED.
The fearful encounter began! Many of the natives were killed. One young English nobleman was thought to have received his death wound, when they came to close quarters. The creature was overcome by numbers and heroic bravery at last. He was maimed, disabled and secured, in the deft and expeditious way they have learned in dealing with these animals. He was finally caged, and the rejoicings of the natives knew no bounds; the exploit was celebrated with feasting, dancing and wild observances, the women and the children joining in the uncouth festivities.
He was removed by his foreign purchasers, and eventually secured by a City Park Commission, and was liberated to walk about a spacious cage, to delight the thousands who visit the menagerie, that affords so much instructive amusement. He usually lies down in one corner, and although he has lost muchof his magnificent appearance, he is still worthy to be called the “Forest King.”
If you happen to be in his section when he gets hungry and calls for his dinner, you will be greatly astonished, if not frightened, at the sound of his voice. It is like nothing else in nature. It vibrates to the roof of the vast structure, and the windows rattle in their frames. He tramps about and lashes his tail against the bars and stamps his feet, and his keeper hurries to throw him his ration of raw meat. When he is satisfied, he lies down and purrs as good-naturedly as a pussy cat, and looks you in the eyes with an unwinking stare.
You and I most earnestly hope that he may never contrive to escape.
A kitten asleep in a slipper
DISOBEYING MOTHER.“I think, little goslings, you’d better not go.You’re young, and the water is chilly, you know;But when you get strong,You can sail right along—Go back in the sunshine, or walk in a row.”“No, no! we will go,” said those bold little things,Except one little dear, close to mother’s warm wings.Out went all the rest,On the water with zest;They said, “We will venture, whatever it brings.”Their mother looked out, so kind and so true,Adown where the rushes and lily-pads grew;They looked very gay,As they paddled away,With their bright, yellow backs, on the water so blue.“Come back!” cried their mother, “come back to the land!I fear for my dear ones some evil is planned.”But they ventured beyondThe shore of the pond,And laughed at her warnings, and spurned her command.Farewell, to the goslings! their troubles are o’er;They were pelted with stones, by boys on the shore.Afar from the bank,They struggled and sank,Down deep in the water, to come up no more.Oh, see what it cost them, to have their own way;Their punishment came without stint or delay;But the sweet one that stayed,And its mother obeyed,Lived long, and was happy for many a day.
“I think, little goslings, you’d better not go.You’re young, and the water is chilly, you know;But when you get strong,You can sail right along—Go back in the sunshine, or walk in a row.”“No, no! we will go,” said those bold little things,Except one little dear, close to mother’s warm wings.Out went all the rest,On the water with zest;They said, “We will venture, whatever it brings.”Their mother looked out, so kind and so true,Adown where the rushes and lily-pads grew;They looked very gay,As they paddled away,With their bright, yellow backs, on the water so blue.“Come back!” cried their mother, “come back to the land!I fear for my dear ones some evil is planned.”But they ventured beyondThe shore of the pond,And laughed at her warnings, and spurned her command.Farewell, to the goslings! their troubles are o’er;They were pelted with stones, by boys on the shore.Afar from the bank,They struggled and sank,Down deep in the water, to come up no more.Oh, see what it cost them, to have their own way;Their punishment came without stint or delay;But the sweet one that stayed,And its mother obeyed,Lived long, and was happy for many a day.
“I think, little goslings, you’d better not go.You’re young, and the water is chilly, you know;But when you get strong,You can sail right along—Go back in the sunshine, or walk in a row.”
“No, no! we will go,” said those bold little things,Except one little dear, close to mother’s warm wings.Out went all the rest,On the water with zest;They said, “We will venture, whatever it brings.”
Their mother looked out, so kind and so true,Adown where the rushes and lily-pads grew;They looked very gay,As they paddled away,With their bright, yellow backs, on the water so blue.
“Come back!” cried their mother, “come back to the land!I fear for my dear ones some evil is planned.”But they ventured beyondThe shore of the pond,And laughed at her warnings, and spurned her command.
Farewell, to the goslings! their troubles are o’er;They were pelted with stones, by boys on the shore.Afar from the bank,They struggled and sank,Down deep in the water, to come up no more.
Oh, see what it cost them, to have their own way;Their punishment came without stint or delay;But the sweet one that stayed,And its mother obeyed,Lived long, and was happy for many a day.
Two boys and a dog playing a game
PLAYING BARBER.
PLANTS THAT EAT.These plants are so constructed as to attract insects, capture them in various ways, and feed upon them. Perhaps the best known of the group isVenus’ Fly-Trap. The leaves vary from one to six inches long, and at the extremities are placed two blades, or claspers. On the inner walls of these claspers are placed six irritable hairs; the slightest touch from an insect on any one of which is sufficient to bring the two blades together with such rapidity as to preclude any possibility of the fly escaping.LEAVES OF THE FLY-TRAP OPENED AND CLOSED.This plant readily discriminates between animal and other matter; thus, if a small stone or piece of wood be dropped into the trap, it will instantly close, but as soon as it has found out its mistake—and it only takes a few minutes—it begins to unfold its trap, and the piece of wood or stone falls out. On the other hand, should a piece of beef or a bluebottle fly be placed in it, it will remain firmly closed until all the matter is absorbed through the leaf. It will then unfold itself, and is ready for another meal.AUSTRALIAN PITCHER PLANT.Another species is called theVegetable Whiskey Shop, as it captures its victims by intoxication. The entire shop is shaped after the manner of a house, with the entrance projecting a little over the rim. Half-way round the brim of the cavity there are an immense number of honey glands, which the influence of the sun brings into active operation. This sweet acts as a lure to passing insects, and they are sure to alight on the outside edge and tap the nectar.They, however, remain there but a brief period, as there is something more substantial inside the cavity in the shape of an intoxicating liquid, which is distilled by the plant. The way down to this beverage is straight, as the entrance is paved with innumerable fine hairs, all pointing to the bottom, and should the fly walk crooked its feet become entangled in them.AMERICAN SIDE-SADDLE FLOWER.When the fly has had its first sip, it does not stop and fly right out, as it could do, but it indulges until it comes staggering up and reaches that portion where the hairs begin; here its progress outward is stopped, owing to the points of the hairs being placed against it. The fly is now in a pitiable plight; it attempts to use its wings, but in doingso only hasten its destruction. It inevitably gets immersed in the liquid, and dies drunk.Australian Pitcher Plantis a beautiful little object. Its pitchers are at the bottom of the principal stem of the plant.One species distils an intoxicant of its own; but owing to its small orifice, it excludes the majority of insects, and admits but a select few. The individual pitchers somewhat resemble an inverted parrot’s bill, with a narrow leaf-like expansion running along the top. The color is light green, beautifully shaded with crimson. The inside of the pitcher is divided into three parts: The first, nearest the entrance, is studded with minute honey glands, and is called the attractive surface; a little farther down the inside, very minute hairs are situated with their extremities all pointing to the other chamber. This is the conducting surface.THE PITCHER PLANT OF MADAGASCAR.Lastly, the small hairs give place to the longer ones, amid which are placed secreting pores, which give forth the intoxicating nectar. This is termed the detentive surface. When the pitcher has caught a sufficient number of insects, the nectar gives place to a substance which enables the plant more readily to digest its food.Another variety is theMosquito Catcher. It grows about one foot high, and the leaves, after reaching a certain height, divide into long, narrow spathes, covered with hairs, each coated with a bright gummy substance. This, during sunshine, gives to the plant a most magnificent appearance. If a plant be placed in a room where mosquitoes abound, all the troublesome pests will in a brief period be in its steady embrace.It is most interesting to watch the method by which it secures its prey.Immediately the fly alights on the leaf, it may be that only one of its six legs stick to the sweet, viscid substance at the extremity of the hairs; but in struggling to free itself, it invariably touches with its legs or wings the contiguous hairs, and is immediately fixed.These little hairs meantime are not idle; they slowly but surely curl round and draw their victim into the very center of the leaf, thus bringing it into contact with the very short hairs, which are placed there in order to facilitate the process of sucking the life-blood from the body.
These plants are so constructed as to attract insects, capture them in various ways, and feed upon them. Perhaps the best known of the group isVenus’ Fly-Trap. The leaves vary from one to six inches long, and at the extremities are placed two blades, or claspers. On the inner walls of these claspers are placed six irritable hairs; the slightest touch from an insect on any one of which is sufficient to bring the two blades together with such rapidity as to preclude any possibility of the fly escaping.
LEAVES OF THE FLY-TRAP OPENED AND CLOSED.
This plant readily discriminates between animal and other matter; thus, if a small stone or piece of wood be dropped into the trap, it will instantly close, but as soon as it has found out its mistake—and it only takes a few minutes—it begins to unfold its trap, and the piece of wood or stone falls out. On the other hand, should a piece of beef or a bluebottle fly be placed in it, it will remain firmly closed until all the matter is absorbed through the leaf. It will then unfold itself, and is ready for another meal.
AUSTRALIAN PITCHER PLANT.
Another species is called theVegetable Whiskey Shop, as it captures its victims by intoxication. The entire shop is shaped after the manner of a house, with the entrance projecting a little over the rim. Half-way round the brim of the cavity there are an immense number of honey glands, which the influence of the sun brings into active operation. This sweet acts as a lure to passing insects, and they are sure to alight on the outside edge and tap the nectar.
They, however, remain there but a brief period, as there is something more substantial inside the cavity in the shape of an intoxicating liquid, which is distilled by the plant. The way down to this beverage is straight, as the entrance is paved with innumerable fine hairs, all pointing to the bottom, and should the fly walk crooked its feet become entangled in them.
AMERICAN SIDE-SADDLE FLOWER.
When the fly has had its first sip, it does not stop and fly right out, as it could do, but it indulges until it comes staggering up and reaches that portion where the hairs begin; here its progress outward is stopped, owing to the points of the hairs being placed against it. The fly is now in a pitiable plight; it attempts to use its wings, but in doingso only hasten its destruction. It inevitably gets immersed in the liquid, and dies drunk.
Australian Pitcher Plantis a beautiful little object. Its pitchers are at the bottom of the principal stem of the plant.
One species distils an intoxicant of its own; but owing to its small orifice, it excludes the majority of insects, and admits but a select few. The individual pitchers somewhat resemble an inverted parrot’s bill, with a narrow leaf-like expansion running along the top. The color is light green, beautifully shaded with crimson. The inside of the pitcher is divided into three parts: The first, nearest the entrance, is studded with minute honey glands, and is called the attractive surface; a little farther down the inside, very minute hairs are situated with their extremities all pointing to the other chamber. This is the conducting surface.
THE PITCHER PLANT OF MADAGASCAR.
Lastly, the small hairs give place to the longer ones, amid which are placed secreting pores, which give forth the intoxicating nectar. This is termed the detentive surface. When the pitcher has caught a sufficient number of insects, the nectar gives place to a substance which enables the plant more readily to digest its food.
Another variety is theMosquito Catcher. It grows about one foot high, and the leaves, after reaching a certain height, divide into long, narrow spathes, covered with hairs, each coated with a bright gummy substance. This, during sunshine, gives to the plant a most magnificent appearance. If a plant be placed in a room where mosquitoes abound, all the troublesome pests will in a brief period be in its steady embrace.
It is most interesting to watch the method by which it secures its prey.Immediately the fly alights on the leaf, it may be that only one of its six legs stick to the sweet, viscid substance at the extremity of the hairs; but in struggling to free itself, it invariably touches with its legs or wings the contiguous hairs, and is immediately fixed.
These little hairs meantime are not idle; they slowly but surely curl round and draw their victim into the very center of the leaf, thus bringing it into contact with the very short hairs, which are placed there in order to facilitate the process of sucking the life-blood from the body.
THE CUCKOO CLOCK.The clock is Swiss,And a curious thing it is,Set like a flower against the wall,With a face of walnut brownTwelve white eyes always staring out,And long weights hanging down.But there is moreAt the top is a little close-shut door.And when ’tis time for the hour-stroke,And at the half-stroke too,It opens wide of its own accord,And, hark,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”What do you see?Why, with a trip and a courtesy,As if to say,—“Good day, good day,”Out steps a tiny bird!And though no soul were near to hearHe’d pipe that same blithe word.Through all the night,Through dawn’s pale flush, and noon’s full light,And even at twilight, when the duskHides all the room from view,Out of his little cabinetHe calls,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”Though but a toy,Yet might the giddiest girl or boyLearn three most pleasant truths from it:How patiently to wait,How to give greeting graciously,And never to be too late.’Tis sweet to hear,Though oft repeated, a word of cheer;So this little comrade on the wall,This bird that never flew,Is an hourly comfort, with his call,“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!”Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
The clock is Swiss,And a curious thing it is,Set like a flower against the wall,With a face of walnut brownTwelve white eyes always staring out,And long weights hanging down.But there is moreAt the top is a little close-shut door.And when ’tis time for the hour-stroke,And at the half-stroke too,It opens wide of its own accord,And, hark,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”What do you see?Why, with a trip and a courtesy,As if to say,—“Good day, good day,”Out steps a tiny bird!And though no soul were near to hearHe’d pipe that same blithe word.Through all the night,Through dawn’s pale flush, and noon’s full light,And even at twilight, when the duskHides all the room from view,Out of his little cabinetHe calls,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”Though but a toy,Yet might the giddiest girl or boyLearn three most pleasant truths from it:How patiently to wait,How to give greeting graciously,And never to be too late.’Tis sweet to hear,Though oft repeated, a word of cheer;So this little comrade on the wall,This bird that never flew,Is an hourly comfort, with his call,“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!”Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
The clock is Swiss,And a curious thing it is,Set like a flower against the wall,With a face of walnut brownTwelve white eyes always staring out,And long weights hanging down.
But there is moreAt the top is a little close-shut door.And when ’tis time for the hour-stroke,And at the half-stroke too,It opens wide of its own accord,And, hark,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”
What do you see?Why, with a trip and a courtesy,As if to say,—“Good day, good day,”Out steps a tiny bird!And though no soul were near to hearHe’d pipe that same blithe word.
Through all the night,Through dawn’s pale flush, and noon’s full light,And even at twilight, when the duskHides all the room from view,Out of his little cabinetHe calls,—“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”
Though but a toy,Yet might the giddiest girl or boyLearn three most pleasant truths from it:How patiently to wait,How to give greeting graciously,And never to be too late.
’Tis sweet to hear,Though oft repeated, a word of cheer;So this little comrade on the wall,This bird that never flew,Is an hourly comfort, with his call,“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!”
Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
ALEX. DUKE BAILIE.
She was only five years old, hardly that, but a stout, healthy little creature, full of love and fun, but often hard to manage.
Maggie was her name, but she would call herself nothing but “Davy’s girl.”
Davy, her brother, a brave, good boy, about fifteen years of age, was all she had to cling to, and she was his only treasure. They were orphans; their father had been drowned, with many other poor fishermen, when Maggie was a wee baby, and the mother, soon after, died, from worry and hard work.
So these two were all alone in the world, but they did not feel lonely, for each one was all the world to the other.
They lived with an old fisherman and his wife, on the shores of the ocean, in New Jersey; and in the inlets and about outside, Davy used to go with the men, in the boats, and help them fish; sometimes he would work in-shore, for the truck farmers; sometimes help to gather the salt hay from the marshes. He would work hard at any thing so as to make money to keep his little sister comfortable and to give her all it was well for her to have.
In winter he would tramp through cold and snow and storms, several miles, to the little town where the school was, and so, every year, he gained a few weeks of instruction.
The people among whom these orphans lived were rough, but kind-hearted, and Davy always had enough work to enable him to earn money sufficient to keep Maggie and himself in the simple way in which every body about them lived.
Whenever he had an idle half-day, or even a few hours, he would take the little girl and his books, and go down to the shore, and getting into one of the boats always to be found drawn up on the sand, he would study hard to learn, for he was anxious to get on in the world, not only for his own, but his sister’s sake, and Maggie would take one of the books, and open it, and run her little fat finger over the page, and move her lips, and make believe that she, too, was studying her lessons and she would keep still as a little mouse, until, after a few minutes of nodding, her eyes would close, then her head would drop on Davy’s knee, and she would be off—sound asleep, until it was time for him to go.
It happened, one afternoon, as Davy, with Maggie, was going to the boat, which was his favorite place of study, a farmer drove along and asked him if he could not go and help with some work.
They were very near home yet, and when Davy said, “Maggie, will you run right home?” she answered, “’Es;” so the brother saw her start off towards the house, which was in sight, then jumped in beside the farmer, and they drove off.
It was several hours before the boy returned. He went directly home, and as soon as he entered, called, “Maggie!”
“Maggie aint here,” said Mrs. Baker, who was busy cleaning up the floor, “she hasn’t been here since you took her out with you.”
If ever there was a frightened boy, it was Davy, then. He knew how careless his little sister was, and how she loved to go down and splash in the water, and play around the deep pools. He could look, from the door, all along the beach and out on the sea, and there was no sign of his little girl. Mrs. Baker was frightened, too, when he told her all. They ran to the few houses about, and while some of the children had seen Maggie, it was hours before; since then she had disappeared entirely.
It was a terrible blow to the poor boy, and he blamed himself as he thought that perhaps his dear little sister was dead under the great waves, or her body was being washed away far beyond his reach. He ran up anddown, everywhere calling her name as loudly as he could, but no answer came.
Almost blind, with the tears in his eyes, he stood still for a moment to think, when he caught sight of a little paper book. He knew it at once; he had made it for Maggie so that she would not soil or tear his own. In a moment he was running as fast as his feet would carry him to the boat on the sand, a considerable distance off; quickly he reached it, and climbed up the side. No Maggie yet.
The great sail lay in a heap before him; he walked around it, and there, all curled up, fast asleep, was his runaway girl.
How his heart did jump for joy as he picked her up, and kissed and petted her.
But Maggie cried, and said he hurt her.
Then he found that in climbing into the boat to “study her lessons,” she had sprained her ankle, and she had been very miserable all by herself, and cried and called for him until she fell asleep.
The books, all but one, were lying on the other side of the boat, on the sand. Davy never minded them, precious as they were to him, but taking his little sister on his strong back, he carried her home, her arms about his neck and her cheek close to his; and Maggie had to stay in the house, with her foot bandaged, for a week. But Davy never forgot that fright nor left her to herself again until she was much older; and the little girl never thought of disobeying his orders after that. They had both learned a hard lesson.
A cat pushes a pram containing another cat
Five little pussiesSitting down to tea;Pretty little pussies,Happy as can be!Three little pussies,All in a row,Ranged on the table,Two down below.Five little pussies,Dressed all in silk,Waiting for the sugar,Waiting for the milk.Dear little pussies,If you would thrive,Breakfast at nine o’clock,Take tea at five.
Five little pussiesSitting down to tea;Pretty little pussies,Happy as can be!
Three little pussies,All in a row,Ranged on the table,Two down below.
Five little pussies,Dressed all in silk,Waiting for the sugar,Waiting for the milk.
Dear little pussies,If you would thrive,Breakfast at nine o’clock,Take tea at five.
Boney was not a thin cat by any means, as his name would suggest. He was very stout for his age; this could be explained by the fact that he had always looked out for number one, and had managed to secure a great many nice things to eat in the course of his short life.
His coat, which was striped, gray and black, had an infinite number of shades in it and was so beautiful, that more than one lady wanted to buy him.
Boney was not his whole name. A lovely romance could be written, I’ve no doubt, out of the adventures of this cat, before Fannie found him, one cold morning, in the summer-house. He was covered with dust and leaves, and moaning piteously. Fannie said,—“Pussy, pussy,” to him; and he tried to get up and come to her, but he couldn’t make any progress, and John Henry came up at that moment, and taking up the cat by the back of the neck, looked at it critically, and said,—“That cat ain’t a-going to die—he’ll come out all right in a few days; he’s been pelted with stones by those children that live at the cross-roads, I think.”
Fannie followed her brother into the house with the cat, and he gave it some warm milk, and Fannie covered it up, snug, by the kitchen stove.
It was surprising how soon that pussy got well; and John Henry chose to call him Boneset. The name took in the household, and though Fannie called him “Boney,” Boneset was his real name. John Henry bought him a collar, and Fannie would tie a beautiful scarlet ribbon on this, and away they’d go together, down the road to the village post-office. He’d look very sharply at the meadow-birds flitting over the stone fences, and the yellow butterflies on the tall mullen stalks, as if he would say,—“I’ll get you any of those you’d like to have, my dear mistress.”
But Fannie would say, “Don’t think of it, Boney; I would like to have them, but it would be wicked to catch them you know.” Pussy did not want to give up the sport of hunting them, however, and Fannie would have to take him right up, and carry him until they had passed them.
He had such lovely coaxing ways; he knew to a minute when it was lunch time, and he had his in the kitchen, but he would steal up into the dining-room, and pass round softly to Fannie’s place, and pop up into her lap—or, if she were standing up, he’d get upon the table and rub his furry cheek against her shoulder, and shut one eye.
Then Fannie would turn round, and his comical appearance, sitting there with his little pink tongue sticking out between his lips, would make Fannie just jump up and down with laughing.
Of course, he wanted some of Fannie’s lunch, and he always got it, and this was the way he managed to get so fat and sleek.
One unfortunate time, Fannie was very sick; the room was darkened, and the doctor came. All the pets were not allowed to come near the room.
It was, oh, so lonesome for Boney. No one petted him like his little mistress, and they didn’t put up with his tricks, or laugh at his funny pranks.
The time went by heavily enough, he had not had on any of his ribbons, and he would go and stay away from home for days together, and when he came home just before dark, he had a wild look, as if he had been in rough company.
On a lovely morning in June, Fannie was carried down stairs, to sit in the bay window, in the sunshine, and the ivy hung down its fresh, green leaves.
Boney saw her the first thing. His delight knew no bounds; he rubbed his back against her chair, turned his head around in her robe as it lay on the carpet, and jumped into her lap! And Fannie smoothed his back with her little thin hand.
After a time he went away, and nobody thought any thing about him, till dinner-time, when, what should they see coming up the piazza steps, but Boney, with a bobolink in his mouth! He walked right up to Fannie, and laid it down at her feet, and looked up at his little mistress, with such a satisfied, happy expression on his face, as if he would say,—“There, that’s the best I could do, and you are welcome to it.”
Fannie understood his good intentions, and laughed heartily, and that was the beginning of her recovery.
Pretty soon, she was able to go out again, and she and Boney had the best of times that summer.
BY MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.
Down from the sky, one winter day,The snow-flakes tumbled and whirled in play.White as a lily,Light as a feather,Some so chillyWere clinging together.Falling so softly on things below,Covering all with beautiful snow.Drifting about with the winds at play,Hiding in hollows along the way,White as a lily,Light as a feather,Coming so stillyIn cold winter weather.Touching so lightly the snow-bird’s wing,Silently covering every thing.Every flake is a falling star,Gently falling, who knows how far?White as a lily,Light as a feather,Hosts so stillyAre falling together.Every star that comes fluttering down,Falls, I know, from the Frost King’s crown.
Down from the sky, one winter day,The snow-flakes tumbled and whirled in play.White as a lily,Light as a feather,Some so chillyWere clinging together.Falling so softly on things below,Covering all with beautiful snow.
Drifting about with the winds at play,Hiding in hollows along the way,White as a lily,Light as a feather,Coming so stillyIn cold winter weather.Touching so lightly the snow-bird’s wing,Silently covering every thing.
Every flake is a falling star,Gently falling, who knows how far?White as a lily,Light as a feather,Hosts so stillyAre falling together.Every star that comes fluttering down,Falls, I know, from the Frost King’s crown.
Jocko was hardly more than a baby monkey, but he was so full of mischief that he often made his mother very sad. Jocko’s father used to get angry with him; sometimes he used to give Jocko a good spanking; only he hadn’t a slipper as the father of little boys have! Jocko’s father and mother used to try to teach him that it was very bad manners to snatch any thing from the visitors who came up to the cage. That was a very hard lesson for Jocko to learn. One day he snatched a pair of spectacles from an old lady, who was looking into the cage and laughing; the old lady screamed with fright. Jocko tried to put the spectacles on himself; but the keeper made him give them up. When the old lady got her glasses again, she didn’t care to look at the monkeys any more.
Another day Jocko was taken very sick; he laid down in one corner of the cage, and could not be made to move. His mother thought he was going to die, and she was quite sure that some of his monkey cousins had hurt him. “Not so,” chattered Jocko’s father, “I found some pieces of gloves among the hay; I think the bad fellow has snatched them from somebody, and partly eaten them.”
“Dear, dear,” chattered mother monkey, “I think you are right.” When she turned Jocko over, he was so afraid of being punished, that he pretended to be fast asleep; but he heard all that his father and mother had said, and knew that they guessed right.
“They’re just like boys,” said George Bliss one day, as he stood looking at the monkeys in Central park. George is a boy, and he ought to know. But there is a great difference after all. Boys can learn, better than monkeys, not to get into mischief, and bother their parents, and other people who come where they are. Some boys do not behave better than monkeys.
A group of three monkeys, with others in the background
A MISCHIEVOUS MONKEY.
There are few who have not heard or read of the great traveler, Sir Samuel Baker, who found his way into the heart of Africa, and whose brave wife accompanied him in all his perilous journeys. The natives, when they found how kind he was, and how interested in trying to help them, called him the Great White Man.
One day, after traveling a long distance, Sir Samuel and Lady Baker were sitting, in the cool of the evening, in front of their tent, enjoying a cup of tea in their English fashion, when a little black boy suddenly ran into the courtyard, and throwing himself at Lady Baker’s feet raised his hands toward her, and gazed imploringly into her face.
The English lady thought that the little lad was hungry, and hastened to offer him food; but he refused to eat, and began, with sobs and tears, to tell his tale. He was not hungry, but he wanted to stay with the white lady and be her slave.
In broken accents he related how cruelly he had been treated by the master, who stole him from his parents when he was quite a little boy; how he made him earn money for him, and beat him because he was too small to undertake the tasks which were set him. He told how he and some other boys had crept out of the slave-hut at night and found their way to English Mission House, because they had heard of the white people, who were kind to the blacks.
Then little Saat, for that was his name, made Lady Baker understand how much he loved the white people, and how he wished to be her little slave. She told him kindly that she needed no slave-boy, and that he must go back to his rightful master. But little Saat said, “No, he had no master;” and explained that the Missionaries had taught him a great deal, and then sent him, with some other lads, to Egypt, to help in the Mission work.
Unfortunately, his companions had soon forgotten the good things they had been taught, and behaved so badly that the Missionaries in Egypt refused to keep them, and turned them out, to find their way back as best they might to their own people; but Saat had no people of his own, and he never rested until he succeeded in finding the Great White Man of whom he had heard so much.
Lady Baker’s kind heart was touched. She determined to keep the little black boy and train him to be her own attendant. He accompanied the travelers upon their wonderful journey to the Source of the Nile, and his attachment to his mistress was very touching.
The ivy, while climbing, preserves its pointed leaf, but when it has reached the top of its support it spreads out into a bushy head and produces only rounded and unshapely leaves.
The ivy, climbing upward on the tower,In vigorous life its shapely tendrils weaves,But, resting on the summit, forms a bower,And sleeps, a tangled mass of shapeless leaves.So we, while striving, climb the upward way,And shape by enterprise our inner lives;But when, on some low rest we idly stay,Our purpose, losing point no longer strives.
The ivy, climbing upward on the tower,In vigorous life its shapely tendrils weaves,But, resting on the summit, forms a bower,And sleeps, a tangled mass of shapeless leaves.
So we, while striving, climb the upward way,And shape by enterprise our inner lives;But when, on some low rest we idly stay,Our purpose, losing point no longer strives.
Elliot Stock.
A woman teaches a little girl
LEARNING TO KNIT.
Birds of prey squabble over a duck
TUG OF WAR.
FAITH LATIMER.
“I don’t thee ath a Chineth baby lookth any differenth from any other folkth baby, do you, Perthy?”
“That’s what I am trying to find out,” said Percy, whom his little sister May called her “big brother;” for only that morning she had said to her mother,—“I will athk Perthy, he ith tho big, he muth know every thing.”
Percy was as full of wonder as little May over the baby sleeper. He wanted to see the back of her head, but it was resting on the soft pillow, and the eyes were tightly closed. May stood at the foot of the bed longing, and yet afraid, to pull up the cover, and look at the little feet. “Do you thpect she wearth pink thatin thlipperth like thothe in the glath cathe?” she said.
The voices did not waken the baby even when Percy made May give a little scream as he pulled her braided hair, and carried off the ribbon, saying,—“You’ve got a Chinese pig-tail anyway.” Did you ever see a big brother do any thing like that? Then Percy went out and slammed the door, and left little May thinking very hard, and the baby asleep, after all that noise. What was May thinking about? She had heard mamma talk a great deal about China, and had seen queer pictures of people with bald heads and a long braid of hair hanging down behind, and in the cabinet in the sitting-room was a pair of tiny pink satin slippers, so small that her little hand could just go into one of them. Then she had a Chinese doll with almost a bald head, and the queerest shaped eyes; and that was why she and Percy wanted this baby to wake up that they might see what she looked like. That very morning while the children were visiting their grandmother, a carriage came to their house, bringing a little baby and its mother; and by the time they got home, the child was in May’s crib, fast asleep, and the two mothers were talking together as they had not done for years before. Baby Elsie was not easily wakened, for she never had a very quiet place to sleep in. She was quite used to strange noises on shipboard, creaking ropes and escaping steam, loud voices giving orders to sailors, sometimes roaring waters and stormy winds. She had been many nights in a railroad sleeping-car, and she was not disturbed by the rush of wheels, or the whistling of the locomotive. Before that, she lived part of her little life on a boat in a narrow river, and a few months in a crowded, noisy house. Does it seem as if she had been quite a traveler? She had just come all the way from China—a land on the other side of the round world—and that was the reason that May called her a Chinese baby. Percy and May had never seen Elsie’s mother, although she was their own aunt, for she and her husband had been more than ten years missionaries in China, and had come on a visit to America. Don’t you think the two mothers, dear sisters, who had been so long and so far apart, had a great deal to say to each other? Do you expect they wanted Elsie to sleep quite as much as her cousins wanted her to wake? She was a good child, but she knew how to cry, and after a few days Percy said,—“She’s not so much after all, she can’t talk and tell us anything, and when she cries, she boo-hoo’s just as you do, May.”
In a week, two more Chinese travelers came; the baby’s father, and another cousin, Knox, a boy nine years old. Did you ever fire off a whole pack of Chinese fire-crackers at a time? That was almost the way that questions were asked by the two boys, back and forth, so quick and fast that there was hardly time to answer each one. The boy from Shanghai found as many things strange to him as the New York boy would have seen in China. Percy, and May, although she could not understand half she heard, were fullof wonder as Knox told of living on a boat in the river, of so many boats around them, where people lived crowded together as closely as houses could be on land. He told of the cities, of narrow, crooked streets, all the way under awnings, to be shielded from the hot sun; of riding many miles in a wheel-barrow, with a Chinaman to push it along the road. They all laughed when Percy said they called their cousin Elsie “a Chinese baby;” and the grown folks helped to tell about the black-eyed babies over there, wrapped up in wadded comforts and placed standing, a great, round roll, in a tall basket, instead of a cradle. Percy thought the best thing he heard was of a boy in a royal family. He had to be well taught, for he must be a wise scholar in Chinese learning, but no one dared to touch or hurt him; so a poor boy of low rank was hired and kept in the house to take all the whippings for him; and whenever the young prince deserved correction, the bamboo rod was well laid on the poor boy’s back. What would you think of such a plan? Elsie’s father and mother were going back to China, but they were not willing that Knox should grow up there; he must go to some good school and stay in this country. Even little Elsie they dared not trust out of their sight among the Chinese.
And so for the love of the dear Master, who said,—“Go and teach all nations,” they were willing to leave father and mother, and home, loving sister and friends, even their own young children, for His sake.
Don’t you believe our heavenly Father will watch over Knox and Elsie, and make them grow up wise and true; ready to go back to the land where they were born, to carry on the good work their father and mother are doing in that strange, far-off country?
Do you know of any ways in which children at home can help such work in China, or in other far-off foreign lands?