Read Ebook: The Nursery November 1881 Vol. XXX A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers by Various

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Ebook has 166 lines and 10184 words, and 4 pages

THE

NURSERY

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

BOSTON: THE NURSERY PUBLISHING COMPANY, NO. 36 BROMFIELD STREET. 1881.

IN PROSE.

PAGE Where Jimmy Lives 323 Jessie and her Kitten 324 Fanchette 329 Old Jack 333 A Day in the Woods 338 Milly and Jip 342 Lawn-Tennis 344 The Kitten's Necktie 345 A Basket from Home 348 A Letter from Honolulu 350

IN VERSE.

Hush-a-by 322 Two Sides 326 Sweet Good-day 331 My Garden 332 Off for the Winter 335 Baby Bobby 341 A Thrifty Family 346 When will the Snow come 347 Christmas-Time 352

HUSH-A-BY.

HUSH-A-BY baby: as the birds fly, We are off to the island of Lullaby: I am the captain, and you are the crew, And the cradle, I guess, is our birch-bark canoe; We'll drift away from this work-day shore, Forty thousand long leagues or more, Till we reach the strand where happy dreams wait, Whether we're early, or whether we're late.

Hush-a-by baby: as the birds fly, Let us make the snug harbor of Lullaby: Some little folks are far on the way; Some have put in at Wide-awake Bay; Others, I fear, are long overdue; Don't let this happen, my darling, to you: Let us steer for the coast where happy dreams wait, Whether we're early, or whether we're late.

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

WHERE JIMMY LIVES.

JIMMY MASON lives on a ranche in Colorado. Do you know what a ranche is? It is a kind of farm,--not a farm for raising wheat and potatoes and oats and corn, but for rearing horses and cattle and sheep.

Jimmy's papa has about a hundred horses, as many cows, and a great many hundred sheep. He does not keep them in barns, or feed them with hay, but they roam over the hills, and feed on grass both in winter and summer.

Mr. Mason's house is five miles from any neighbor, and fifteen miles from town. There is no garden or fence round it, and there are no trees to be seen anywhere near. But there are wild flowers in abundance. One of them is a species of cactus. It bears beautiful yellow blossoms in summer, after which comes the fruit, a prickly pear, not good to eat. Another kind of cactus has crimson and scarlet blossoms, but no prickly pears.

Both of these plants are covered with sharp thorns and prickles. Jimmy thinks the blossoms are pretty; but he does not like to pick them. Can you guess why?

Where do you suppose Jimmy goes to school? Well, he goes to his mamma, and he has a very nice teacher. He never gets lonesome; for he has so much to do and so much to think about, that he has no time to be lonesome.

He helps his mother in the house, he takes care of the chickens, he makes friends with the sheep. When he gets a little bigger, he will ride on horseback and help his papa in taking care of the horses and cattle out on the hills.

EMMA MITCHELL.

JESSIE AND HER KITTEN.

"O MAMMA!" said little Jessie one stormy afternoon, "I'm tired of playing with dolly, I'm tired of looking at pictures, I'm tired of my blocks, and I'm tired of sitting still. What shall I do?"

"Call kitty," said her mother, "and let her try to catch this ball while you hold the string."

"Oh, yes, that will be fun," said Jessie; "but if I make a noise, mamma, you will be sure to say, 'Hush, my child! or you will wake grandma.'"

Her mamma laughed, and said, "I think we can manage that, dear. You shall go down in the large front-hall, and there you can run and play as much as you please."

Jessie was delighted with this plan, and presently stood holding the ball just out of reach of the kitten's paws, saying, "Catch it if you can, kitty; catch it if you can!"

As soon as kitty, standing on her hind-legs, had her paw almost upon it, away Jessie would run, shouting and laughing, and kitty would follow her as fast as she could go.

When they had played till Jessie was quite tired, she went to her mamma with kitty cuddled in her arms, and said, "We have had a jolly time, mamma! Now I must give kitty some milk and put her to bed; for I think she is hungry and sleepy after so much exercise." This last was a big word for such a little girl, and she said it quite slowly.

"Yes, dear," mamma said, smiling, "and I think I know somebody else who will soon be hungry and sleepy too."

JANE OLIVER.

TWO SIDES.

OH, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past; The singing-birds have gone; The robin, from the maple-bough, Who waked me every morn; The bobolink that used to make The meadow-grass with music shake; The humming-bird that dipped his bill In lily-cup and rose,-- Not one would stay; I only hear The cawing of the crows. The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear! The dismal autumn days are here. And all my pretty flowers are dead! My roses and sweet-peas; The hollyhocks, where, all the day, There was a crowd of bees; The lovely morning-glory vine, That round my window used to twine; The larkspur, with its horns of blue; The sunflower proud and tall,-- That thief the Frost, so sly and still, Has come and stolen all! Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear! The dreary autumn days are here.

The hives are full of honeycomb; The barns are full of hay; The bins are heaped with ripened grain, That empty were in May; The red and yellow apples now Bend many a heavy orchard bough; Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves, The frost-grapes smell of musk; The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps; And, in its silver husk, The corn now shows a golden ear; Come! why be sorry autumn's here? The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs; The keen wind scatters down Upon the grass, for eager hands, The chestnuts ripe and brown; The orange woods, the flame-red bowers, Are brighter than the gayest flowers; 'Tis constant changes make the year: Then why be sorry autumn's here?

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

FANCHETTE.

WHILE spending a winter in a quiet old town in Southern France, I used to meet in my walks, a girl about ten years of age, trudging along, bare-footed, carrying on her arm a large basket.

One day, besides the basket, she carried a large fagot, and her apron full of wild flowers and drooping vines. Then I thought I would like to know more about her. So I said, "You look tired, my little girl: will you not sit down under this old tree with me, and tell me where you live, and where you go every day with that big basket?"

She seemed quite pleased to do so, and then told me that her father was a wood-cutter, and that every day she had to walk three miles to the forest to carry him his dinner, and sometimes to help bind fagots.

"My name," she said, "is Fanchette, and I have a sister Marie, and a sister Claire, and a baby-brother named Pierre. My sister Marie is ill, and cannot leave her bed, and I have gathered these flowers to take to her."

"But are you not tired with walking so far?"

"A little tired, madam," she said; "but I do not mind, for Marie will be so pleased with these flowers, and baby will clap his hands and laugh when he sees me coming. Then mother will take this fagot and light the fire, and give us our supper, and we shall be very merry.

"There is my home," she said, pointing to a small brown thatched cottage under a hill not far away. "Will you not come to see us some day, madam?"

I promised to do so, and when I kept my word soon after, I found all as she had said. Though they were poor, and the mother had to work hard, their home was so neat, and all seemed so happy in it, that it was a pleasure to go there. I repeated my visits many times, carrying dainties for the invalid, who was soon quite well and strong; and I shall never forget bright, cheery little Fanchette.

ANNA LIVINGSTON.

SWEET GOOD-DAY.

"WE are fading, little children; One by one, we flutter down; For the winds are harsh and chilly, And the meadows, bare and brown. We are fading," leaves of purple, Leaves of amber, softly say; "But we'll meet you in the May-time, Our merry, merry play-time: Little children, sweet good-day!"

"We are going, little children," Sigh the flowers in the sun; "Oh! we soon shall end our singing," Lisp the brooklets as they run; And the birds, with silver warble, Long before they wing away, Pipe, "We'll meet you in the May-time, Our merry, merry play-time: Little children, sweet good-day!"

GEORGE COOPER.

MY GARDEN.

WHEN fields are green, and skies are fair, And summer fragrance fills the air, I love to watch the budding rose That in my pleasant garden grows; But when old Winter, fierce and free, Has hushed the murmur of the bee, And all the fields and hills are hid Beneath his snowy coverlid, Oh! then my only garden-spot Is just this little flower-pot.

OLD JACK.

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