The Days of the Week

This Is the Way

This is the way we wash our clothes,
Wash our clothes,
Wash our clothes;
This is the way we wash our clothes,
So early Monday morning.

This is the way we iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes;
This is the way we iron our clothes,
So early Tuesday morning.

This is the way we mend our shoes,
Mend our shoes,
Mend our shoes;
This is the way we mend our shoes,
So early Wednesday morning.

This is the way we visit our friends,
Visit our friends,
Visit our friends;
This is the way we visit our friends,
So early Thursday morning.

This is the way we sweep the house,
Sweep the house,
Sweep the house;
This is the way we sweep the house,
So early Friday morning.

This is the way we bake our cake,
Bake our cake,
Bake our cake;
This is the way we bake our cake,
So early Saturday morning.

This is the way we go to church,
Go to church,
Go to church;
This is the way we go to church,
So early Sunday morning.

Days of Birth

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is brave and glad,
Thursday’s child is never bad,

Friday’s child is loving and kind,
Saturday’s child is clear in mind,

The child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.

The Washing

They that wash on Monday
Have all the week to dry;
They that wash on Tuesday
Are not so much awry;
They that wash on Wednesday
Are not so much to blame;
They that wash on Thursday
Wash for very shame;
They that wash on Friday
Wash because of need,
And they that wash on Saturday,
Oh, they are lazy indeed!

Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday:
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy—
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married, etc.

Baby’s Play Days

How many days has my baby to play?
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday.

Which Do You Choose?

“Oh, ho! little maidens, all in a row,
And each one wearing a butterfly bow.
Which is the prettiest, Betty, or Lou,
Dolly, or Polly, or Sallie, or Sue?
I do not know, so I’ll have to ask you.”

Seven Little Mice

BY STELLA GEORGE STERN

Little-Mouse-Sunday found a great, big bun;

Little-Mouse-Monday wished that he had one;

Little-Mouse-Tuesday was fat enough without;

Little-Mouse-Wednesday sat down to sulk and pout,

Said Little-Mouse-Thursday, “I’ll get one for myself!”

Said Little-Mouse-Friday, “There’s another on the shelf”;

Little-Mouse-Saturday began to beg and squeak;

“Come on!” said all the seven, “we’ve enough to last a week!”

Visiting

“Good morning, Monday!
Tell me how is Tuesday?”
“Very well, Dame Wednesday.
Please to tell Miss Thursday,
Also little Saturday,
To call on Mister Sunday.”

Little Tommy’s Monday Morning

(In a meter neither new nor difficult)

BY TUDOR JENKS

All was well on Sunday morning,
All was quiet Sunday evening;
But, behold, quite early Monday

Came a queer, surprising Weakness—
Weakness seizing little Tommy!
It came shortly after breakfast—
Breakfast with wheat-cakes and honey

Eagerly devoured by Tommy,
Who till then was well as could be.
Then, without a moment’s warning,
Like a sneeze, that awful Aw-choo!
Came this Weakness on poor Tommy.
“Mother, dear,” he whined, “dear mother,
I am feeling rather strangely—
Don’t know what’s the matter with me—
My right leg is out of kilter,
While my ear—my left ear—itches.
Don’t you know that queerish feeling?”
“Not exactly,” said his mother.
“Does your head ache, Tommy dearest?”

Little Thomas, always truthful,
Would not say his head was aching,
For, you know, it really wasn’t.
“No, it doesn’t ache,” he answered
(Thinking of that noble story
Of the Cherry-tree and Hatchet);
“But I’m tired, and I’m sleepy,
And my shoulder’s rather achy.
Don’t you think perhaps I’d better
Stay at home with you, dear mother?”

Thoughtfully his mother questioned,
“How about your school, dear Tommy?
Do you wish to miss your lessons?”
“Well, you know,” was Tommy’s answer,
“Saturday we played at football;
I was tired in the evening,
So I didn’t learn my lessons—
Left them all for Monday morning,
Monday morning bright and early—”
“And this morning you slept over?”
So his mother interrupted.
“Yes, mama,” admitted Tommy.
“So I have not learned my lessons:
And I’d better wait till Tuesday.
Tuesday I can start in earnest—
Tuesday when I’m feeling brighter!”

Smilingly his mother eyed him,
Then she said, “Go ask your father—
You will find him in his study,
Adding up the week’s expenses.
See what father says about it.”

Toward the door went Tommy slowly,
Seized the knob as if to turn it.
Did not turn it; but, returning,
Back he came unto his mother.
“Mother,” said he, very slowly,
“Mother, I don’t feel so badly;

Maybe I’ll get through my lessons.
Anyway, I think I’ll risk it.
Have you seen my books, dear mother—
My Geography and Speller,
History and Definitions,—
Since I brought them home on Friday?”
No. His mother had not seen them.
Then began a search by Tommy.
Long he searched, almost despairing,
While the clock was striking loudly.
And at length when Tommy found them—
Found his books beneath the sofa—
He’d forgotten all his Weakness,
Pains and aches were quite forgotten.
At full speed he hastened schoolward.
But in vain, for he was tardy,
All because of that strange Weakness
He had felt on Monday morning.

Would you know the name that’s given,
How they call that curious feeling?
’Tis the dreaded “Idon’twantto”—
Never fatal, but quite common
To the tribe of Very-lazy.
Would you know the charm that cures it—
Cures the Weakness “Idon’twantto”?
It is known as “Butyou’vegotto,”
And no boy should be without it.

Now you know the curious legend
Of the paleface little Tommy,
Of his Weakness and its curing
By the great charm “Butyou’vegotto.”
Think of it on Monday mornings—
It will save you lots of trouble.

BY HENRY JOHNSTONE

Oh, Friday night’s the queen of nights, because it ushers in
The Feast of good St. Saturday, when studying is a sin,
When studying is a sin, boys, and we may go to play
Not only in the afternoon, but all the livelong day.

St. Saturday—so legends say—lived in the ages when
The use of leisure still was known and current among men;
Full seldom and full slow he toiled, and even as he wrought
He’d sit him down and rest awhile, immersed in pious thought.

He loved to fold his good old arms, to cross his good old knees,
And in a famous elbow-chair for hours he’d take his ease;
He had a word for old and young, and when the village boys
Came out to play, he’d smile on them and never mind the noise.

So when his time came, honest man, the neighbors all declared
That one of keener intellect could better have been spared,
By young and old his loss was mourned in cottage and in hall,
For if he’d done them little good, he’d done no harm at all.

In time they made a saint of him, and issued a decree—
Since he had loved his ease so well, and been so glad to see
The children frolic round him and to smile upon their play—
That school boys for his sake should have a weekly holiday.

They gave his name unto the day, that as the years roll by
His memory might still be green; and that’s the reason why
We speak his name with gratitude, and oftener by far
Than that of any other saint in all the calendar.

Then, lads and lassies, great and small, give ear to what I say—
Refrain from work on Saturdays as strictly as you may;
So shall the saint your patron be and prosper all you do—
And when examinations come he’ll see you safely through.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
I caught a hare alive.

Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
I let it go again.

Over in the Meadow

BY OLIVE A. WADSWORTH

Over in the meadow,
In the sand, in the sun,
Lived an old mother toad
And her little toadie one.
“Wink!” said the mother;
“I wink,” said the one:
So she winked and she blinked
In the sand, in the sun.

Over in the meadow,
Where the stream runs blue,
Lived an old mother fish
And her little fishes two.
“Swim!” said the mother;
“We swim,” said the two:
So they swam and they leaped
Where the stream runs blue.

Over in the meadow,
In a hole in a tree,
Lived a mother bluebird
And her little birdies three.
“Sing!” said the mother;
“We sing,” said the three:
So they sang and were glad
In the hole in the tree.

Over in the meadow,
In the reeds on the shore,
Lived a mother muskrat
And her little ratties four.
“Dive!” said the mother;
“We dive,” said the four:
So they dived and they burrowed
In the reeds on the shore.

Over in the meadow,
In a snug beehive,
Lived a mother honeybee
And her little honeys five.
“Buzz!” said the mother;
“We buzz,” said the five:
So they buzzed and they hummed
In the snug beehive.

Over in the meadow,
In a nest built of sticks,
Lived a black mother crow
And her little crows six.
“Caw!” said the mother;
“We caw,” said the six:
So they cawed and they cawed
In their nest built of sticks.

Over in the meadow,
Where the grass is so even,
Lived a gray mother cricket
And her little crickets seven.
“Chirp!” said the mother;
“We chirp,” said the seven:
So they chirped cheery notes
In the grass soft and even.

Over in the meadow,
By the old mossy gate,
Lived a brown mother lizard
And her little lizards eight.
“Bask!” said the mother;
“We bask!” said the eight:
So they basked in the sun
By the old mossy gate.

Over in the meadow,
Where the clear pools shine,
Lived a green mother frog
And her little froggies nine.
“Croak!” said the mother;
“We croak,” said the nine:
So they croaked and they splashed
Where the clear pools shine.

Over in the meadow,
In a sly little den,
Lived a gray mother spider
And her little spiders ten.
“Spin!” said the mother;
“We spin,” said the ten:
So they spun lace webs
In their sly little den.

Over in the meadow,
In the soft summer even,
Lived a mother firefly
And her little flies eleven.
“Shine!” said the mother;
“We shine,” said the eleven:
So they shone like stars
In the soft summer even.

Over in the meadow,
Where the men dig and delve,
Lived a wise mother ant
And her little anties twelve.
“Toil!” said the mother;
“We toil,” said the twelve:
So they toiled and were wise
Where the men dig and delve.

Counting Apple-Seeds

One, I love,
Two, I love,
Three, I love, I say,
Four, I love with all my heart,
And five, I cast away;
Six, he loves,
Seven, she loves,
Eight, they both love;
Nine, he comes,
Ten, he tarries,
Eleven, he courts,
Twelve, he marries;
Thirteen, wishes,
Fourteen, kisses,
All the rest little witches.

TWINS
By Lucy Fitch Perkins

Here’s a baby! Here’s another!
A sister and her infant brother.
Which is which ’tis hard to tell,
But “mother” knows them very well.

IN JULY.
BY A. S. WEBBER.

10
Ten little fire crackers
Standing in a line,
One thought he’d light a match
Then——
There were nine.

9
Nine little fire crackers
Walking very straight,
One caught an engine spark
Then——
There were eight.

8
Eight little fire crackers
Trying to spell “LEAVEN,”
One went too near the gas,
Then——
There were seven.

7
Seven little fire crackers
Cutting up tricks,
One played with lighted punk
Then——
There were six.

6
Six little fire crackers
Glad they are alive,
One went to have a smoke
Then
There were five.

5
Five little fire crackers
Wishing there were more,
One went to find a friend
Then
There were four.

4
Four little fire crackers
Merry as could be,
One played upon the hearth
Then
There were three.

3
Three little fire crackers
Puzzled what to do,
One started the kitchen fire
Then
There were two.

2
Two little fire crackers
Looking for some fun,
One met a little boy
Then
There was one.

1
One little fire cracker
Sat him down to cry,
’Tis such a risky thing
To live
In July.

Priscilla Penelope Powers one day
Took tea at a neighbor’s just over the way.
Two pieces of pie they urged her to take,
And seven whole slices of chocolate cake!
“Oh, dear,” sighed Priscilla Penelope Powers,
“I wish I was your little girl ’stead of ours!”
Mrs. John T Van Sant.

Winkelman Von Winkel is the wisest man alive,
He Knows that one and one make two, and two and three make five;
He knows that water runs down hill, that the sun sets in the west,
And that for winter weather wear, one’s winter clothes are best;
In fact, he does not mingle much with common folk around,
Because his learning is so great—his wisdom so profound.
Clara Odell Lyon.

Ten Little Cookies

Ten little cookies, brown and crisp and fine—
Grandma gave Baby one; then there were nine.

Nine little cookies on a china plate—
Betty took a small one; then there were eight.

Eight little cookies, nice and round and even—
The butcher boy ate one; then there were seven.

Seven little cookies, much liked by chicks—
The old hen ate one, then there were six.

Six little cookies, when grandma went to drive—
Betty had another one; then there were five.

Five little cookies, placed too near the door—
The little doggie ate one; then there were four.

Four little cookies, brown as brown could be—
Grandma took one for herself, then there were three.

Three little cookies—when grandpa said, “I too,
Would like a very little one”, then there were two.

Two little cookies—fast did Betty run
To give one to her mamma; then there was one.

One little cooky—and now our story is done,
Baby Jane ate the last, then there was none.

Our Baby

One head with curly hair,
Two arms so fat and bare,
Two hands and one wee nose,
Two feet with ten pink toes,
Skin soft and smooth as silk,
When clean, ’tis white as milk.

Long Time Ago

BY ELIZABETH PRENTISS

Once there was a little Kitty,
White as the snow;
In a barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro,
For she heard the little Kitty,
Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little Kitty,
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Four soft paws had little Kitty,
Paws soft as snow;
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little Kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,
Mousie cried out, “Oh!”
But she slipped away from Kitty,
Long time ago.

Buckle My Shoe

One, Two—buckle my shoe;
Three, Four—open the door;
Five, Six—pick up sticks;
Seven, Eight—lay them straight;
Nine, Ten—a good fat hen;
Eleven, Twelve—I hope you’re well;
Thirteen, Fourteen—draw the curtain;
Fifteen, Sixteen—the maid’s in the kitchen;
Seventeen, Eighteen—she’s in waiting;
Nineteen, Twenty—my stomach’s empty.

A Pair of Gloves

BY H. G. DURYÉE

The little girls who lived on Amity Street all wore mittens when they went to school in winter. Nobody’s mother ever thought of anything else to keep small hands warm. Some mothers or grandmothers crocheted them, and some knit them with fancy stitches down the back, or put other mark of distinction upon them; but they were always mittens, and were always fastened to a long ribbon or piece of braid or knitted rein, so that they might not get lost, one from the other.

This connecting-link frequently gave rise to confusion, for when two little girls put their arms around each other’s necks as they walked to school, they sometimes got tangled up in the mitten string and had to duck and turn and bump heads before the right string was again resting on the right shoulder. But as it was possible to laugh a great deal and lose one’s breath while this was going on, it was rather an advantage than otherwise, and little girls who were special chums were pretty sure to manage a tangle every other day at least.

Clarabel Bradley did her tangling and untangling with Josephine Brown, who lived at the end of Amity Street. They both went to the same school and were in the same class. They waited for each other in the morning, and came home together, and shared each other’s candy and ginger cookies whenever there were any, and took firm sides together whenever the school-yard was the scene of dispute.

But into this intimacy came a pair of gloves, almost wrecking it.

The gloves were sent by Clarabel’s aunt, who was young and pretty and taught school in a large city; and they came done up in white tissue-paper inside a box with gilt trimming around the edges and a picture on the center of the cover. Taken out of the paper, they revealed all their alluring qualities. They were of a beautiful glossy brown kid with soft woolly linings and real fur around the wrists, and they fastened with bright gilded clasps.

With them was a note which said:

For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie. Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.

And the last sentence was underscored.

Clarabel’s mother looked doubtful as she read the message. Such gloves were an extravagance even for best—and mittens were warmer. But when she encountered Clarabel’s shining eyes she smiled and gave in.

So Clarabel took the gloves to her room that night, and slept with them on the foot-board of her bed, where she could see them the first thing when she waked; and in the morning she put them on and started for school.

One hand was held rigidly by her side, but the other was permitted to spread its fingers widely over the book she carried. Both were well in view if she looked down just a little. Passers-by might see; all Amity Street might see; best of all, Josephine might see!

But Josephine, waiting at the corner, beheld and was impressed to the point of speechlessness. Whereupon Clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands. The furry wrists revealed themselves fully.

Josephine found her voice.

“You’ve got some new gloves,” she said.

“Yes; my Aunt Bessie sent them.”

“Aren’t they pretty!”

“I think so, and they’re lots nicer than mittens. I’m not going to wear my mittens again.”

Josephine looked down at her own chubby hands. Her mittens were red this winter, with a red-and-green fringe around the wrists. Only that morning she had admired them. Now they looked fat and clumsy and altogether unattractive; but she wasn’t going to admit that to any one else.

“I like mittens best,” she said stoutly,—“for school, anyway,” she added, and gave Clarabel more of the sidewalk.

“My Aunt Bessie said specially that these were to wear to school.” And Clarabel walked nearer the fence.

Josephine was hard put to it—Clarabel’s manner had become so superior.

“I don’t think your Aunt Bessie knows everything, even if she does teach school in a big city. My mother says she’s too young to—”

What she was too young to do was not allowed to be explained; for Clarabel, with a color in her face that rivaled Josephine’s mittens, had faced her.

“My Aunt Bessie’s lovely, and I won’t listen to another word against her, not another one—so there!”

Then she turned, with a queer feeling in her throat, and ran down the street to catch up with another little girl who was on ahead.

Josephine swung her books and walked as if she didn’t care.

Clarabel overtook the little girl, who was all smiling appreciation of the new gloves, and was overtaken by other little girls who added themselves to the admiring group. But somehow her triumphal progress was strangely unsatisfactory; the glory was dimmed.

At recess, Josephine paired off with Milly Smith, who stood first in geography and wore two curly feathers in her hat. Clarabel shared her cookies with Minnie Cater, because it didn’t matter who helped eat them if it wasn’t Josephine. Neither spoke to the other, and at noontime they walked home on different sides of the street.

Perhaps that was why in the afternoon Clarabel lost her place in the reader and failed on so many examples in arithmetic that she was told she must stay after school.

Usually there would have been several to keep her company, but on this day there was no one else,—even Angelina Maybelle Remington had got through without disaster,—and Clarabel, wistful-eyed, saw the other girls file out.

At another time Josephine would have stayed; she always did when Clarabel had to, as Clarabel did when she was in like need. But to-night she filed out with the rest, and Clarabel, with a sense of desertion, bent over her problems of men and hay to mow, men and potatoes to dig, men and miles of railroad to build.

The noise of scurrying feet grew fainter, the sound of children’s voices died away. The room settled into stillness, except for the solemn tick of the clock and the scratching of Clarabel’s pencil on the slate. There were fractions in the problems, and fractions were always hard for Clarabel. Her pencil stopped often while she frowned at the curly-tailed figures. In one of these pauses the door squeaked open a little way. It squeaked again, and some one sidled into the room; it was Josephine.

“Please may I go to my seat?” she asked.

“Certainly,” said the teacher, and watched her curiously.

She tiptoed to the back seat, fumbled for a few minutes in her desk, then slipped to a seat a few rows farther in front; then to another and another, till she had reached the row in which Clarabel sat.

Clarabel, though she was bending over her slate, had heard every hesitating move, and when the last halt was made she shook her curls back from her eyes, looked around, and dimpled into smiles.

The teacher, watching, waited to see what would happen next. Nothing did, except that the two little girls sat and smiled and smiled and smiled as if they never would stop.

Presently the teacher herself smiled and spoke. She had a very sweet voice sometimes—one that seemed to hint at happy secrets. That was the way it sounded now.

“Would you like to help Clarabel, Josephine?” she asked. “You may if you wish to.”

“If she’ll let me,” answered Josephine, her eyes fixed on Clarabel’s face.

“I would love to have her,” said Clarabel, her eyes on Josephine. And instantly the one narrow seat became large enough for two.

For ten minutes more there was great scratching of slate-pencils and much whispering and some giggling. Then with cheerful clatter the slate was borne to the platform. The teacher looked at the little girls more than at the examples. “I’m sure they’re right,” she said. “Now, off to your homes—both of you!”

“Good night,” said Clarabel.

“Good night,” said Josephine.

“Good night, dear little girls,” said the teacher.

There was a soft swish of dresses and the children had reached the dressing-room. Within its familiar narrowness, Josephine hesitated and fingered her cloak-buttons.

“I think your Aunt Bessie”—it was very slow speech for Josephine—“is ever so nice and knows a lot.”

“Oh!” bubbled Clarabel, joyously, “I do love the color of your mittens! Don’t you—don’t you”—she finished with a rush—“want to let me wear them home and you wear my gloves?”

Josephine put aside the dazzling offer.

“Your gloves are prettier and you ought to wear them.”

Clarabel thought a minute, a shadow in her eyes.

“I know what,” she declared, the shadow vanishing. “You wear one glove and mitten and I’ll wear the other glove and mitten!”

“Oh!” said Josephine, with a rapturous hug, “that will be splendid!”

And thus they scampered home, the two mittened hands holding each other tight, while the two gloved hands were gaily waved high in the air with each fresh outburst of laughter from the little schoolmates.

A Very Little Story of a Very Little Girl

BY ALICE E. ALLEN

Molly was such a little girl that she didn’t seem big enough to have a party all her own with truly ice-cream in it. But she had asked for one so many times that at last Mother decided to give her one. And the party was to be a surprise to Molly herself.

Early that afternoon Molly wanted to go for a little visit to Miss Eleanor. Miss Eleanor lived up Molly’s street, in a white house with apple-green blinds. Molly often went all alone.

Miss Eleanor was always so sunny and full of songs and stories and games that Molly loved her next best to Father and Mother and Baby.

“You may go, dear,” said Mother, “if you will come home exactly at three o’clock.”

“You always say exactly three o’clock, Mother,” said Molly.

“Well, five minutes after three, then,” laughed Mother. “And, Molly, so that you won’t forget this time, all the way to Miss Eleanor’s, say over and over, ‘Five minutes after three.’ Then, just as soon as you get there, say the words quickly to Miss Eleanor, ‘Five minutes after three.’”

“Five minutes after three,” said Molly; “I can remember that.”

“That will give me plenty of time to get ready for the party,” thought Mother.

Up the street with her white parasol flew Molly. “Five minutes after three,” she said over and over in a whisper until she began to sing it. “Five minutes after three,” she sang until she stopped a moment on the bridge to see some boys fishing. Just about there, a big dog who was a friend of Molly’s ran out to say, “Good afternoon.”

“Oh, Fritzie,” cried Molly, “I’m going to Miss Eleanor’s to make her a visit. Want to come?”

But Fritz had the house to look after. So Molly gave him a hug and ran along.

“Three minutes after five,” sang Molly; “three minutes after five,” over and over until she ran into Miss Eleanor’s sunny little sitting-room.

“Three minutes after five,” cried Molly; “that’s how long I can stay. Won’t that be nice?”

“Why, it’s little Molly!” cried Miss Eleanor, “I’m all alone and so glad to have company! We’ll hear the clock strike five. Then, if you put on your wraps, you’ll be all ready to start home at three minutes past.”

It seemed a very very short time to Molly before the little clock struck five.

“There, deary,” said Miss Eleanor. “Put on your things and hurry right along!”

Molly put on her hat and coat. Then she kissed Miss Eleanor and hurried down the street.

When she reached the corner, she saw that the parlor at home was all lighted. And out of it came such a hubbub of little voices all laughing and talking that Molly ran faster than ever.

At the door she met Mother.

“Oh, Molly, where have you been?” cried Mother. “I couldn’t go after you because I couldn’t leave Baby. And I couldn’t take him.”

Molly scarcely heard. “Oh, Mother, Mother,” she cried, “it looks like a party. And it sounds like one. Is it a party, Mother?”

“Yes,” said Mother, “your own little party, Molly. And you’re the only one who is late. How could you forget?”

“But I didn’t forget, Mother,” cried Molly, hurrying out of her coat, “truly I didn’t. Every step of the way I said it, and I said it to Miss Eleanor the very first thing.”

“What did you say?” asked Mother.

“Three minutes after five,” said Molly.

Mother laughed. “Why, Molly dear, you got the hour and minutes turned around. I said five minutes after three. Well, never mind. Run along just as you are. It’s a lovely party, dear, with truly ice-cream in it.”

Edith’s Tea-Party

BY LOIS WALTERS

Edith was a little girl who was just learning to write. Her mother told her one day that she could have a tea-party on the next Tuesday, if the weather was fine, and that she could invite her little friend Helen, who lived on the same street, though not very far away; but she must write the letter to ask Helen to come. So, Edith got up at her mother’s writing-desk and took some of her own writing paper, and began to write. She could make the letters but she could not spell very well. She asked her mother how to spell the words and then she wrote them down. And this is the letter she wrote:

Then she sealed the letter in the envelop, and put a stamp on it, and stood on the front piazza so as to give it to the postman herself.

When Tuesday came, Edith’s nurse dressed her in a fresh, white frock, and Edith dressed her dolly in her best dress, and went out under the trees where her nurse had set the table for two. And then she sat in a chair at the table and waited. But the big town clock struck four and no Helen came; and then she waited for half an hour longer. Then Edith put her dolly down on the chair and went in the house to find her mother.

“Mama,” she said, “I think Helen is very rude, she doesn’t come to my party and I invited her!”

“Just wait a little longer, dear,” said her mother, “and she will come. Maybe her nurse was busy dressing Helen’s little sister and brother and couldn’t get her ready in time.”

“But I invited her,” was all Edith could say; “but I invited her, and she doesn’t come.”

Then her mother went to the telephone and called up Helen’s mother. In a moment she came back.

“Edith, dear,” she said, “what day did you write Helen to come? Her mother says she thought it was to be Thursday, and so did Helen, and this is only Tuesday.”

“But I did say Tuesday, mama,” said Edith, who was almost ready to cry. “I remember because that was the hardest word to spell, and I think I made a blot when I wrote it.”

“Well, never mind, dear; Helen is getting ready now and will be over in a few minutes,” said her mama.

And Edith was very happy, and ran out to the tea-table under the trees with her doll to wait.

But she did not have to wait very long this time, for in a little while Helen came running across the lawn carrying her doll; and so happy were both little girls that Edith forgot all about the long time she had been waiting for Helen to come.

Helen wanted Edith to know that she had not been rude in staying away, so she brought with her the letter Edith had sent to her, so she could show it to Edith. And there, sure enough, the word “Tuesday” was written so badly that it looked more like “Thursday,” and that was why Helen did not think she was expected on this day.

Well, the very first thing they did was to undress their dolls and put them to sleep under one of the bushes on the lawn—in the shade, so that the sun would not hurt their eyes, and so that the wax would not be melted from their cheeks. Edith put her napkin over both dolls for a comforter, for you never know when it will blow up cold, and little girls have to be as careful of their dolls as their own mothers are!

Very soon the maid came out with cookies and lady-fingers and make-believe tea, and another napkin to take the place of the one Edith had put over the dolls, and they had tea. Then the two little girls and Edith’s nurse had a nice game of croquet, and they had a lovely tea-party after all, and Edith forgot all about waiting so long for Helen to come.

But Edith never again made a mistake when she spelled “Tuesday.”

Rebecca

BY ELEANOR PIATT

I have a doll, Rebecca,
She’s quite a little care,
I have to press her ribbons
And comb her fluffy hair.

I keep her clothes all mended,
And wash her hands and face,
And make her frocks and aprons,
All trimmed in frills and lace.

I have to cook her breakfast,
And pet her when she’s ill;
And telephone the doctor
When Rebecca has a chill.

Rebecca doesn’t like that,
And says she’s well and strong;
And says she’ll try—oh! very hard,
To be good all day long.

But when night comes, she’s nodding;
So into bed we creep
And snuggle up together,
And soon are fast asleep.

I have no other dolly,
For you can plainly see,
In caring for Rebecca,
I’m busy as can be!

Dorothea’s School Gifts

BY EUNICE WARD

“It seems very queer,” said Dorothea thoughtfully, “people who are going to do something nice always have presents given them, but people who are going to do something horrid never get a thing, and they need it twice as much.”

“As for instance?” said her father, laying down his paper and drawing her onto his knee, while the rest of the family prepared to give the customary amused attention to their youngest’s remarks.

“Well, when Cousin Edith went to Europe we all gave her presents to take with her, and when she came home lots of people sent her flowers. Anita’s been getting cups and things ever since she was engaged, and last spring, when Florence graduated, almost all the family gave her something; and when Mary Bowman was confirmed she got a lovely white prayer-book and a gold cross and chain. But when people are going to do what they hate to do, they’re left out in the cold.”

“What are you going to do that you don’t like, Baby?” asked Florence.

“Why, you know, school begins again next week,” said Dorothea. “It makes me feel quite mournful, and I don’t see anything to cheer me up and make it interesting for me.” A little smile was hidden in the corners of her mouth although her tone was as doleful as possible.

“If you were going to boarding-school—” began Anita, who was apt to take everything seriously.

“Then I’d have lots of things,” interrupted Dorothea. “New clothes and a trunk and a bag, and you’d all come to see me off, and it would be interesting. But I’m going to work just as hard here at day-school, and yet I’ve got to bear it, all by myself.”

Her father pinched her ear, and her big brother Jim offered to have a bunch of roses placed on her desk at school if that would make her feel better, while her two sisters looked at each other as though the same idea had occurred to them both.

On the morning of the first day of school, Dorothea was suddenly awakened by a loud ting-a-ling-a-ling. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The room was flooded with morning light and the brass knobs on her bed gleamed cheerfully at her and seemed to say: “Get up, get up!” Now Dorothea was a “sleepyhead” and had seldom been known to get up when first awakened. It usually took at least three calls from her mother or the girls, and sometimes Jim stole in and administered a “cold pig,” that is, a few drops of chilly water squeezed upon her neck from a sponge, before she was ready to leave her comfortable bed.

“It’s an alarm clock,” thought Dorothea. “But where is it?” Her eyes traveled sleepily around the room but saw nothing that had not been there the night before. The ting-a-ling-a-ling sounded once more. “It’s in this room somewhere!” she exclaimed, bouncing out of bed. She looked on bureau, washstand, bookcase, and window-seat, and then jumped, for the loud ting-a-ling came almost from underneath her feet. She hastily lifted the drooping cover of a little table that stood near the window, and there on the edge of the lower shelf stood an alarm-clock of the ordinary pattern but of rather extraordinary appearance, owing to a large yellow paper ruff which encircled its face.

“How did it get there?” exclaimed Dorothea in astonishment; and as she gazed the clock burst forth with another loud ting-a-ling.

“Isn’t it ever going to stop doing that?” she said, lifting it as she spoke. The yellow ruff seemed to have something written on it, so she took it off and, smoothing it out, read:

Dear Dolly: Happy school-day! After much earnest consideration I have selected this as a suitable reminder of this joyful (?) anniversary. It will continue to remind you five mornings in the week, thereby saving your family much wear and tear, for it will be properly wound and set every night by
Your affectionate brother,
Jim.

p.s. When you are sufficiently aroused, press the lever and the alarm will stop.

“It’s one of those awful clocks that go off every minute!” said Dorothea, carefully examining it to find the lever. She almost dropped it when it began another of its loud and long rings, but she soon found and pressed the lever and thereafter the clock was silent except for its customary tick.

“I don’t believe I shall ask anybody to give me presents any more,” she said, eying Jim’s “reminder” with disfavor. But she changed her mind a little later when, on looking for a clean handkerchief, she discovered a flat square box tied with blue ribbon, and, opening it, saw half a dozen handkerchiefs with narrow blue borders and a little blue D in the corner. On the top was Cousin Edith’s visiting-card, on the back of which was printed in fantastic letters:

Dear Dolly: Use a handkerchief
Whenever you’re inclined to sniff.
But with this band of blue I think
They don’t need polka-dots of ink.

It was a constant wonder to the household what Dorothea did with her handkerchiefs when she was at school. In vain she protested that she didn’t wipe her pen on them, and she didn’t use them as blotters or to wash out her ink-well; but, nevertheless, black stains almost always appeared upon them, and Florence insisted that the family had to buy an extra pint of milk a day to take out all these ink-stains. Cousin Edith was too frequent a visitor not to know all the family plans and jokes, and Dolly, as she laughed and shook out one of the blue-bordered squares, resolved that “polka-dots” should be conspicuous by their absence, for Edith would be sure to know.

She entered the breakfast room just as the family were sitting down to the table.

“Behold the effects of my generosity and fore-thought!” exclaimed Jim waving his hand toward her. “Our Youngest is in time for breakfast!”

“Many happy returns of the day, small sister,” said Anita, just as if it was her birthday, kissing her good morning and slipping a little hard package into her hand. “Bob sends you this with his love.”

“I don’t mind returns of the day when it’s like this,” said Dorothea, opening the package and at the same time spying a couple of tissue-paper parcels lying beside her plate. Inside was a small chamois-skin case out of which slid a little pearl-handled penknife. The accompanying card bore the name of her future brother-in-law, and also these words:

I hesitate to offer you
This knife, for I shall be
Afraid that if you cut yourself
You straightway will cut me.

“How long did it take Bob to execute that masterpiece?” inquired Jim as Dorothea read it aloud.

“You’re jealous,” she said. “Yours wasn’t half so lovely as Cousin Edith’s and Bob’s. It wasn’t poetry at all.”

“I left all the eloquence to my gift itself,” answered Jim, helping himself to an orange.

Dorothea paid no attention to him, for she was opening a small package fastened by a rubber band. It was a silver-mounted eraser with a tiny brush at one end. The inclosed note read:

This advice I must repeat;
Spare the rub and spoil the sheet.
If you can’t restrain your speed,
This will prove a friend in need.

Dolly joined rather shamefacedly in the general smile, as she thanked Florence, whose writing she had recognized. She was very apt to postpone her work until the last minute, and then rush through it as fast as possible; her compositions suffered from the many careless mistakes that she was always in too much of a hurry to correct, while her drawings belonged to what Jim called the “slap-dash school.”

“We shall know by the amount of rubber left at the end of the term whether you have taken my valuable advice,” said Florence. “What’s in that other package, Baby? I know it is Anita’s by the extreme elegance of its appearance.”

Dorothea opened an oblong package tied with green ribbon and found a set of blotters fastened to a dark green suède cover ornamented with an openwork design of four-leaf clovers, and a pen-wiper to match. On top lay a slip of paper on which was written in Anita’s pretty hand:

Wishing “Our Youngest” good luck and a happy school year.

“I’m not good at verses, so you’ll have to be content with plain prose,” said Anita, and Dorothea assured her that she was quite satisfied.

“Half past eight, Dolly,” said her mother when breakfast was over. “It is time you started.”

“Oh, not yet, mother,” said Dorothea the Dawdler. “It only takes me fifteen minutes.”

“Now, see here,” said Jim; “what do you suppose stirring young business-men like your father and brother are lingering until the nine o’clock train for, unless it is to see you off for school? We want to give you as good a send-off as possible, for you’re going to be absent four whole hours, but we can’t,—unless you do your part and begin to go pretty soon. I don’t believe you’ve got all your books together, as it is.”

“Yes, I have,” answered Dorothea triumphantly. “They are all on the hall table, for I put them there last night. Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed blankly: “I forgot to see whether I had any pencils! I don’t believe I have one! Jim, lend me yours, won’t you? Just for to-day.”

“Lend you my most cherished possession? Never!” said Jim, placing his hand dramatically over his breast pocket.

“Then, Daddy, won’t you please lend me yours?”

“Trot along, trot along!” said her father; and Dorothea, not knowing quite what to make of having her demands thus ignored, put on her big sailor hat and started to gather up her books. On top of the pile was a slender inlaid box under a card bearing the words, “For Dolly, from Father.” Pushing back the sliding cover, Dorothea saw that the box contained a row of pencils, all beautifully sharpened, a dozen pens, and a slim gunmetal penholder.

“Oh!” she squealed with delight. “So that’s why you wouldn’t lend me any pencils!” and gave her father a hug.

“Hurry up, now,” said Jim. “Don’t forget we’ve got to see ourselves off after we’ve seen you.”

“Why don’t you take your bag?” asked Anita.

“It’s too small for my new Geography,” answered Dorothea, placing this huge outward and visible sign of her progress in learning so that it would form a foundation for the rest of her books. “Besides, it’s too shabby”.

“You had better take it to-day, anyhow, as you have so much to carry,” suggested her mother. “I brought it downstairs and it’s on the hat-rack.”

“I just hate it!” pouted Dorothea, turning; and then stopped in surprise, for instead of her little old satchel, a large new one made of soft dark brown leather was hanging on the rack. It was ornamented on one side with her monogram in raised tan-colored letters, and it was large enough for the largest Geography that she was ever likely to have.

“Who gave me that?” she cried. “Oh, I know—Mother! It’s just exactly what I wanted. I think going to school this way is perfectly lovely!” she added as she slipped her other possessions into the bag.

“Twenty minutes to nine!” called Jim warningly.

“All right, I’m going now,” answered Dorothea gaily as she kissed them all around.

“And the first day of school isn’t so dismal after all, is it?” said her father.

“Oh, it’s splendid, just splendid!” she replied enthusiastically. At the gate she turned to wave her hand at the assembled family, who waved back at her vigorously; and then, swinging her bag, she ran off down the street toward school.

oris’s papa gave her a five-dollar bill, such a lot of money! Doris went to a big bank and asked if they could give her smaller money for it. The banker said he thought they could. So he gave her two two-dollar bills and a big silver dollar. How much did that make? Doris wanted the dollar changed again; so the banker asked if she would have two fifty-cent pieces, or one fifty-cent piece and two quarters—or perhaps four quarters or ten dimes—or twenty five-cent pieces—or a hundred pennies.

Doris thought a hundred pennies would be a good many to count and to carry, so she said she would take two quarters, three dimes and four five-cent pieces.

She laid away four dollars in the bank, those were the two bills, and put the change in her purse. When she went to the shop, she had such a lot of money that she thought she never could spend it. So she bought a paint-box with two little saucers in it for 10 cents; that left her 90 cents; and then a big rubber balloon for 25 cents; that left 65 cents; and a little one for 10 cents; and then Doris bought a whole pound of candy for thirty cents. Out of the 25 cents she had left, it cost 10 cents to go in the car.

When Doris got home she opened her paint-box. What do you think? Of course it was only a cheap paint-box and the paints were so hard that they would not paint at all. Doris cut out the dolls, but they were no better than those in any newspaper’s colored supplement. Doris’s mama said that the candy was too bad to eat at all, and the rubber balloons got wrinkled and soft in the night, because the gas went out of them. Doris cried when she saw them. “Now,” she said, “I have nothing left of my beautiful dollar but 15 cents.”

“I’m sorry, Dearie,” Doris’s mama said, “but it’s bad enough to have wasted one dollar without crying about it, too. When you and I go out, we’ll try to get such good things for the next dollar, that it will make up for our mistake about this one.” The next bright day they went to the bank and got another dollar.

Now Doris’s mama was a very wise person (mamas often are). So they went to a store where there were some books that had been wet a little by the firemen when the store caught fire. There they found a large, fine book of animal stories with pictures in it that had been 50 cents, but the book-store man sold it for 10 cents, because the back cover and a little bit of the edge was stained with water and smoke.

That left—how much? Ninety cents. Doris’s brother had told her he would teach her to play marbles, so she bought six glass marbles for 5 cents and a hoop with a stick for 5 more. That left 80 cents.

Then Doris asked if her mama thought she could buy a pair of roller skates. Her mama said they could ask how much roller skates cost, but the shopman said they were a dollar a pair! So Doris said she would save up the 80 cents that was left of her dollar and wait until she had enough for the skates.

However, a little boy was looking in at the window of the toy-shop and he looked so sad, and so longingly at the toys, that Doris spoke to him, and when he said he wanted one of the red balls, she bought it for 5 cents, and gave it to him. That left 75 cents.

When they got home, they told papa about the skates and he said he could get them down-town for 75 cents, and he did.

So Doris learned by losing her first dollar, to get a lot of good things that would be more useful and would last longer, with her second dollar.

A Dutch Treat

BY AMY B. JOHNSON

“I’ve been crying again, father.”

“Have you, sweetheart? I’m sorry.”

“Father.”

“Yes, darling.”

“I don’t like Holland at all. I wish we had stayed in New York. And I would much rather stay in Amsterdam with you to-day than to go and see those horrid little Dutch children. I’m sure I shall hate them all.”

“But how about Marie? You want to see her, don’t you?”

“No. I’m very much annoyed with Marie. I don’t see why she could not have been contented in New York. After taking care of me ever since I was a baby, she must like me better than those nieces and nephews she never saw till yesterday.”

“I am sure Marie loves you very dearly, Katharine, but you are getting to be such a big girl now that you no longer need a nurse, and Marie was homesick. She wished to come back to Holland years ago, but I persuaded her to stay till you were old enough to do without her, and until Aunt Katharine was ready to come to New York and live with us, promising her that when that time came you and I would come over with her, just as we have done, on our way to Paris. We must not be selfish and grudge Marie to her sisters, who have not seen her for twelve years.”

“I am homesick now, too, father. I was so happy in New York with my dolls—and you—and Marie—and—”

“So you shall be again, darling; in a few months we will go back, taking dear Aunt Katharine with us from Paris, and you will soon love her better than you do Marie.”

Katharine and her father, Colonel Easton, were floating along a canal just out of Amsterdam, in a trekschuit, or small passenger-boat, on their way to the home of one of Marie’s sisters, two of whom were married and settled near one of the dikes of Holland. Katharine was to spend the day there with her nurse, and make the acquaintance of all the nieces and nephews about whom Marie had told her so much, while her father was to return to Amsterdam, where he had business to transact with a friend. They had arrived in Holland only the day before, when Marie had immediately left them, being anxious to get home as soon as possible, after exacting a promise from the colonel that Katharine should visit her the next day.

Katharine felt very sure she would never like Holland as she gazed rather scornfully at the curious objects they passed: the queer gay-colored boats, the windmills which met the eye at every turn, with their great arms waving in the air, the busy-looking people, men and women, some of the latter knitting as they walked, carrying heavy baskets on their backs, and all looking so contented and placid.

“Try and think of the nice day you are going to have with Marie and the children,” said the colonel; “then this evening I will come for you, and we will go together to Paris, and when you see Aunt Katharine you will be perfectly happy. See, we are nearly at the landing, and look at that row of little girls and boys. I do believe they are looking for you.”

“Yes; they must be Marie’s sister’s children, I know them from the description Marie has read me from her letters. Aren’t they horrid little things, father? Just look at their great clumps of shoes—”

“Yes—klompen; that is what they are called, Katharine.”

“And their baggy clothes and short waists! One of them knitting, too! Well, I would never make such a fright of myself, even if I did live in Holland, which I’m glad I don’t.”

By this time they had made the landing. Then Katharine and Marie fell into each other’s arms and cried, gazed at in half-frightened curiosity by seven small, shy Hollanders, and in pitying patience by a very large colonel.

“Au revoir. I will call for Katharine this afternoon,” called Colonel Easton, when the time came for him to go on board again.

Katharine waved her handkerchief to her father as long as his boat was in sight.

“See, Miss Katharine,” said Marie—in Dutch now, for Katharine understood that language very well, Marie having spoken it to her from her infancy—“here is Gretel, and this is her little sister Katrine and her brother Jan. The others are their cousins. Come here, Lotten; don’t be shy. Ludolf, Mayken, Freitje, shake hands with my little American girl; they were all eager to come and meet you, dear, so I had to bring them.”

Katharine shook hands very soberly with the little group, and then walked off beside Marie, hearing nothing but the clatter-clatter of fourteen wooden shoes behind her.

Soon they arrived at the cottage, and in a moment seven pairs of klompen were ranged in a neat row outside a small cottage, while their owners all talked at once to two sweet-faced women standing in the doorway. These were Marie’s sisters, whose husbands were out on the sea fishing, and who lived close beside each other in two tiny cottages exactly alike.

“Oh,” exclaimed Katharine, as, panting and breathless, she joined the group, “do you always take off your shoes before you go into the house?”

“Why, of course,” said the children.

“How funny!” said Katharine.

Then Marie, who had been left far behind, came up and introduced the little stranger to Juffrouw Van Dyne and Juffrouw Boekman, who took her into the house, followed by the three children who belonged there and the four cousins who belonged next door. They took off her coat and hat and gave her an arm-chair to sit in as she nibbled a tiny piece of gingerbread, while large pieces from the same loaf disappeared as if by magic among the other children. Then Gretel showed to her her doll; Jan shyly put into her hand a very pretty small model of the boat she had come in on that morning; Lotten offered her a piece of Edam cheese, which she took, while politely declining Mayken’s offer to teach her to knit, little Katrine deposited a beautiful white kitten on her lap; Ludolf showed her a fine pair of klompen on which his father was teaching him to carve some very pretty figures; Freitje brought all his new fishing-tackle and invited her to go fishing with him at the back of the house. It was not long before Katharine forgot that she was homesick, and grew really interested in her surroundings; and later the dinner, consisting chiefly of fish and rye bread, tasted very good to the now hungry Katharine.

It was after dinner that the tragedy happened. The children had all started out for a walk. Before they had gone more than a mile from the house the fog settled all around them—so dense, so thick, blotting out everything, that they could not see more than a step ahead. They were not frightened, however, as all they had to do was to turn round and go straight ahead toward home. The children took one another’s hands at Gretel’s direction, stretching themselves across the road, Katharine, who held Gretel’s hand, being at one end of the line. They walked on slowly along the dike for a short time, talking busily, though not able to see where they were going, when suddenly Katharine felt her feet slipping. In trying to steady herself she let go of Gretel, gave a wild clutch at the air, and then rolled, rolled, right down a steep bank, and, splash! into a pool of water at the bottom. For a moment she lay half stunned, not knowing what had happened to her; then, as her sense came, “Oh,” thought she, “I must be killed, or drowned, or something!” She tried to call “Gretel,” but her voice sounded weak and far off, and she could see nothing. Slowly she crawled out of the pool, only to plunge, splash! into another. She felt, oh, so cold, wet, and bruised! “I must have rolled right down the dike,” she thought. “If I could find it, I might climb up again.” She got up and tried to walk, but sank to her ankles in water at every step.

She was a little lame from her fall, and soaked from head to foot. Her clothes hung around her most uncomfortably when she tried to walk. But, if she had to crawl on hands and knees, she must find the house; so, plunging, tumbling, rising again, she crawled in and out of ditches, every minute getting more cold and miserable.

But on she went, shivering and sore, every moment wandering farther from her friends, who were out searching all along the bottom of the dike.

After what seemed to her a long time, she came bump up against something hard. She did not know what it was, but she could have jumped for joy, if her clothes had not been so heavy to hear a voice suddenly call out in Dutch “What’s that? Who has hit against my door? Ach! where in the world have you come from?” Then in a considerably milder tone: “Ach! the little one! and she is English. How did you get here, dear heart?”

“I—I—fell down the dike. I have—lost—everybody. Oh, how shall I ever get back to father?” answered Katharine in her very poor Dutch.

“But tell me, little one, where you came from—ach! so cold and wet!”

“I was spending the day with Marie and Gretel—and—Jan—and we were walking on the dike when the fog came on; then I fell, and could not find my way—”

“Gretel and Jan—could they be Juffrouw Van Dyne’s children?”

“Yes, yes,” eagerly; “that is where I was. Oh, can you take me back, dear, dear juffrouw?”

“Yes, when the fog clears away, my child. I could not find the house now; it is more than two miles from here. Besides, you must put off these wet clothes; you will get your death of cold—poor lambkin.”

At this Katharine’s sobs broke forth afresh. It must be late in the evening now, she thought; her father would come to Marie’s and would not be able to find her—

“No, dear child, it is only four o’clock in the afternoon. The fog may clear away very soon, and then I will take you back.”

Quickly the wet garments were taken off and hung about the stove. Katharine presently found herself wrapped up in blankets in a great arm-chair in front of the fire, a cushion at her back and another under her feet, drinking some nice hot broth, and feeling so warm and comfortable that she fell fast asleep, and awoke two hours later to find the room quite light, the fog almost gone, the juffrouw sitting beside her knitting, and a comfortable-looking cat purring noisily at her feet.

“I think I have been asleep,” she said.

“I think you have,” said Dame Donk.

Just then a loud knock was heard at the door, a head was poked in, then another, and still another. The cottage was fast filling up. There stood, first of all, poor, pale, frightened Marie, holding a large bundle in her arms, Jan with another smaller one, Gretel carrying a pair of shoes, and one of the sisters, completely filling up the doorway with her ample proportions, last of all.

It appears that as soon as the fog had begun to clear, the good Dame Donk had despatched a boy from a neighboring cottage to let them know where Katharine was, and that her wardrobe would need replenishing.

The excitement on finding the child safe and sound may be better imagined than described. How she was kissed, cried, and laughed over, what questions were asked and not answered, as she was taken into an adjoining room and arrayed in a complete suit of Gretel’s clothes, even to the klompen, for, alas! her French shoes were now in no condition to be worn, the pretty blue frock torn and stained and hopelessly wet, the hat with its dainty plume crushed and useless; indeed, every article she had worn looked only fit for the rag-bag.

Gretel was so much smaller than Katharine that the clothes were a very tight fit, the skirt which hung round Gretel’s ankles reaching just below Katharine’s knees, and it was a funny little figure that stepped back into the room—no longer a fashionably dressed New York maiden, but a golden-haired child of Holland, even to the blue eyes, sparkling now with fun and merriment.

“But didn’t you bring a cap for me, Marie?” she asked in a grieved tone.

“Ah, no, deary; I never thought of a cap.”

“Well, you must put one on me the minute we get back.”

“Oh, what will father say?” she cried delightedly, as she surveyed herself in the little mirror.

This sobered Marie at once. What would “father” say, indeed? Would he not have a right to be very angry with her, that she had allowed the child to get into such danger?

“Where is Katharine?” asked the colonel, as he stood, tall and commanding, on the threshold, later that evening, surveying eight small Hollanders, looking so much alike, except for the difference in their sizes, that they might have passed for eight Dutch dolls propped up in a row against the wall.

A sudden shriek of laughter, and one of the dolls was in his arms, smothering him with kisses. Then every one began to talk at once, as usual, and it was not until late the next evening, when he and Katharine were steaming out of Amsterdam, that the colonel was told the whole story and for the first time fully understood all that had happened to his little girl on that eventful day.

Meanwhile the new light in his daughter’s eyes and the laughter on her lips kept him from any desire to inquire too deeply into the reason for a certain embarrassed frightened look on the faces of the women.

Before leaving Amsterdam the colonel was obliged to purchase a complete suit of Dutch garments for Katharine as a memento of this visit, and “because they are so pretty, father,” she said, and “oh, father, I just love Holland! As for those Dutch children, I think they are simply the dearest, sweetest things I ever saw, and I have promised to write to Gretel as soon as ever I get to Paris.”

There lives in a town that is called Chu-Bo
A little Jap girl named Nami-Ko.
She learns to spell and she learns to write,
But her A B C’s are the oddest sight!

For this is the way that the letters look
In her neat little, queer little copy-book:

This little Jap girl has shoes most neat
To put on her tiny Japanese feet,
But O! They are queer—such heels, such toes!
You’d think she would fall on her little Jap nose!

And these are the shoes—beware of mishap
If you wear what belongs to a queer little Jap!

When this little Jap girl goes out to call
She wears no hat—but a parasol!
And her little Jap mother wears one too—
In fact it’s the way that the Japs all do.

And this is the curious parasol
Which the little Jap girl wears out to call:

This little Jap girl, when she goes to bed,
Has no soft pillow beneath her head,
For little Jap girls have to take great care
Of their smooth little, black little Japanese hair!

And this is the pillow! Imagine, chicks,
A pillow like this—and as hard as bricks!

The Seventh Birthday of the Little Cousin from Constantinople

BY EMMA C. DOWD

The Little Cousin from Constantinople was to have been given a party on her seventh birthday; but, just before the invitations were written, Mumps came uninvited, and, of course, there could be no other guests while Mumps stayed.

The Little Cousin could not help feeling just a little tearful on her birthday morning, for Mumps, as nearly everybody knows, is a painful, disagreeable visitor. She did not cry when anybody was near—oh, no, indeed! She even tried to smile; but she found smiling very difficult with a poultice on each side of her face, and she had to give it up. The Merry Mother understood, however, and told her she was a dear, brave little girl, and strove to comfort her just as the dear absent Mother in Constantinople would have comforted her if she had been there.

Before the Merry Mother left her the Little Cousin felt almost happy, sitting up among her soft pillows, and wearing her new, pink, birthday sacque, with its pretty ribbons.

“I am sorry I must be away all the morning,” the Merry Mother said; “but I hope your pleasant company will keep you from missing me. I am going to shut your door for a minute, and when it opens you can pull in your visitors as fast as you please.” She laughed to see the Little Cousin’s astonished face, for the doctor had said that the children must not come in to see her as long as Mumps stayed. Then the door closed.

There was a slight commotion outside. The Little Cousin listened eagerly. What could it mean? Hushed voices, bits of laughter, the sliding of something over the polished floor, scurrying footsteps here and there—the Little Cousin heard it all, and waited breathlessly.

At last the feet retreated, the door opened, and the Merry Mother’s face appeared. Something attached to a string came flying toward the bed.

“Catch it!” she called.

The Little Cousin grabbed it—only a small block of wood, on which was printed, “PULL.”

Eagerly the little hands obeyed, when in through the doorway slid an oblong package. Across the rug and up on the bed the Little Cousin drew it, till her excited fingers clasped the package tight—what could it be?

Fastened to the further end of the bundle was another block of wood, and attached to it was another string which led outside the door. On this block was printed. “When you are ready, PULL again!”

“I’ll open this first,” said the Little Cousin to herself, untying the block, and laying it aside with its dangling cord. Eagerly she tore off the wrappings—it was, it was a doll, such a darling of a doll! It had brown eyes and fluffy yellow curls, and—this seemed very strange—the only thing in the way of clothing that it possessed was a little blanket that was wrapped around it.

Never mind! she was learning to sew, and she would make it a dress as soon as she was well again. She cuddled Dolly down against the pillows. She would not be lonely any more, even if Mumps should stay for a longer visit than was expected. Her dolls had all been left for the Little Sister in Constantinople, and it was so nice to have a dolly of her own again!

Then her eyes fell on the block of wood, with its inscription, and she began to pull in the string.

A square package appeared in the doorway, and she drew it toward her. Attached to it was a third block. This she untied as before, and removed the paper from her gift. It was a small trunk. She lifted the cover, and there were Dolly’s missing garments! A blue dress, a pink dress, a white dress, dainty underwear, sash ribbons, a coat and hat, and even a tiny comb and brush, were found in that wonderful trunk. Of course, Dolly had to come out from her nook in the pillows, and be dressed. It took some time, because Little Cousin must stop to admire every separate garment. At last, however, the third present was pulled in, and it was a chair for Dolly to sit in.

The fourth package was big and rather heavier than the others. The Little Cousin wondered what it could be, and she found out just as soon as she could get it open. It was a dining-table for Dolly, with a real little table-cloth, and napkins, and a set of pretty china dishes.

“Oh, oh!” gasped the Little Cousin, in sheer delight. It is a pity there was no one there to see the shining of her eyes. She rested awhile among her pillows; but not long, for Dolly must have her table set for luncheon—she might be hungry.

Ready for the make-believe repast, string number five was pulled, and when the box was opened the Little Cousin fairly squealed, for there was a real luncheon for Dolly and herself, all in twos! There were two tiny buttered biscuits, two very small apple turnovers, and two little frosted cakes. There were, also, two small bottles containing a brownish liquid. It was chocolate! Oh, how glad the Little Cousin was that she had passed the stage where she could not eat! It would have been hard, indeed, to have left all those goodies for Dolly. As it was she had to take food in very small bits, but that only made it last the longer; and if it did hurt a little once in a while she did not mind, it tasted so good. So on the whole, the luncheon was a very happy affair.

When the sixth present was pulled upon the bed the Little Cousin said, “Oh!” to the accompaniment of very bright eyes, for the shape of it told her that must be a carriage—a carriage for Dolly, and it proved to be one of the very prettiest that ever a small doll rode in. She was put on the seat in a twinkling, and had only one tumble—which did not even muss her dress, and the next time she was strapped in so that she could not fall.

The seventh gift was a little white bedstead, with mattress and sheets, a dear little puffy comfortable, and a dainty coverlet and two pillows. Of course, Dolly was tired enough after her ride to be undressed and go to bed, and very sweet she looked as she was tucked snugly in.

“Now shut your eyes and go right to sleep!” Dolly was bidden, and she obeyed at once.

“What a perfectly lovely birthday!” murmured Little Cousin, drawing her darling—bed and all—close to her pillow. Then she shut her own eyes, to keep Dolly company.

When the Merry Mother peeped in, the Little Cousin from Constantinople lay quite still among her treasures—fast asleep.

Little Red Riding-Hood

RETOLD FROM GRIMM

There was once a sweet little girl, who had gained the love of every one, even those who had only seen her once. She had an old grandmother, who knew not how to do enough for her, she loved her so much. Once she sent her a little cloak with a red velvet hood, which became her so well that she obtained the name of Little Red Riding-Hood.

One day her mother said to her: “Come, Red Riding-Hood, I want you to go and see your grandmother, and take her a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; for she is ill and weak, and this will do her good. Make haste and get ready before the weather gets too hot, and go straight on your road while you are out, and behave prettily and modestly; and do not run, for fear you should fall and break the bottle, and then grandmother would have no wine. And when you pass through the village, do not forget to courtesy and say ‘Good-morning’ to every one who knows you.”

“I will do everything you tell me, mother,” said the child as she wished her good-by and started for her long walk.

It was quite half an hour’s walk through the wood from the village to the grandmother’s house, and no sooner had Red Riding-Hood entered the wood than she met a wolf.

Red Riding-Hood did not know what a wicked animal he was, and felt not the least afraid of him.

“Good-day, Red Riding-Hood,” he said.

“Good-morning, sir,” replied the little girl, with a courtesy.

“Where are you going so early, Red Riding-Hood?” he asked.

“To my grandmother, sir,” she replied. “Mother baked yesterday, and she has sent me with a piece of cake and a bottle of wine to her because she is sick, and it will make her stronger and do her good.”

“Where does your grandmother live, Red Riding-Hood?”

“About half a mile from here through the wood; her house stands under three large oak trees, near to the nut hedges; you would easily know it,” said Red Riding-Hood.

The wolf, when he heard this, thought to himself, “This little, delicate thing would be a sweet morsel for me at last, and taste nicer than her old grandmother, but she would not satisfy my hunger; I must make a meal of them both.”

Then he walked quietly on by the side of Red Riding-Hood till they came to a part of the wood where a number of flowers grew.

“See, Red Riding-Hood,” he said, “what pretty flowers are growing here; would you not like to rest and gather some? And don’t you hear how sweetly the birds are singing? You are walking on as steadily as if you were going to school, and it is much more pleasant here in the wood.”

Then Red Riding-Hood looked up and saw the dancing sunbeams shining between the trees and lighting up the beautiful flowers that grew all around her, and she thought, “If I were to take my grandmother a fresh nosegay, it would make her so pleased; it is early yet, and I have plenty of time.”

So she went out of her way into the wood to gather flowers. And when she had picked a few, she saw some more beautiful still at a little distance so she walked on further and further, till she was quite deep in the wood.

Meanwhile the wolf went straight on to the grandmother’s house, and knocked at the door. There was no answer.

So the wolf lifted the latch and the door flew open; then he rushed in, hoping to seize upon the poor old grandmother, and eat her up. But she had gone out for a little walk, so he shut the door, dressed himself in the old woman’s nightgown and nightcap, and lay down in the bed to wait for Red Riding-Hood.

After Red Riding-Hood had gathered as many flowers as she could carry, she found her way back quickly to the right path, and walked on very fast till she came to her grandmother’s house, and knocked at the door.

“Who is there?” said the wolf, trying to imitate the grandmother. His voice was so gruff, however, that Little Red Riding-Hood would have been frightened, only she thought her grandmother had a cold.

So she replied: “It’s Little Red Riding-Hood. Mother sent you a piece of cake and a bottle of wine.”

“Lift up the latch and come in,” said the wolf.

So Red Riding-Hood lifted the latch and went in.

When she saw her grandmother, as she thought, lying in bed, she went up to her and drew back the curtains; but she could only see the head, for the wolf had pulled the nightcap as far over his face as he could.

“Good-morning,” she said; but there was no answer. Then she got on the bed, and cried out: “Grandmother, what great ears you have!”

“The better to hear with, my dear,” he said.

“Grandmother, what great eyes you have!”

“The better to see you, my dear, the better to see you.”

“Grandmother, what great teeth you have!”

“The better to eat you up!”

The old wolf jumped out of bed, and Little Red Riding Hood, in the greatest terror, screamed as loud as she could.

Just then the door opened, and in came the grandmother and some woodmen who were passing. They were just in time to save Little Red-Riding-Hood from the old wolf.

Dolly’s Doctor

Mary

Come and see my baby dear;
Doctor, she is ill, I fear.
Yesterday, do what I would,
She would touch no kind of food;
And she tosses, moans, and cries.
Doctor, what do you advise?

Doctor John

Hum! ha! good madam, tell me, pray,
What have you offered her to-day?
Ah, yes! I see! a piece of cake—
The worst thing you could make her take.
Just let me taste. Yes, yes; I fear
Too many plums and currants here.
But, stop; I must just taste again,
For that will make the matter plain.

Mary

But, Doctor, pray excuse me, now—
You’ve eaten all the cake, I vow!
I thank you kindly for your care;
But surely that was hardly fair.

Doctor John

Ah, dear me! did I eat the cake?
Well, it was for dear baby’s sake.
But keep him in his bed, well warm,
And, you will see, he’ll take no harm.
At night and morning use once more
His draught and powder, as before;
And he must not be over-fed,
But he may have a piece of bread.
To-morrow, then, I dare to say,
He’ll be quite right. Good day! good day!

Thumbelina

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

She had a little house of her own, a little garden, too, this woman of whom I am going to tell you, but for all that she was not quite happy.

“If only I had a little child of my own,” she said, “how the walls would ring with her laughter, and how the flowers would brighten at her coming. Then, indeed, I should be quite happy.”

And an old witch heard what the woman wished, and said, “Oh, but that is easily managed. Here is a barley-corn. Plant it in a flower-pot and tend it carefully, and then you will see what will happen.”

The woman was in a great hurry to go home and plant the barley-corn, but she did not forget to say “Thank you” to the old witch. She not only thanked her, she even stayed to give her six silver pennies.

Then she hurried away to her home, took a flower-pot and planted her precious barley-corn.

And what do you think happened? Almost before the corn was planted, up shot a large and beautiful flower. It was still unopened. The petals were folded closely together, but it looked like a tulip. It really was a tulip, a red and yellow one, too.

The woman loved flowers. She stooped and kissed the beautiful bud. As her lips touched the petals, they burst open, and oh! wonder of wonders; there, in the very middle of the flower, sat a little child. Such a tiny, pretty little maiden she was.

They called her Thumbelina. That was because she was no bigger than the woman’s thumb.

And where do you think she slept? A little walnut shell, lined with blue, that was her cradle.

When she slept little Thumbelina lay in her cradle on a tiny heap of violets, with the petal of a pale pink rose to cover her.

And where do you think she played? A table was her playground. On the table the woman placed a plate of water. Little Thumbelina called that her lake.

Round the plate were scented flowers; the blossoms lying on the edge, while the pale green stalks reached thirstily down to the water.

In the lake floated a large tulip leaf. This was Thumbelina’s little boat. Seated there she sailed from side to side of her little lake, rowing cleverly with two white horse hairs. As she rowed backward and forward she sang softly to herself. The woman listening heard, and thought she had never known so sweet a song.

And now such a sad thing happened.

In through a broken window-pane hopped a big toad—oh, such an ugly big toad! She hopped right on to the table, where Thumbelina lay dreaming in her tiny cradle, under the pale pink rose leaf.

“How beautiful the little maiden is,” she croaked. “She will make a lovely bride for my handsome son.” And she lifted the little cradle, with Thumbelina in it, and hopped out through the broken window-pane, and down into the little garden.

At the foot of the garden was a broad stream. Here, under the muddy banks, lived the old toad with her son.

How handsome she thought him! But he was really very ugly. Indeed, he was exactly like his mother.

When he saw little Thumbelina in her tiny cradle, he croaked with delight.

“Do not make so much noise,” said his mother, “or you will wake the tiny creature. We may lose her if we are not careful. The slightest breeze would waft her away. She is as light as gossamer.”

Then the old toad carried Thumbelina out into the middle of the stream. “She will be safe here,” she said, as she laid her gently on one of the leaves of a large water lily, and paddled back to her son.

“We will make ready the best rooms under the mud,” she told him, “and then you and the little maiden will be married.”

Poor little Thumbelina! She had not seen the ugly big toad yet, nor her ugly son.

When she woke up early in the morning, how she wept! Water all around her! How could she reach the shore? Poor little Thumbelina!

Down under the mud the old toad was very busy, decking the best room with buttercups and buds of water-lilies to make it gay for her little daughter-in-law, Thumbelina.

“Now we will go to bring her little bed and place it ready,” said the old toad, and together she and her son swam out to the leaf where little Thumbelina sat.

“Here is my handsome son,” she said, “he is to be your husband,” and she bowed low in the water, for she wished to be very polite to the little maiden.

“Croak, croak,” was all the young toad could say, as he looked at his pretty little bride.

Then they took away the tiny little bed, and Thumbelina was left all alone.

How the tears stained her pretty little face! How fast they fell into the stream! Even the fish as they swam hither and thither thought, “How it rains today,” as the tiny drops fell thick and fast.

They popped up their heads and saw the forlorn little maiden.

“She shall not marry the ugly toad,” they said, as they looked with eager eyes at the pretty child. “No, she shall not marry the ugly toad.”

But what could the little fish do to help Thumbelina?

They found the green stem which held the leaf on which Thumbelina sat. They bit it with their little sharp teeth, and they never stopped biting, till at last they bit the green stem through; and away, down the stream, floated the leaf, carrying with it little Thumbelina.

“Free, free!” she sang, and her voice tinkled as a chime of fairy bells. “Free, free!” she sang merrily as she floated down the stream, away, far away out of reach of the ugly old toad and her ugly son.

And as she floated on, the little wild birds sang round her, and on the banks the little wild hare-bells bowed to her.

Butterflies were flitting here and there in the sunshine. A pretty little white one fluttered onto the leaf on which sat Thumbelina. He loved the tiny maiden so well that he settled down beside her.

Now she was quite happy! Birds around her, flowers near her, and the water gleaming like gold in the summer sunshine. What besides could little Thumbelina wish?

She took off her sash and threw one end of it round the butterfly. The other end she fastened firmly to the leaf. On and on floated the leaf, the little maiden and the butterfly.

Suddenly a great cockchafer buzzed along. Alas! he caught sight of little Thumbelina. He flew to her, put his claw round her tiny little waist and carried her off, up onto a tree.

Poor little Thumbelina! How frightened she was! How grieved she was, too, for had she not lost her little friend the butterfly?

Would he fly away, she wondered, or would her sash hold him fast?

The cockchafer was charmed with the little maiden. He placed her tenderly on the largest leaf he could find. He gathered honey for her from the flowers, and as she sipped it, he sat near and told her how beautiful she looked.

But there were other chafers living in the tree, and when they came to see little Thumbelina, they said, “She is not pretty at all.”

“She has only two legs,” said one.

“She has no feelers,” said another.

Some said she was too thin, others that she was too fat, and then they all buzzed and hummed together, “How ugly she is, how ugly she is!” But all the time little Thumbelina was the prettiest little maiden that ever lived.

And now the cockchafer who had flown off with little Thumbelina thought he had been rather foolish to admire her.

He looked at her again. “Pretty? No, after all she was not very pretty.” He would have nothing to do with her, and away he and all the other chafers flew. Only first they carried little Thumbelina down from the tree and placed her on a daisy. She wept because she was so ugly—so ugly that the chafers could not live with her. But all the time, you know, she was the prettiest little maiden in the world.

She was living all alone in the wood now, but it was summer and she could not feel sad or lonely while the warm golden sunshine touched her so gently, while the birds sang to her, and the flowers bowed to her.

Yes, little Thumbelina was happy. She ate honey from the flowers, and drank dew out of the golden buttercups and danced and sang the livelong day.

But summer passed away and autumn came. The birds began to whisper of flying to warmer countries, and the flowers began to fade and hang their heads, and as autumn passed away, winter came, cold, dreary winter.

Thumbelina shivered with cold. Her little frock was thin and old. She would certainly be frozen to death, she thought, as she wrapped herself up in a withered leaf.

Then the snow began to fall, and each snow-flake seemed to smother her. She was so very tiny.

Close to the wood lay a corn-field. The beautiful golden grain had been carried away long ago, now there was only dry short stubble. But to little Thumbelina the stubble was like a great forest.

She walked through the hard field. She was shaking with cold. All at once she saw a little door just before her.

The field-mouse had made a little house under the stubble, and lived so cozily there. She had a big room full of corn, and she had a kitchen and pantry as well.

“Perhaps I shall get some food here,” thought the cold and hungry little maiden, as she stood knocking at the door, just like a tiny beggar child. She had had nothing to eat for two long days. Oh, she was very hungry!

“What a tiny thing you are!” said the field-mouse, as she opened the door and saw Thumbelina. “Come in and dine with me.”

How glad Thumbelina was, and how she enjoyed dining with the field-mouse.

She behaved so prettily that the old field-mouse told her she might live with her while the cold weather lasted. “And you shall keep my room clean and neat, and you shall tell me stories,” she added.

That is how Thumbelina came to live with the field-mouse and to meet Mr. Mole.

“We shall have a visitor soon,” said the field-mouse. “My neighbor, Mr. Mole, comes to see me every week-day. His house is very large, and he wears a beautiful coat of black velvet. Unfortunately, he is blind. If you tell him your prettiest stories he may marry you.”

Now the mole was very wise and very clever, but how could little Thumbelina ever care for him. Why, he did not love the sun, nor the flowers, and he lived in a house underground. No, Thumbelina did not wish to marry the mole.

However she must sing to him when he came to visit his neighbor, the field-mouse. When she had sung, “Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home,” and “Boys and girls, come out to play,” the mole was charmed, and thought he would like to marry the little maiden with the beautiful voice.

Then he tried to be very agreeable. He invited the field-mouse and Thumbelina to walk along the underground passage he had dug between their houses. Mr. Mole was very fond of digging underground.

As it was dark the mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth and led the way. The tinder-wood shone like a torch in the dark passage.

A little bird lay in the passage, a little bird who had not flown away when the flowers faded and the cold winds blew.

It was dead, the mole said.

When he reached the bird, the mole stopped and pushed his nose right up through the ceiling to make a hole, through which the daylight might shine.

There lay a swallow, his wings pressed close to his side, his little head and legs drawn in under his feathers. He had died of cold.

“Poor little swallow!” thought Thumbelina. All wild birds were her friends. Had they not sung to her and fluttered round her all the long glad summer days?

But the mole kicked the swallow with his short legs. “That one will sing no more,” he said roughly. “It must be sad to be born a bird and to be able only to sing and fly. I am thankful none of my children will be birds,” and he proudly smoothed down his velvet coat.

“Yes,” said the field-mouse, “what can a bird do but sing? When the cold weather comes it is useless.”

Thumbelina said nothing. Only when the others moved on, she stooped down and stroked the bird gently with her tiny hand, and kissed its closed eyes.

That night the little maiden could not sleep. “I will go to see the poor swallow again,” she thought.

She got up out of her tiny bed. She wove a little carpet out of hay. Down the long underground passage little Thumbelina walked, carrying the carpet. She reached the bird at last, and spread the carpet gently round him. She fetched warm cotton and laid it over the bird.

“Even down on the cold earth he will be warm now,” thought the gentle little maiden.

“Farewell,” she said sadly, “farewell, little bird! Did you sing to me through the long summer days, when the leaves were green and the sky was blue? Farewell, little swallow!” and she stooped to press her tiny cheeks against the soft feathers.

As she did so, she heard—what could it be? pit, pat, pit, pat! Could the bird be alive? Little Thumbelina listened still. Yes, it was the beating of the little bird’s heart that she heard. He had not been dead after all, only frozen with cold. The little carpet and the covering the little maid had brought warmed the bird. He would get well now.

What a big bird he seemed to Thumbelina! She was almost afraid now, for she was so tiny. She was tiny, but she was brave. Drawing the covering more closely round the poor swallow, she brought her own little pillow, that the bird’s head might rest softly.

Thumbelina stole out again the next night. “Would the swallow look at her,” she wondered.

Yes, he opened his eyes and looked at little Thumbelina, who stood there with a tiny torch of tinder-wood.

“Thanks, thanks, little Thumbelina,” he twittered feebly. “Soon I shall grow strong and fly out in the bright sunshine once more; thanks, thanks, little maiden.”

“Oh! but it is too cold, it snows and freezes, for now it is winter,” said Thumbelina. “Stay here and be warm, and I will take care of you,” and she brought the swallow water in a leaf.

And the little bird told her all his story—how he had tried to fly to the warm countries, and how he had torn his wing on a blackthorn bush and fallen to the ground. But he could not tell her how he had come to the underground passage.

All winter the swallow stayed there, and Thumbelina was often in the long passage, with her little torch of tinder-wood. But the mole and the field-mouse did not know how Thumbelina tended and cared for the swallow.

At last spring came, and the sun sent its warmth down where the swallow lay in the underground passage.

Little Thumbelina opened the hole which the mole had made in the ceiling, and the sunshine streamed down on the swallow and the little girl.

How the swallow longed to soar away, up and up, to be lost to sight in the blue, blue sky!

“Come with me, little Thumbelina,” said the swallow, “come with me to the blue skies and the green woods.”

But Thumbelina remembered how kind the field-mouse had been to her when she was cold and hungry, and she would not leave her.

“Farewell! farewell! then, little maiden,” twittered the swallow as he flew out and up, up into the sunshine.

Thumbelina loved the swallow dearly. Her eyes were full of tears as she watched the bird disappearing till he was only a tiny speck of black.

And now sad days came to little Thumbelina.

The golden corn was once more waving in the sunshine above the house of the field-mouse, but Thumbelina must not go out lest she lose herself among the corn.

Not go out in the bright sunshine! Oh, poor little Thumbelina!

“You must get your wedding clothes ready this summer,” said the field-mouse. “You must be well provided with linen and worsted. My neighbor the mole will wish a well-dressed bride.”

The mole had said he wished to marry little Thumbelina before the cold winter came again.

So Thumbelina sat at the spinning-wheel through the long summer days, spinning and weaving with four little spiders to help her.

In the evening the mole came to visit her. “Summer will soon be over,” he said, “and we shall be married.”

But oh! little Thumbelina did not wish the summer to end.

Live with the dull old mole, who hated the sunshine, who would not listen to the song of the birds—live underground with him! Little Thumbelina wished the summer would never end.

The spinning and weaving were over now. All the wedding clothes were ready. Autumn was come.

“Only four weeks and the wedding-day will have come,” said the field-mouse.

And little Thumbelina wept.

“I will not marry the tiresome old mole,” she said.

“I shall bite you with my white tooth if you talk such nonsense,” said the field-mouse. “Among all my friends not one of them has such a fine velvet coat as the mole. His cellars are full and his rooms are large. You ought to be glad to marry so well,” she ended.

“Was there no escape from the underground home?” little Thumbelina wondered.

The wedding-day came. The mole arrived to fetch his little bride.

How could she say good-by forever to the beautiful sunshine?

“Farewell, farewell!” she cried, and waved her little hands toward the glorious sun.

“Farewell, farewell!” she cried, and threw her tiny arms round a little red flower growing at her feet.

“Tell the dear swallow, when he comes again,” she whispered to the flower, “tell him I will never forget him.”

“Tweet, tweet!” What was that Thumbelina heard? “Tweet, tweet!” Could it be the swallow?

The flutter of wings was round her. Little Thumbelina looked. How glad she was, for there, indeed, was the little bird she had tended and cared for so long. She told him, weeping, she must not stay. She must marry the mole and live underground, and never see the sun, the glorious sun.

“Come with me, come with me, little Thumbelina,” twittered the swallow. “You can sit on my back, and I will fly with you to warmer countries, far from the tiresome old mole. Over mountains and seas we will fly to the country where the summer never ends, and the sunlight always shines.”

Then little Thumbelina seated herself on her dear swallow’s back, and put her tiny feet on his outstretched wing. She tied herself firmly with her little sash to the strongest feather of the bird.

And the swallow soared high into the air. High above forests and lakes, high above the big mountains that were crested with snow, he soared.

They had reached the warm countries now.

On and on flew the swallow, till he came to a white marble palace. Half-ruined it was, and vine leaves trailed up the long slender pillars. And among the broad, green leaves many a swallow had built his nest, and one of these nests belonged to Thumbelina’s little swallow.

“This is my home,” said the bird, “but you shall live in one of these brilliant flowers, in the loveliest of them all.”

And little Thumbelina clapped her hands with joy.

The swallow flew with her to a stately sun-flower, and set her carefully on one of the broad yellow petals.

But think, what was her surprise! In the very heart of the flower stood a little Prince, fair and transparent as crystal. On his shoulders were a pair of delicate wings, and he was small, every bit as small as Thumbelina. He was the spirit of the flower.

For you know in each flower there is a spirit—a tiny little boy or girl, but this little Prince was King of all the flower spirits.

The little King thought Thumbelina the loveliest maiden he had ever seen. He took off his golden crown and placed it on the tiny head of the little maid, and in a silvery voice he asked, “Will you be my bride, little Thumbelina, and reign with me over the flower spirits?”

How glad Thumbelina was!

The little King wished to marry her. Yes, she would be his little Queen.

Then out of each blossom stepped tiny little children. They came to pay their homage to little Thumbelina.

Each one brought her a present, and the most beautiful of all the presents was a pair of wings, delicate as gossamer. And when they were fastened on the shoulders of the little Queen, she could fly from flower to flower.

And the swallow sat on his nest above, and sang his sweetest bridal song for the wedding of little Thumbelina.

The Fox and the Little Red Hen

Once upon a time there was a little red hen. She lived in a little white house and she had a little green garden. Every day she worked in the house and garden.

Near her home lived a family of foxes. One day Mamma Fox said to Papa Fox, “I want a fat hen to eat.” There was nothing in the pantry for the baby foxes, so Papa Fox started out to find something for them all.

He ran down the road until he came to the woods. “Surely I will find something here,” he said, but he found nothing to eat in the woods. As he came near the little green garden he said, “Oh, I smell fresh cake! Oh, I smell a little red hen!”

Sure enough, there was the Little Red Hen eating her cake.

Papa Fox stole up softly behind her and grabbed her and put her into the bag on his back; then he ran quickly off down the hill toward his home.

The Little Red Hen was so frightened that she could only whisper, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

Just then she had to sneeze, and when she put her claw into her pocket for her handkerchief, she felt her little scissors. Quick as a flash she took them out and cut a little hole in the bag. Peeping out she saw a great hill just ahead, all covered with stones. As Papa Fox stopped to rest on his way up the hill, with his back turned toward her, she cut a big hole in the bag, jumped out and quickly put a big stone in the bag in her place.

As Papa Fox kept on up the hill, he thought the bag was pretty heavy, but he said, “Never mind, she is a fat little red hen.”

Mamma Fox met him at the front door with all the baby foxes.

“The water is boiling,” said she. “What have you in your bag?” asked the Baby Foxes.

“A fat little red hen,” said Papa Fox.

As he held the bag over the pot, he said to Mamma Fox, “When I drop her in, you clap on the lid.” So he opened the bag. Splash! went the boiling water. It spilled all over Papa Fox and Mamma Fox and the Baby Foxes. Never again did they try to catch the Little Red Hen.

The Shoemaker and the Little Elves

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM

There was once a shoemaker, who, from no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had nothing left, but just sufficient leather for one pair of shoes. In the evening he cut out the leather, intending to make it up in the morning; and, as he had a good conscience, he lay quietly down to sleep, first commending himself to God. In the morning he said his prayers, and then sat down to work; but, behold, the pair of shoes were already made, and there they stood upon his board. The poor man was amazed, and knew not what to think; but he took the shoes into his hand to look at them more closely, and they were so neatly worked, that not a stitch was wrong; just as if they had been made for a prize. Presently a customer came in; and as the shoes pleased him very much, he paid down more than was usual; and so much that the shoemaker was able to buy with it leather for two pairs. By the evening he had got his leather shaped out; and when he arose the next morning, he prepared to work with fresh spirit; but there was no need—for the shoes stood all perfect on his board. He did not want either for customers; for two came who paid him so liberally for the shoes, that he bought with the money material for four pairs more. These also—when he awoke—he found all ready-made, and so it continued; what he cut out overnight was, in the morning, turned into the neatest shoes possible. This went on until he had regained his former appearance, and was becoming prosperous.

One evening—not long before Christmas—as he had cut out the usual quantity, he said to his wife before going to bed, “What say you to stopping up this night, to see who it is that helps us so kindly?” His wife was satisfied, and fastened up a light; and then they hid themselves in the corner of the room, where hung some clothes which concealed them. As soon as it was midnight in came two little manikins, who squatted down on the board; and, taking up the prepared work, set to with their little fingers, stitching and sewing, and hammering so swiftly and lightly, that the shoemaker could not take his eyes off them for astonishment. They did not cease until all was brought to an end, and the shoes stood ready on the table; and then they sprang quickly away.

The following morning the wife said, “The little men have made us rich, and we must show our gratitude to them; for although they run about they must be cold, for they have nothing on their bodies. I will make a little shirt, coat, waistcoat, trousers, and stockings for each, and do you make a pair of shoes for each.”

The husband assented; and one evening, when all was ready, they laid presents, instead of the usual work, on the board, and hid themselves to see the result.

At midnight in came the Elves, jumping about, and soon prepared to work, but when they saw no leather, but the natty little clothes, they at first were astonished, but soon showed their rapturous glee. They drew on their coats, and smoothing them down, sang—

“Smart and natty boys are we;
Cobblers we’ll no longer be.”

And so they went on hopping and jumping over the stools and chairs, and at last out at the door. After that evening they did not come again, but the shoemaker prospered in all he undertook, and lived happily to the end of his days.

The Gingerbread Boy

Now you shall hear a story that somebody’s great, great-grandmother told a little girl ever so many years ago:

There was once a little old man and a little old woman, who lived in a little old house in the edge of a wood. They would have been a very happy old couple but for one thing—they had no little child, and they wished for one very much. One day, when the little old woman was baking gingerbread, she cut a cake in the shape of a little boy, and put it into the oven.

Presently, she went to the oven to see if it was baked. As soon as the oven door was opened, the little gingerbread boy jumped out, and began to run away as fast as he could go.

The little old woman called her husband, and they both ran after him. But they could not catch him. And soon the gingerbread boy came to a barn full of threshers. He called out to them as he went by, saying:

“I’ve run away from a little old woman,
A little old man,
And I can run away from you, I can!”

Then the barn full of threshers set out to run after him. But though they ran fast, they could not catch him. And he ran on till he came to a field full of mowers. He called out to them:

“I’ve run away from a little old woman,
A little old man,
A barn full of threshers,
And I can run away from you, I can!”

Then the mowers began to run after him, but they couldn’t catch him. And he ran on till he came to a cow. He called out to her:

“I’ve run away from a little old woman,
A little old man,
A barn full of threshers,
A field full of mowers,
And I can run away from you, I can!”

But though the cow started at once, she couldn’t catch him. And soon he came to a pig. He called out to the pig:

“I’ve run away from a little old woman,
A little old man,
A barn full of threshers,
A field full of mowers,
A cow,
And I can run away from you, I can!”

But the pig ran, and couldn’t catch him. And he ran till he came across a fox, and to him he called out:

“I’ve run away from a little old woman,
A little old man,
A barn full of threshers,
A field full of mowers,
A cow and a pig,
And I can run away from you, I can!”

Then the fox set out to run. Now, foxes can run very fast, and so the fox soon caught the gingerbread boy and began to eat him up.

Presently the gingerbread boy said: “O dear! I’m quarter gone!” And then: “Oh, I’m half gone!” And soon: “I’m three-quarters gone!” And at last: “I’m all gone!” and never spoke again.

Mischief

BY ROSAMOND UPHAM

ISCHIEF was a cunning little fellow from the very first day that I saw him. Such a round, plump little body, such short, clumsy legs, and such a roguish face; just the one of all his nine brothers and sisters about whom to write a story, and so you shall hear of his preparations for the long journey upon which he went when he was two months old.

His playmates were sent away, one by one, until at last he was left all alone, with only the mastiff Rex for a companion, and a most forlorn little pup he was, running about all day long, trying to keep up with his new protector.

One morning in January, the weather being very severe, Mischief was taken into the kitchen to live, and a happier dog than he could not be imagined, trotting about after the cook and housemaid from morning until night, chasing the cats, stealing towels and brushes—in fact, attending to all the mischief that came in his way.

One day, about two weeks after he came into the house to live, a letter came from Milwaukee saying that he, too, must be sent off. And of course, Mischief knew about it. How could he help it, when the whole household were so sorry to have him go? And accordingly he began to make ready for the long journey he was so soon to take.

As he sat by the range, evidently trying to make up his mind what to take with him, his first thought was of the old coat he had had as a bed; so he crossed the room, took the coat in his mouth, and with his paws scratched it up into a bundle.

Then he thought of his milk-dish. Of course he must take that, for how could he drink from any other dish than the shiny one given him by the cook two weeks before? So he took that between his teeth and put it beside the coat. And the stove-hook, why not take that? No one seemed to be using it just at the moment. And a gelatin-box that had just been emptied, would it not be nice to pack his new collar in?

So he ran tumbling across the floor for the box, and back again for the string, when just then a pair of mittens caught his eye, and in this cold weather the mittens would be a comfort on so long a journey, so they were added to the collection under the table. And Mischief was just thinking he was about ready to start, when the very thing he most dreaded to leave behind him ran across the floor—the little yellow kitten; why could she not go with him, and then the journey would not seem so long? Accordingly, he ran after her, caught her by the neck, and tried to put her down with his other baggage; but the kitten could not understand what Mischief meant, and scratched and spit in a way that plainly said she would not accompany him.

Poor Mischief lay down in despair, and, after his hard morning’s work, took a long nap, only waking in time for his dinner. The next day he was put into a warm box, carried to the station, and after a three days’ journey arrived in Milwaukee, happy, well, and delighted with his new master, apparently quite forgetting his little mistress whom he left in her New Hampshire home.

Willie and His Dog Diver

BY H. N. POWERS

Willie was a very little child and lived near a mill. One day he saw a big cruel boy come along and throw a little puppy into the mill-pond, and then run away. Willie cried out: “O Papa, Papa, do come here!”

“What is the matter?” said his papa.

“Oh, Papa! I want the little doggie! Please get him for me. He will be drowned!”

His papa took a long pole and put it under the puppy’s neck and pulled it out of the water and gave it to Willie. He was very happy with his dog, which, by next year, grew to be a big, strong, shaggy fellow, and was named Diver. He used to go with Willie everywhere the boy went, and he loved Willie very much. Everybody said: “What a beautiful dog!” and Willie was proud of him.

One day when the nuts were ripe, Willie took his basket and went to pick hazelnuts. One big bush full of nuts hung over a deep place in the mill-pond, and, as Willie reached for the top branch, he slipped and fell in the water out of sight. But when he came up, Diver jumped in, took him by his collar, and brought him safe to land. So if it was good for Willie to save the dog’s life when he was a little puppy, it was good for the dog to save Willie’s life when he was a little boy.

And that was Diver’s way of thanking Willie for saving his life. It was a very good way, too! And Willie and Diver were always the best of friends.

Gordon’s Toy Castle on the Hill

BY EVERETT WILSON

Last Christmas little Gordon Bruce had a fine, large Christmas tree and lots of toys, just as a great many other nice boys and girls had. The tree was up in his playroom, a great, big, sunny room that used to be called the “nursery” when he was a baby.

A few days after Christmas, Gordon’s mother said: “Now, Gordon, I think we will have to take down your Christmas tree, for it is getting all dried up, and the little pine needles are dropping all over the floor, and the maid has to sweep them up every day.”

Gordon was sorry to have the tree taken down, for it looked so bright and Christmas-y, and he knew it would be a whole year before he would have another Christmas tree, so he asked his mother if she wouldn’t wait just one day more. I think that is the way almost all the girls and boys feel. And his mother said she would wait until to-morrow.

It was a rainy day, and as none of his little friends were with him, he began to play with all his toys one after the other; there were many of them, and some of the little ones were still hanging on the tree.

Gordon’s father came from Scotland, and he had read to Gordon many stories of the old days in Scotland, when the great generals and the noble lords lived in strong castles set high up on the mountains, so that the soldiers could not get near them. Now among Gordon’s Christmas presents was a tiny castle just like the ones he had seen in the books his father read the stories from; and with this castle came a lot of soldiers.

So this day Gordon got out his castle and soldiers and began to play with them. First he got a chair and put a big, thick rug over it to make it look like a steep hill; then he set the castle on top of the hill and stood the soldiers on the ground at the bottom of the hill—all in a row. He was making believe that the soldiers were trying to get up to the castle. Then he dropped some beautiful colored glass marbles, that his Uncle George had given him, down on the floor of the castle. The marbles rolled out of the front door of the castle and down the rug to the bottom of the hill, and bang! they would bump right against the tall soldiers and tumble them down. One after another Gordon would roll the marbles down until by and by every one of the soldiers would be knocked over, and as they were only wooden soldiers, of course they couldn’t get up by themselves. Then Gordon would stand them all up in a row again and roll the marbles down the hill until not a single soldier was standing. It was lots of fun for Gordon, for you know it really didn’t hurt the soldiers a bit, for they were only made of wood and their uniforms were just red and blue paint.

The next day Gordon’s mother took down the tree, and packed up the beautiful things that were on it, and put them away until next Christmas.

Hans the Innocent

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY M. I. WOOD

Once upon a time there was a woman called Mrs. Stockchen and she had a son named Hans. They lived together in a little cottage and they had a hen and a cow.

One morning Mrs. Stockchen said to her son: “Hans, my dear, will you take Cowslip, the cow, to pasture, and remember not to be late for supper.” “Very well,” said Hans, and he took up his stick and started for the field.

The sun was very hot when he got there, and seeing a row of five shady trees, he lay down underneath them and fell asleep in two seconds. He snored with his mouth open. Cowslip had been watching him and when she saw his eyes close, she said, “Now! here’s my chance!” and, jumping over the fence, she ran away.

Hans stopped snoring and awoke at supper-time. He looked for Cowslip, but she had disappeared; he ran about calling for her, but she did not come; and at last he went home to his mother with a very sad face and said: “Oh, mother, Cowslip ran away while I was asleep. I have looked for her and cannot find her anywhere.”

“You lazy, careless, naughty, careless, naughty, lazy Boy!” cried Mrs. Stockchen. “You have left my poor cow wandering all alone. She will lose her way in the dark. Just you go and find her this instant. You will get no supper till you bring her back, or my name is not Matilda Maria!”

Mrs. Stockchen had grown quite scarlet with rage and she shook the soup-ladle at her son to make him go faster. It was getting quite dark by the time Hans reached the field again and nowhere did he see any trace of the cow. He did not know in what direction she had gone, so he walked round and round the field, feeling very miserable.

Just as 10 o’clock was striking, Cowslip stepped out from behind a tree, and kneeling at Hans’s feet, said in a choking voice, “I am really very sorry, Hans.” “Well,” said Hans, “I am sorry too, but let us get home now.” So they set out, tired and rather cross.

But when they came within sight of the light in their own cottage window, they met two soldiers who stopped them, and asked what they were doing out so late. “We’re just going home,” said Hans. “Why,” said the soldiers “you ought to have been there two hours ago.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it,” said Hans, “this cow ran away and I had to fetch her before going home to supper.”

“Boy!” said the soldiers, “you are not speaking the truth, you have stolen the cow, and you are very impertinent as well. We will take you to prison.”

They tied a rope round Hans’s neck and another round the cow’s, and took them to prison. They put Hans into a dungeon full of horrid creatures, but they let poor Cowslip wander about in the fields outside.

One morning when Hans was crying because the door was locked and because the window bars looked so strong, Cowslip heard him. She came up beside the window, and standing on her hind-legs she peeped in and said, “Hans, my dear master, do you think that if I tried to knock down the wall with my horns, you could get out?” “I will try,” said Hans. It was rather hard work for Cowslip, but at last she made a big enough hole and Hans leaped out.

He knocked off his hat in doing so, but then Hans didn’t care about a little thing like that.

He jumped on her back, and away they went, over fallen trees, stones, ditches, hedges, everything. They came in sight of the cottage at last, and the sound of their approach caused Mrs. Stockchen to look out of the window. When she saw who it was she fairly jumped for joy and she rushed out at once to meet them.

Hans fell into his mother’s arms. And they all lived happily ever afterward.

A Real Little Boy Blue

BY CAROLINE S. ALLEN

Once there were four little brothers. The oldest had black eyes. He was called Little Boy Black. But I haven’t time to tell about him just now. The second little brother had brown eyes. He was called Little Boy Brown. But I cannot tell you about him either. The third little brother had gray eyes, and was called Little Boy Gray. There is a very nice story I could tell you about him, but I am sure you would rather hear about the fourth little brother.

For the youngest little brother had blue eyes; and his father and mother, his grandfather and grandmother, and every one else, called him Little Boy Blue. His eyes were very blue—as blue as the flowers you find down by the brook. You love the blue flowers, I know. And so I will tell you about Little Boy Blue.

His jacket was blue, his trousers were blue, his stockings were blue, and even his little shoes were blue.

One day Little Boy Blue’s mother said to him: “Do you want to go and visit Aunt Polly?” “Who is Aunt Polly?” asked Little Boy Blue. “Aunt Polly lives on a farm, on a high hill. She has horses, and cows, and pigs, and hens, and ducks, and geese—” “And elephants?” asked Little Boy Blue. “No, not any elephants. But she has a woolly white lamb.” “Oh, then I will go,” cried Little Boy Blue. So his mother went up-stairs and found a little blue traveling-bag. And in the little blue bag she packed some of Little Boy Blue’s clothes. Then Little Boy Blue and his mother went to visit Aunt Polly, who lived on a farm on a high hill.

Little Boy Blue’s mother stayed two days, and Little Boy Blue stayed ten days. When his mother was going home, she said to Aunt Polly: “Little Boy Blue likes to play, but he likes to work, too. So be sure to give him some work to do every day.”

“Very well,” said Aunt Polly. And so by-and-by Aunt Polly went to find Little Boy Blue. And she said to him: “Dear Little Boy Blue, what can you do to help?” He thought a minute, and then he said: “I can eat apples to see if they are ripe. And I can pull the roses in the garden, if you have too many.”

“The apples are not ripe, and I have just enough roses in the garden,” said Aunt Polly. “Can you drive the cows out of the corn?”

“Oh, yes, I can,” said Little Boy Blue, “if Towzer can come too.” Towzer was the dog.

“And perhaps you can look after the sheep?”

“Yes, Aunt Polly, I can do that,” said Little Boy Blue.

On the shelf in Little Boy Blue’s room stood a little blue clock. And every morning at five o’clock the door of the clock flew open, and a cuckoo came out. The cuckoo said, “Cuck-oo,” five times, and then went into the little blue clock again, and the little door closed after him. Then Little Boy Blue knew it was time to get up.

When he was dressed, he came down-stairs, and Aunt Polly gave him his breakfast. He had new milk in a blue bowl, and johnny-cake on a little blue plate. These he always carried out onto the door-step because he liked, while he was eating and drinking, to see the green grass bending in the breeze, and the yellow butterflies dancing here and there in the sunshine.

“This is the creamiest milk I ever saw,” said Little Boy Blue.

“That’s nice,” said Aunt Polly. “Do you want some more?”

“Yes, please,” said Little Boy Blue. So Aunt Polly brought the blue pitcher, and poured more creamy milk into his little blue bowl, and Little Boy Blue said: “Thank you, Aunt Polly.”

When Little Boy Blue could eat no more golden johnny-cake, and drink no more creamy milk, he jumped up from the door-step.

First he put his arms around Aunt Polly’s neck, and gave her a hug and a kiss. Then he went into the house to get his horn. The horn was a little blue one, and it hung on a peg near the kitchen door.

What do you suppose the horn was for? Why, Little Boy Blue watched the cows and the sheep. Then if they got into the wrong places, and trampled on the crops, Little Boy Blue blew the horn. One of the men always heard the horn, and came to help drive the cows or the sheep back where they belonged.

All this was very pleasant. But one day—what do you think? The sheep ran away, and jumped over a stone wall into the meadow, and the cows got into the corn. Nobody knew how it happened. Little Boy Blue had gone out that morning, just as he always did, to look after them; and no one had heard any horn. At last Towzer ran up to the barn, barking loudly. That was to give the alarm—about the sheep and the cows.

“How queer!” said Aunt Polly, who was in the barn-yard feeding the chickens.

“How strange!” said Uncle Ben.

“Where’s Little Boy Blue?” asked the men.

“I’ll call him,” said Aunt Polly. So she walked, and she walked, all around the farm. As Aunt Polly walked she looked here, and she looked there. And she called:

“Little Boy Blue! Come blow your horn.
The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.”

Where do you think Aunt Polly found him? When the head-farmer asked her, “Where’s the little boy that looks after the sheep?” Aunt Polly said: “He’s under the haycock, fast asleep.”

“Shall we go wake him?” said the head-farmer.

“No, no; let him lie,” said Aunt Polly. “For if we should wake him, ‘he’d cry, cry, cry.’”

You see Little Boy Blue got up so early, he grew sleepy. And the sun was hot. And the haymow made a soft pillow. So he fell sound asleep, and dreamed about the woolly white lamb.

But on the day after that, Little Boy Blue took a nap, first, so that when he looked after the cows and the sheep he could keep awake. He never again had to be told to blow his horn.

When Little Boy Blue’s visit was over, Aunt Polly said: “You’ve been a dear little helper. I’m going to give you something to take home.” And, oh, joy! it was the woolly white lamb!

Travels of a Fox

ADAPTED BY CECILIA FARWELL

The Fox was digging under an old tree and found a bumblebee. He gathered it up and put it into his bag and tied the string. Then he went to the first cottage at the end of the village street and said:

“Good morning, Good Mother. The way is long, and I am weary. May I leave my bag here while I go to the grocery store?”

“That will be all right,” said the old woman, “put it behind the door.”

So the Fox put the bag behind the door, saying, as he did so: “Be sure that you do not untie the string, Good Mother.” Then he went out of the cottage and on up the road.

The old woman looked at the bag and said to herself: “Now, I wonder what that sly fellow carries so carefully? It will do no harm to see.”

So she untied the string and started to look into the bag, and when the bag was opened the bumblebee flew out, and the rooster which was stalking about in the kitchen promptly ate him up.

When the Fox came back he saw that his bag had been opened and he said to the old woman: “Where is my bumblebee?”

“I opened the bag for but an instant,” said the old woman, “and the bumblebee flew out and the rooster ate him up.”

“Then I must take the rooster,” said the Fox. So he gathered up the rooster, put him into the bag and tied the string, and threw the bag over his shoulder and went on down the road.

When he came to the next cottage he knocked at the door and said: “Good morning, Good Mother. The way is long and I am weary. May I leave my bag here while I go on to the grocery store?”

“That will be all right,” said the old woman, “put it behind the door.”

So the Fox put the bag behind the door, saying as he did so: “Be sure that you do not untie the string, Good Mother,” and he went on down the road.

The old woman looked at the bag and said to herself, “Now I wonder what it is that that sly old fellow carries so carefully. It will do no harm to see.”

So she untied the string and started to look into the bag, and when the bag was opened the rooster flew out, and the pig which was in the kitchen promptly ate him up.

When the Fox came back he saw that the bag had been opened, and he said: “Where is my rooster, Good Mother?”

“I opened the bag for but an instant, and the rooster flew out and the pig ate him up,” said the woman.

“Then I must have the pig,” said the Fox. So he gathered up the pig and put him into the bag and tied the string and threw the bag over his shoulder and went on down the road.

When he came to the next cottage he knocked at the door and said: “Good morning, Good Mother. The way is long and I am weary. May I leave my bag here while I go to the grocery store?”

“That will be all right,” said the old woman, “put it behind the door.”

So the Fox put the bag behind the door, saying as he did so, “Be sure that you do not untie the string, Good Mother,” and went on down the road.

The old woman looked at the bag and said to herself: “Now I wonder what it is that that sly old fellow carries so carefully. It will do no harm to see.”

So she untied the string and opened the bag the least little bit, and the pig jumped out of the bag and ran into the house where the ox stood and the ox promptly gored him to death.

When the Fox came back and saw that the bag had been opened he said: “Where is my pig, Good Mother?”

“I opened the bag the least little bit, and the pig jumped out and the ox gored him to death,” said the woman.

“Then I must have the ox,” said the Fox. So he went out into the yard and gathered up the ox and put him into the bag and tied the string and threw the bag on his back and went on down the road.

When he came to the next cottage he knocked at the door and said: “Good morning, Good Mother. The way is long and I am weary. May I leave my bag here while I go to the grocery store?”

“That will be all right,” said the old woman, “put it behind the door.”

So the Fox put the bag behind the door, saying as he did so: “Be sure that you do not untie the string, Good Mother,” and went on down the road.

The woman looked at the bag and said to herself: “Now I wonder what it is that that sly old fellow carries so carefully? It will do no harm to see.”

So she untied the string and opened the bag and the ox jumped out and ran out into the yard, and the little boy who was playing there chased him off over the hill and into the wood.

When the Fox came back he saw that the string had been untied, and he said to the old woman: “Where is my ox?”

“I opened the bag the least little bit, and the ox jumped out and the little boy chased him over the hill and into the wood,” said the old woman.

“Then I must take the little boy,” said the Fox.

So he gathered up the little boy and put him into the bag and tied the string and threw the bag over his shoulder and started off down the road.

When he came to the next house he knocked at the door and said: “Good morning, Good Mother. The way is long and I am weary. May I leave my bag while I go to the store?”

“That will be all right,” said the woman, “put it behind the door.”

So the Fox put the bag behind the door, saying as he did so: “Be sure that you do not untie the string, Good Mother,” and went off.

This woman was very busy that morning, making cake, and she had no time to think of the bag, and it lay there for a long time. By-and-by when the cake was done her little boys gathered around the table, crying: “Let me taste the cake, Mother. Give me a piece of cake!” And she gave each one of them a piece of cake.

The cake smelled so good that the little boy in the bag cried out: “Oh, I want a piece of cake, too.”

When the woman heard the little boy cry out she went to the bag, and looking down at it, she said: “Now I wonder what that sly Fox has been about?” And the little boy cried out again, and the woman untied the string and let him out, and took the house dog and put him into the bag instead, and the little boy joined the others around the table, and she gave him a piece of the cake.

When the Fox came back he saw that the bag was all tied up, and looked just as it had when he left it, so he took it from behind the door and threw it over his shoulder, saying to himself: “I have had a long journey to-day, and I am hungry. And I have not done so badly, either. I will now go into the woods and see how the little boy tastes.”

So he went into the woods and untied the string to take the little boy out of the bag. But the little boy, as we know, was standing around the table with the other little boys eating cake. And no sooner was the string untied than the house dog jumped out of the bag and sprang right on the Fox, and they had a fight right then and there in the woods. Pretty soon the dog went trotting down the road. But the Fox did not go home. In fact he did not go anywhere at all.

Oeyvind and Marit

Oeyvind was his name. A low barren cliff overhung the house in which he was born, fir and birch looked down on the roof, and wild-cherry strewed flowers over it. Upon this roof there walked about a little goat, which belonged to Oeyvind. He was kept there that he might not go astray, and Oeyvind carried leaves and grass up to him. One fine day the goat leaped down, and—away to the cliff; he went straight up, and came where he never had been before. Oeyvind did not see him when he came out after dinner, and thought immediately of the fox. He grew hot all over, looked around about, and called, “Killy-killy-killy-goat.”

“Bay-ay-ay,” said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he cocked his head on one side and looked down.

But at the side of the goat there kneeled a little girl.

“Is it yours, this goat?” she asked.

Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both hands into the breeches he had on, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Marit, mother’s little one, father’s fiddle, the elf in the house, grand-daughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!”

“Are you really?” he said, and drew a long breath, which he had not dared to do so long as she was speaking.

“Is it yours, this goat?” asked the girl again.

“Ye-es,” he said, and looked up.

“I have taken such a fancy to the goat. You will give it to me?”

“No, that I won’t.”

She lay kicking her legs, and looking down at him, and then she said, “But if I give you a butter-cake for the goat, can I have him then?”

Oeyvind came of poor people, and had eaten butter-cake only once in his life, that was when grandpapa came there, and anything like it he had never eaten before nor since. He looked up at the girl. “Let me see the butter-cake first,” said he.

She was not long about it, took out a large cake, which she held in her hand. “Here it is,” she said, and threw it down.

“Ow, it went to pieces,” said the boy. He gathered up every bit with the utmost care; he could not help tasting the very smallest, and that was so good, he had to taste another, and, before he knew it himself, he had eaten up the whole cake.

“Now the goat is mine,” said the girl. The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth, the girl lay and laughed, and the goat stood by her side, with white breast and dark brown hair, looking down.

“Could you not wait a little while?” begged the boy; his heart began to beat. Then the girl laughed still more, and got up quickly on her knees.

“No, the goat is mine,” she said, and threw her arms around its neck, loosened one of her garters, and fastened it around. Oeyvind looked up. She got up, and began pulling at the goat; it would not follow, and twisted its neck downward to where Oeyvind stood. “Bay-ay-ay,” it said. But she took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled the string with the other, and said gently, “Come, goat, and you shall go into the room and eat out of mother’s dish and my apron.” And then she sung,—

“Come, boy’s goat,
Come, mother’s calf,
Come, mewing cat
In snow-white shoes.
Come, yellow ducks,
Come out of your hiding-place;
Come, little chickens,
Who can hardly go;
Come, my doves
With soft feathers,
See, the grass is wet,
But the sun does you good;
And early, early is it in summer,
But call for the autumn, and it will come.”

There stood the boy.

He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, when it was born, and he had never imagined he could lose it; but now it was done in a moment, and he would never see it again.

His mother came up humming from the beach, with wooden pans which she had scoured: she saw the boy sitting with his legs crossed under him on the grass, crying, and she went up to him.

“What are you crying about?”

“Oh, the goat, the goat!”

“Yes; where is the goat?” asked his mother, looking up at the roof.

“It will never come back again,” said the boy.

“Dear me! how could that happen?”

He would not confess immediately.

“Has the fox taken it?”

“Ah, if it only were the fox!”

“Are you crazy?” said his mother; “what has become of the goat?”

“Oh-h-h—I happened to—to—to sell it for a cake!”

As soon as he had uttered the word, he understood what it was to sell the goat for a cake; he had not thought of it before. His mother said,—

“What do you suppose the little goat thinks of you, when you could sell him for a cake?”

And the boy thought about it, and felt sure that he could never again be happy. He felt so sorry, that he promised himself never again to do anything wrong, never to cut the thread on the spinning-wheel, nor let the goats out, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where he lay, and dreamed about the goat.

Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear, and he started up. “Bay-ay-ay!” it said; and it was the goat, who had come back again.

“What! have you got back?” He jumped up, took it by the two fore-legs, and danced with it as if it were a brother; he pulled its beard, and he was just going in to his mother with it, when he heard some one behind him, and, looking, saw the girl sitting on the greensward by his side. Now he understood it all, and let go the goat.

“Is it you, who have come with it?”

She sat, tearing the grass up with her hands, and said,—

“They would not let me keep it; grandfather is sitting up there, waiting.”

While the boy stood looking at her, he heard a sharp voice from the road above call out, “Now!”

Then she remembered what she was to do; she rose, went over to Oeyvind, put one of her muddy hands into his, and, turning her face away, said,—

“I beg your pardon!”

But then her courage was all gone; she threw herself over the goat, and wept.

“I think you had better keep the goat,” said Oeyvind, looking the other way.

“Come, make haste!” said grandpapa, up on the hill; and Marit rose, and walked with reluctant feet upward.

“You are forgetting your garter,” Oeyvind called after her. She turned round, and looked first at the garter and then at him. At last she came to a great resolution, and said, in a choked voice,—

“You may keep that.”

He went over to her, and, taking her hand, said,—

“Thank you!”

“O, nothing to thank for!” she answered, but drew a long sigh, and walked on.

He sat down on the grass again. The goat walked about near him, but he was no longer so pleased with it as before.

The goat was fastened to the wall; but Oeyvind walked about, looking up at the cliff. His mother came out, and sat down by his side, he wanted to hear stories about what was far away, for now the goat no longer satisfied him. So she told him how once everything could talk: the mountain talked to the stream, and the stream to the river, the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky did not talk to any one; and the sky talked to the clouds, the clouds to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the flies to the animals, the animals to the children, the children to the grown-up people; and so it went on, until it had gone round, and no one could tell where it had begun. Oeyvind looked at the mountain, the trees, the sky, and had never really seen them before. The cat came out at that moment, and lay down on the stone before the door in the sunshine.

“What does the cat say?” asked Oeyvind, pointing. His mother sang,—

“At evening softly shines the sun,
The cat lies lazy on the stone.
Two small mice,
Cream thick and nice,
Four bits of fish,
I stole behind a dish,
And am so lazy and tired,
Because so well I have fared,”

says the cat.

But then came the cock, with all the hens.

“What does the cock say?” asked Oeyvind, clapping his hands together. His mother sang,—

“The mother-hen her wings doth sink,
The cock stands on one leg to think:
That gray goose
Steers high her course;
But sure am I that never she
As clever as a cock can be.
Run in, you hens, keep under the roof to-day,
For the sun has got leave to stay away,”

says the cock.

But the little birds were sitting on the ridge-pole, singing. “What do the birds say?” asked Oeyvind, laughing.

“Dear Lord, how pleasant is life,
For those who have neither toil nor strife,”

say the birds.

And she told him what they all said, down to the ant, who crawled in the moss, and the worm who worked in the bark.

That same summer, his mother began to teach him to read. He had owned books a long time, and often wondered how it would seem when they also began to talk. Now the letters turned into animals, birds, and everything else; but soon they began to walk together, two and two; a stood and rested under a tree, which was called b, then came c, and did the same; but when three or four came together, it seemed as if they were angry with each other, for it would not go right. And the farther along he came, the more he forgot what they were: he remembered longest a, which he liked best; it was a little black lamb, and was friends with everybody; but soon he forgot a also: the book had no more stories, nothing but lessons.

One day his mother came in, and said to him,—

“To-morrow school begins, and then you are going up to the farm with me.”

Oeyvind had heard that school was a place where many boys played together; and he had no objection. Indeed, he was much pleased. He had often been at the farm, but never when there was school there; and now he was so anxious to get there, he walked faster than his mother up over the hills. As they came up to the neighboring house, a tremendous buzzing, like that from the water-mill at home, met their ears; and he asked his mother what it was.

“That is the children reading,” she answered, and he was much pleased, for that was the way he used to read, before he knew the letters. When he came in, there sat as many children round a table as he had ever seen at church; others were sitting on their luncheon boxes which were ranged round the walls; some stood in small groups round a large printed card; the schoolmaster, an old gray-haired man, was sitting on a stool by the chimney-corner, filling his pipe. They all looked up as Oeyvind and his mother entered, and the mill-hum ceased as if the water had suddenly been turned off. All looked at the new-comers; the mother bowed to the schoolmaster, who returned her greeting.

“Here I bring a little boy who wants to learn to read,” said his mother.

“What is the fellow’s name?” said the schoolmaster, diving down into his pouch after tobacco.

“Oeyvind,” said his mother, “he knows his letters, and can put them together.”

“Is it possible!” said the schoolmaster, “come here, you Whitehead!”

Oeyvind went over to him: the schoolmaster took him on his lap, and raised his cap.

“What a nice little boy!” said he, and stroked his hair. Oeyvind looked up into his eyes, and laughed.

“Is it at me you are laughing?” asked he, with a frown.

“Yes, it is,” answered Oeyvind, and roared with laughter. At that the schoolmaster laughed, Oeyvind’s mother laughed; the children understood that they also were allowed to laugh, and so they all laughed together.

So Oeyvind became one of the scholars.

As he was going to find his seat, they all wanted to make room for him.

“Now, what are you going to do?” asked the schoolmaster, who was busy with his pipe again. Just as the boy is going to turn round to the schoolmaster, he sees close beside him, sitting down by the hearthstone on a little red painted tub, Marit, of the many names; she had covered her face with both hands, and sat peeping at him through her fingers.

“I shall sit here,” said Oeyvind, quickly, taking a tub and seating himself at her side. Then she raised a little the arm nearest him, and looked at him from under her elbow; immediately he also hid his face with both hands, and looked at her from under his elbow. So they sat, keeping up the sport, until she laughed, then he laughed too; the children had seen it, and laughed with them; at that, there rung out in a fearfully strong voice, which, however, grew milder at every pause,—

“Silence! you young scoundrels, you rascals, you little good-for-nothings! Keep still, and be good to me, you sugar-pigs.”

That was the schoolmaster, whose custom it was to boil up, but calm down again before he had finished. It grew quiet immediately in the school, until the water-wheels again began to go: every one read aloud from his book, the sharpest louder and louder to get the preponderance, here trebles piped up, the rougher voices drummed and there one shouted in above the others, and Oeyvind had never had such fun in all his life.

“Is it always like this here?” whispered he to Marit.

“Yes, just like this,” she said.

Afterwards, they had to go up to the schoolmaster, and read; and then a little boy was called to read, so that they were allowed to go and sit down quietly again.

“I have got a goat now, too,” said she.

“Have you?”

“Yes; but it is not so pretty as yours.”

“Why don’t you come oftener up on the cliff?”

“Grandpapa is afraid I shall fall over.”

“Mother knows so many songs,” said he.

“Grandpapa does, too, you can believe.”

“Yes; but he does not know what mother does.”

“Grandpapa knows one about a dance. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Well, then, you must come farther over here, so that the schoolmaster may not hear.”

He changed his place, and then she recited a little piece of a song three or four times over, so that the boy learned it.

“Up with you, youngsters!” called out the schoolmaster. “This is the first day, so you shall be dismissed early; but first we must say a prayer, and sing.”

Instantly, all was life in the school; they jumped down from the benches, sprung over the floor, and talked into each other’s mouths.

“Silence! you young torments, you little beggars, you noisy boys! be quiet, and walk softly across the floor, little children,” said the schoolmaster; and now they walked quietly, and took their places, after which the schoolmaster went in front of them, and made a short prayer. Then they sung. The schoolmaster began in a deep bass, all the children stood with folded hands, and joined in. Oeyvind stood farthest down by the door with Marit, and looked on; they also folded their hands, but they could not sing.

That was the first day at school.

What the Cat and Hen Did

Four little children were playing in their garden one day. There were Mollie and Jamie and Betty and Teddy.

They were so busy making mud-pies that they did not see “Mrs. Tomkins,” the old cat, when she came and mewed, and mewed, and put up her paw, and touched Mollie and Jamie and Betty and Teddy—first one and then the other, as much as to say, “Do come, some of you, and help me! Do come, please!”

By and by the children’s mama came out of the house and saw how queerly the cat was acting, and said: “Children, Mrs. Tomkins is trying to get you to go with her and see if her babies are all right.”

So the children left their play, and said: “Come, Mrs. Tomkins, we will go with you now.”

The old cat gave a thankful “m-i-e-o-u,” and started down the walk leading to the barn. Every now and then she looked back to see if the children were really coming. When she got to the stable, she ran and jumped up on the manger, and looked down into it, and gave a quick, sharp “m-i-e-o-u,” as if to say, “What do you think of that?” And the children looked in and saw a hen sitting upon the old cat’s kittens and trying to keep them all covered up! When the cat tried to go near them, the hen would peck at her and drive her away. How the children laughed! Mollie said: “Did you ever see anything so funny! I am going to ask Mama to write a funny story about it,—how our old hen ’dopted the kittens.”

The hen had been sitting upon some eggs in a nest near where the cat had set up housekeeping, and when the cat went out, the hen came over and took the cat’s little family under her wings, just as if they had been so many chick-a-biddies. And when the cat went home again, the hen wouldn’t let her come near the kittens. Mollie took the hen off, and Mrs. Tomkins was happy.

The next day she came again, looking as though she said, “I am very sorry to trouble you, but I must.” Then she said, “M-i-e-o-u! m-i-e-o-u!” So the children left their play and went to the stable with her, and found the hen playing mother to Mrs. Tomkins’s kittens again and trying to make them keep still and stay under her wings. If one of them poked its head out, she would give it a sharp peck to make it go back.

The children laughed again, and Mollie said: “Poor Mrs. Tomkins, I would look for a new house if I were you—you do have such meddlesome neighbors! Then she took the hen off, and Mrs. Tomkins picked up one of the kittens.

The children’s mama was sitting in the library reading when the old cat came in, with a kitten in her mouth. She put it softly down, went out, and soon returned with another. She kept on doing this until she had moved all her family of five kittens. Then she settled herself in a cozy corner, and looked at the lady, and purred in this way: “If you only knew how much trouble I have had with that bad old hen, you would let me and my children stay here.”

The lady laughed and said: “I will see what I can do for you.”

Just then the children came in and begged to have the kittens stay. So a new home was made for them in a box in the woodhouse.

Dot’s Birthday Cake

Once there was a little girl called Dot. And she was just five years old. And she had a fine birthday cake. It was big and round, and it had five beautiful little pink candles set in pink rosebuds on top.

Dot sat at the big table at dinner that day, and by and by they put a pretty pink paper cap on her head and then brought in the birthday cake. And the little candles were all burning bright. And when she saw it she said, “Oh! oh! how lovely! It is just too pretty to cut!”

But her mama said, “I will cut it for you, dear.” So she cut one piece for Dot, and then she asked Dot, “Will Marie have a piece?” Marie was Dot’s big doll. And Dot looked at her and said, “Marie says, ‘No, thank you.’” And mama said, “Will Fuzzy have a piece?” Fuzzy was Dot’s Teddy Bear. And Dot looked at him and said: “He says, ‘No, thank you.’” And mama said, “Will papa have a piece?” And Dot said, “Oh, yes. Won’t you, papa?” And papa said, “Yes, please.” And Dot said, “Mama, you will. You must have a piece of my birthday cake.” And mama said, “Yes, thank you.”

And mama cut the cake and gave Dot a piece and papa a piece and herself a piece. But she left the parts of the cake where the candles were burning,—one, two, three, four, five. And Dot’s birthday cake lasted one, two, three, four, five whole days before it was all gone.

Ned and Rover and Jack

A boy named Ned had a little puppy-dog named Rover. One day, Ned’s papa gave him a nice new toy wagon. Ned was pulling it around the yard when he saw Rover. “Come, Rover!” he said, “I will give you a fine ride.” So he took Rover and put him in the wagon and gave him a ride.

But just then Ned saw a boy he knew, named Tom. Tom was running down the street. Ned called to him but he did not hear. Ned wanted to show Tom his new wagon. So he ran after Tom as fast as he could go, calling, “Tom! Tom!” and never thinking of poor little Rover. He was barking with all his might, “Bow! wow! Bow-wow! bow-wow-wow-wow!” which means “Oh, stop! stop! I’m going to fall out!” And the next minute Rover went “bumpity-bump!” out into the road, and ran off home, crying, “Ow-wow-wow!” He was not hurt much, but he was badly frightened. But he soon forgot his ride, and he grew and he grew and he grew, till, by and by, he was a big dog. And then, Ned’s little brother, Jack, had a little wagon. But now Rover was too big to ride in it. So Jack said he would make Rover pull it and he would ride.

Ned helped him to harness Rover in it like a horse, and Jack climbed in and took the reins. “Get up!” said Jack, and away they went out into the yard and on into a big field. But just then a little rabbit started up in front of them, and the minute Rover saw it, he began to race after the rabbit. Poor Jack couldn’t hold him at all. Round and round they went, and they ran, and they ran, and they ran! Jack called out, “Whoa, Rover! Stop, Rover!” But Rover didn’t stop. He wanted to catch the rabbit and he forgot about Jack.

At last the rabbit ran toward a hole under the wall, where Rover could not get him. But Rover dashed after him as fast as he could go. “Bumpity-bump” went the little wagon, and just as Rover missed the rabbit, the wheel struck a big stone and poor Jack tumbled out on the ground. But he didn’t cry. He was not hurt much, and he wasn’t frightened at all. He ran and caught Rover, and said, “Oho! Who cares for a little bump like that? You’re a funny horse, Rover. But you didn’t catch your rabbit, you old runaway—did you?”

How Polly Had Her Picture Taken

BY EVERETT WILSON

It was a bright spring morning, and all the animals on the Meadowbrook Farm had been given their breakfast, and the Piggy-wig family had settled down to a cozy nap. Suddenly there was heard a great noise and rushing out in the apple orchard. Old Mother Piggy-wig jumped up on her hind legs and looked over the fence of her sty to see what it was all about. The little pig that went to market, and the little pig that stayed at home, also jumped up, quite as excited as their mother. Then the little pig that had roast beef, and the little pig that had none, woke up, and they, too, scampered about, wishing to know what was going on down under the apple-trees. But before old Mother Piggy-wig could tell them, the little pig, who, one day, could not find his way home, found a big hole in the lower board of the sty, and at once shouted:

“Oh, I see what it is! It is little Polly going to have her picture taken.”

And, sure enough, there was Polly’s brother Ned with his camera; and after him came Polly, and after Polly came—guess what!

Well, first there came Blackie, the cat, then came Banty, the hen; and then came Gyp, the dog. And such a mew-mewing, and cluck-clucking, and bow-wowing you never heard!

Polly had often had her picture taken, but it was always with her papa or her mamma, and she had never had her picture taken with her pets. So brother Ned had promised that on her birthday he would take her picture with all of her pets—if they would only keep still. This day was Polly’s birthday, and, as the weather was fine, her brother had told her to follow him out to the orchard.

Ned fastened his camera on its three sprawling legs, while Polly tried to gather her pets around her. But by this time Blackie, the cat, was chasing a squirrel (though he did not catch him), and Banty, the hen, was away off scratching for worms; and Gyp, the dog, was barking at a bossy calf down by the brook, for, of course, Polly’s pets did not know it was her birthday and that they were to have their pictures taken with her.

Polly called, as loud as she could, “Here, Blackie, Blackie; here, Banty, Banty; here, Gyp, Gyp,” and as quick as a wink the animals came running up to her.

At first she sat down, but all three of her pets got in her lap until you could scarcely see Polly behind them. That would not do, of course, because it was Polly’s picture that was the most important.

Finally, she stood up and made her pets stand up, too. Then she had more trouble, for Gyp wanted to stand next to her, and so did Banty, and so did Blackie, but she told them if they were not good and did not stand just where she put them, they could not have their pictures taken at all. She even said she would get the little pig that could not find his way home, and would have her picture taken with him. They did not like that, so they promised to be good. She stood Banty on one side of her, and Gyp on the other side, and then she put Blackie on one end next to Banty. But Gyp and Blackie jumped around so lively that Brother Ned ran into the house and brought out Polly’s toy cow, and stood her next to Blackie, and that kept him quiet, because he was afraid the cow would hook him with her horns—he did not know it was not a real cow. Then Ned brought out Polly’s toy lion and put him next to Gyp, and that kept him quiet, because he thought the lion would eat him up,—he did not know it was not a real lion.

So, after they were all nice and quiet, Ned called out:

“Ready! Look pleasant! One, two, three—all over!”

And here is the way they looked in the picture that Ned took that morning:

Idle Ben

Idle Ben was a naughty boy
(If you please, this story’s true),
He caused his teachers great annoy,
And his worthy parents, too.

Idle Ben, in a boastful way
To his anxious parents told
That while he was young he thought he’d play,
And he’d learn when he grew old.

“Ah, Ben,” said his mother, and dropped a tear,
“You’ll be sorry for this, by-and-by”
Says Ben, “To me that’s not very clear,
But at any rate I’ll try.”

So idle Ben, he refused to learn,
Thinking that he could wait;
But when he had his living to earn,
He found it was just too late.

Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work,
Some day you’ll be women and men.
Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,
Take warning by idle Ben.

The Hole in the Canna-Bed

BY ISABEL GORDON CURTIS

One evening in May, Chuckie Wuckie’s papa finished setting out the plants in the front yard. Into one large bed he put a dozen fine cannas. They looked like fresh young shoots of corn. He told Chuckie Wuckie that when summer came they would grow tall, with great spreading leaves and beautiful red-and-yellow blossoms.

“Taller than me, papa?” asked the little girl, trying to imagine what they would look like.

“Much taller; as tall as I am.”

Chuckie Wuckie listened gravely while papa told her she must be very careful about the canna-bed. She must not throw her ball into it, or dig there, or set a foot in the black, smooth earth. She nodded her head solemnly, and made a faithful promise. Then she gathered up her tiny rake and hoe and spade, and carried them to the vine-covered shed to put beside her father’s tools.

Next morning, when papa went to look at the canna-bed, he discovered close beside one of the largest plants a snug, round hole. It looked like a little nest. He found Chuckie Wuckie digging with an iron spoon in the ground beside the fence.

“Dearie,” he said, “do you remember I told you, last night, that you must not dig in the canna-bed?”

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“Come and see the hole I found there.”

So Chuckie Wuckie trotted along at her father’s heels. She stood watching him as he filled in the hole and smoothed down the earth.

“I did not dig it,” said Chuckie Wuckie. “I just came and looked to see if the canna had grown any through the night, but I did not dig it.”

“Really?” asked her papa, very gravely.

“Really and truly, I did not put my foot on there,” said Chuckie Wuckie.

Papa did not say another word. But he could not help thinking that the hole looked as if the iron spoon had neatly scooped it out.

Next morning he found the hole dug there again, and Chuckie Wuckie was still busy in her corner by the fence. He did not speak of it, however. There were prints of small feet on the edge. He only smoothed down the earth and raked the bed. He did this for three mornings, then he led Chuckie Wuckie again to the canna-bed.

“Papa,” she said earnestly, “I did not dig there. Truly, I didn’t. The hole is there every morning. I found it to-day before you came out, but I did not dig it.” There were tears in her brown eyes.

“I believe you, Chuckie Wuckie dear,” said her father, earnestly.

That night the little girl stood at the gate, watching for her father to jump off the car. She could hardly wait for him to kiss her. She took his hand and led him to the canna-bed.

“Look!” she cried eagerly.

She was pointing excitedly to a hole beside the roots of a fresh, green canna plant.

“That hole again,” said her father. “There’s a stone in it now, isn’t there?”

“No, that’s what I thought; stoop down and look close, papa!” cried Chuckie Wuckie.

It was the head of a fat hop-toad, but all that could be seen was its mouth and bright eyes. It was staring at them. Papa poked it with the point of his umbrella. It scrambled deeper into the hole, until there was nothing to be seen but the dirt. It was slowly changing to the color of the black earth.

“I watched him,” cried Chuckie Wuckie, excitedly—“oh, for an hour! When I found him he was just hopping on the canna-bed. He was looking for his house. He acted as if the door had been shut in his face. Then he began to open it. He crawled and scrambled round and round, and threw up the dirt, and poked and pushed. At last he had the hole made, just as it is every morning, and he crawled in. Then he lay and blinked at me.”

“Clever fellow,” said papa. “Well, we won’t grudge him a home, and we won’t shut the door again in his face, will we, Chuckie Wuckie?”

The cannas have grown very tall now—almost as tall as Chuckie Wuckie’s papa—and so thick that you cannot see where the roots are; but a fat, brown hop-toad has a snug, cool, safe little nest there, and he gratefully crawls into it when the sun grows very hot.

BY ELLA FOSTER CASE

Once upon a time there was a very small mouse with a very, very large opinion of himself. What he didn’t know his own grandmother couldn’t tell him.

“You’d better keep a bright eye in your head, these days,” said she, one chilly afternoon. “Your gran’ther has smelled a trap.”

“Scat!” answered the small mouse—“’s if I don’t know a trap when I see it!” And that was all the thanks she got for her good advice.

“Go your own way, for you will go no other,” the wise old mouse said to herself; and she scratched her nose slowly and sadly as she watched her grandson scamper up the cellar stairs.

“Ah!” sniffed he, poking his whiskers into a crack of the dining-room cupboard, “cheese—as I’m alive!” Scuttle—scuttle. “I’ll be squizzled, if it isn’t in that cunning little house; I know what that is—a cheese-house, of course. What a very snug hall! That’s the way with cheese-houses. I know, ’cause I’ve heard the dairymaid talk about ’em. It must be rather inconvenient, though, to carry milk up that step and through an iron door. I know why it’s so open—to let in fresh air. I tell you, that cheese is good! Kind of a reception-room in there—guess I know a reception-room from a hole in the wall. No trouble at all about getting in, either. Wouldn’t grandmother open her eyes to see me here! Guess I’ll take another nibble at that cheese, and go out. What’s that noise? What in squeaks is the matter with the door? This is a cheese-house, I know it is—but what if it should turn out to be a—O-o-o-eeee!” And that’s just what it did turn out to be.

A Boy’s Mother

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

My mother she’s so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn’t be as good—no, sir!—
Can’t any boy be good as her.

She loves me when I’m glad er sad;
She loves me when I’m good er bad;
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.

I don’t like her to punish me—
That don’t hurt—but it hurts to see
Her cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen
We both cry an’ be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an’ sews
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves him ’most as much as me.

She laughs an’ tells him all I said,
An’ grabs me up an’ pats my head;
An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,
An’ love him purt’ nigh much as Ma.

Mother

BY ROSE FYLEMAN

When mother comes each morning
She wears her oldest things,
She doesn’t make a rustle,
She hasn’t any rings;
She says, “Good-morning, chickies,
It’s such a lovely day,
Let’s go into the garden
And have a game of play!”

When mother comes at tea-time
Her dress goes shoo-shoo-shoo,
She always has a little bag,
Sometimes a sunshade too;
She says, “I am so hoping
There’s something left for me;
Please hurry up, dear Nanna,
I’m dying for my tea.”

When mother comes at bed-time
Her evening dress she wears,
She tells us each a story
When we have said our prayers;
And if there is a party
She looks so shiny bright
It’s like a lovely fairy
Dropped in to say good-night.

The Goodest Mother

Evening was falling, cold and dark,
And people hurried along the way
As if they were longing soon to mark
Their own home candle’s cheering ray.

Before me toiled in the whirling wind
A woman with bundles great and small,
And after her tugged, a step behind,
The Bundle she loved the best of all.

A dear little roly-poly boy
With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue,
Laughing and chattering full of joy,
And here’s what he said—I tell you true:

“You’re the goodest mother that ever was.”
A voice as clear as a forest bird’s;
And I’m sure the glad young heart had cause
To utter the sweet of the lovely words.

Perhaps the woman had worked all day
Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed;
I knew, by her weary footfall’s way
That life for her was an uphill road.

But here was a comfort. Children dear,
Think what a comfort you might give
To the very best friend you can have here,
The lady fair in whose house you live,

If once in a while you’d stop and say,—
In task or play for a moment pause,
And tell her in sweet and winning way,
“You’re the GOODEST mother that ever was.”

MOTHER’S WAY

BY CARRIE WILLIAMS

Nowadays girls go to cooking-school
And learn to cook just so by rule;
But all I know, I’m glad to say,
My mother taught me day by day.

She did not need a great cook-book;
She knew how much and what it took
To make things good and sweet and light.
What Mother does is always right.

Who Is It?

BY ETHEL M. KELLEY

Whose hair is all curly, an’ eyes “baby-blue”?
Who wakes up too early ’fore night-time is fru?
Who dresses her pillow all up in the clo’es,
An’ counts all her piggies when nobody knows?
An’ who’s des’ as quiet as quiet can be?
Muvver says—me.

Who w’ites wif a pencil all over a book?
An’ who gets the ink when nobody does look?
An’ who gets her fingies all blacker than black?
An’ who gets ’em spatted when Muvver comes back?
An’ who’s des’ as sorry as sorry can be?
Muvver says—me.

Who goes down to dinner on Sundays at two,
All dressed in w’ite frillies, an’ tied up in blue?
An’ who waits for Father to cut up her meat,
When she is so hungry an’ nuffin’ to eat?
An’ who’s des’ as “patient” as “patient” can be?
Muvver says—me.

Who gets on her nightie an’ says all her prayers?
An’ then comes a-stealin’ an’ creepin’ down-stairs?
Who cuddles up comfy an’ teases to stay?
An’ who is so spoiled ’at she won’t go away,
Even when she’s as sleepy as sleepy can be?
Muvver says—me.

My Dearest Is a Lady

BY MIRIAM S. CLARK

My dearest is a lady, she wears a gown of blue,
She sits beside the window where the yellow sun comes through;
The light is shining on her hair, and all the time she sews,
She sings a song about a knight, a dear, brave knight she knows.

My dearest is a lady—and oh, I love her well!
Full five and twenty times a day this very tale I tell;
For I’m the knight in armor, a shield and sword I wear,
And Mother is my lady, with the light upon her hair.

How Many Lumps!

How many lumps of sugar
Ought a little girl to use
To sweeten a cup of chocolate?
I can take just what I choose.

Five make it just like candy,
And four are most as good—
There’s no one to say I mustn’t,
Now I wonder if I should.

Three is what Nurse allows me,
So that would be surely right.
Uncle Jack takes two lumps always
And says it is “out of sight.”

Five, four, three, two—I wonder—
Or none, just like Papa?
Well, after all, I’ll take but one
And copy my dear Mama.

When Mother Goes Away

BY CLARA ODELL LYON

Says Bobby to Mother:
“I’ll be good as I can.”
“I know you will, Bobby;
You’re Mother’s little man.”

BUT—

His mother then takes every match from the box;
The door of the pantry securely she locks;
Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink
In the best hiding places of which she can think
And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on,
What mischief her Bobby will do while she’s gone!

An Old Song—“There’s No Place Like Home!”

When people ask me where I live,
I hate to have to go and give
A name like Smithville, plain.
I’d rather say:—“Sir, if you please,
My home is in the Hebrides,”
Or, “High up in the Pyrenees,”
Or, “At Gibraltar, Spain.”

“Constantinople,” too, sounds fine,
And “Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine,”
And “Madagascar,” too;
And “Yokohama” sounds so great,
And “Hindustan” is just first-rate;
I rather like even “Bering Strait,”
And “Cuzco” in Peru.

And yet, I would not be at night,
Alone upon the “Isle of Wight,”
Or on the “Zuyder Zee.”
At “Nova Zembla,” in a gale,
I know that I should just turn pale;
For fear of earthquakes, I should quail
In “sunny Italy.”

A place that sounds nice on the map,
May have a little too much snap
To keep within its wall,
And so, though many names I see,
That sound as stylish as can be,
There’s no place quite so good for me,
As Smithville, after all!
Blanche Elizabeth Wade.

Grandmother’s Memories

BY HELEN A. BYROM

Grandmother sits in her easy-chair,
In the ruddy sunlight’s glow;
Her thoughts are wandering far away
In the land of Long Ago.
Again she dwells in her father’s home,
And before her loving eyes
In the light of a glorious summer day
The gray old farm-house lies.

She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel
And the spinner’s happy song;
She sees the bundles of flax that hang
From the rafters, dark and long;
She sees the sunbeams glide and dance
Across the sanded floor;
And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze
That steals through the open door.

Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily
At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall;
And up from the glen comes the musical roar
Of the distant waterfall.
The cows roam lazily to and fro
Along the shady lane;
The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far
From the fields of golden grain.

And grandma herself, a happy girl,
Stands watching the setting sun,
While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease,
And the long day’s work is done;
Then something wakes her—the room is dark,
And vanished the sunset glow,
And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise,
From the dreams of long ago.

ometimes when I am tired of play
My mother says to me,
“Come, daughter, we will call to-day
On Great-aunt Lucy Lee.”

And soon, by mother’s side, I skip
Along the quiet street,
Where tall old trees, on either side,
Throw shadows at my feet.

The houses stand in solemn rows,
And not a child is seen;
The blinds are drawn, the doors are shut,
The walks are span and clean.

Then when we come to number three,
I stretch my hand up—so!
And find the old brass knocker’s ring;
I rap, and in we go.

There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim,
Sits by the chimney-piece;
Her knitting-needles clicking go,
And never seem to cease.

Aunt Lucy’s eyes are blue and kind,
Her wrinkled face is fair;
She hides with cap or snowy lace
Her pretty silver hair.

Aunt Lucy’s voice is sweet and low,
Her smile is quick and bright;
She wears a gown of lavender,
And kerchief soft and white.

I fold my hands in front of me
And sit quite still and staid,
Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says,
“Come hither, little maid!”

And from her silken bag she takes
A peppermint or two,
And questions me about my play,
My school, my dolls, the Zoo.

And then she rings for Hannah, who
Comes hobbling stiffly in,
With sugared cakes and jelly-tarts
Upon a shining tin.

When I have eaten all I can,
Aunt Lucy bids me go
Into the garden, where all kinds
Of lovely flowers grow.

Pale roses of a hundred leaves,
Sweet-william, four-o’clocks,
Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things
All bordered ’round with box.

And there’s an arbor, where the grapes
Hang low enough to reach;
A plum-tree just across the path,
And by the wall a peach.

And oh! I think it very nice
To come and visit here;
The house, the garden and the folks
All seem so very queer!

And though I am well satisfied
A while to romp and play,—
A wee old lady, kind and dear,
I want to be some day;

And so I hope that when I, too,
Have grown to eighty-three,
I’ll be a lovely lady like
My Great-aunt Lucy Lee.

Beautiful Grandmamma

Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair—
Never was lady more sweet and fair!
Her gray locks ripple like silver shells,
And her brow its own calm story tells
Of a gentle life and a peaceful even,
A trust in God and a hope in heaven!

Little girl Mary sits rocking away
In her own low seat, like some winsome fay;
Two dolly babies her kisses share,
And another one lies by the side of her chair.
Mary is fair as the morning dew—
Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue!

“Say, grandmamma,” says the pretty elf,
“Tell me a story about yourself.
When you were little, what did you play?
Was you good or naughty, the whole long day?
Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago?
And what makes your soft hair as white as snow?

“Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss?
And a dolly like this, and this, and this?
Did you have a pussy like my little Kate?
Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight?
Did you have long curls and beads like mine?
And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine?”

Grandmamma smiled at the little maid,
And laying aside her knitting, she said:
“Go to my desk and a red box you’ll see;
Carefully lift it and bring it to me.”
So Mary put her dollies away and ran,
Saying, “I’ll be as careful as ever I can.”

Then grandmamma opened the box: and lo!
A beautiful child with a throat like snow,
Lips just tinted like pink shells rare,
Eyes of hazel and golden hair,
Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls—
Fairest and sweetest of little girls!

“Oh, who is it?” cried winsome May;
“How I wish she was here to-day!
Wouldn’t I love her like everything,
And give her my new carnelian ring!
Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be?”
“Darling,” said grandmamma, “that child was me!”

May looked along at the dimpled grace,
And then at the saint-like, fair old face,
“How funny!” she cried, with a smile and a kiss,
“To have such a dear little grandma as this!
Still,” she added, with a smiling zest,
“I think, dear grandma, I like you best!”

So May climbed on the silken knee,
And grandma told her her history—
What plays she played, what toys she had,
How at times she was naughty, or good, or sad.
“But the best thing you did,” said May, “don’t you see?
Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me!”

Thanksgiving Day

BY LYDIA MARIA CHILD

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play;
Hear the bells ring,
“Ting-a-ling-ding!”
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow—
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

Grandma’s Minuet

Grandma told me all about it;
Told me so I couldn’t doubt it;
How she danced—my grandma danced,
Long ago.
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she turned her little toes,
Smiling little human rose!
Long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,
Dimpled cheeks, too—ah, how funny!
Really, quite a pretty girl,
Long ago.
Bless her! Why, she wears a cap,
Grandma, does, and takes a nap,
Every single day, and yet,
Grandma danced a minuet,
Long ago.

No—they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place;
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly courtesying back again,
Long ago.
Modern ways are quite alarming,
Grandma says; but boys were charming—
Girls and boys, I mean, of course—
Long ago.

Bravely modest, grandly shy—
Now she sits there rocking, rocking,
Always knitting grandpa’s stocking,
Every girl was taught to knit,
Long ago.
Yet her figure is so neat,
And her smile so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now
Bending to her partner’s bow,
Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping
Would have shocked the gentlefolk,
Long ago.
What if all of us should try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet,
Long ago?

With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion?
All would wear the calm they wore,
Long ago.
In time to come, if I perchance
Should tell my grandchild of our dance
I should really like to say:
“We did, dear, in some such way,
Long ago.”

Aunt Jan

BY NORMAN GALE

When Aunt Jan’s coming there’s such romping in the house,
She’s sweeter than a daffodil and softer than a mouse!
She sings about the passages, and never wants to rest,
And father says it’s all because a bird is in her breast.

When Aunt Jan’s kissing there’s such a crowding round her knees,
Such clambers to her bosom, and such battles for a squeeze!
We dirty both her snowy cuffs, we trample on her gown,
And sometimes all her yellow hair comes tumbling, tumbling down.

When Aunt Jan’s dancing we all watch her as she goes,
With in-and-out and round-about upon her shiny toes;
And when her merry breath is tired she stops the fun and stands
To curtsy saucily to us, or kiss her pretty hands.

When Aunt Jan’s playing, the piano seems alive,
With all the notes as busy as the bees are in a hive;
And when it’s time for Bedfordshire, as sweetly as a lark
She sings that God is waiting to protect us in the dark.

When Aunt Jan’s leaving we are not ashamed to cry,
A-kissing at the station and a-waving her good-by;
But springtime brings the crocus after winter, rain and frost
So dear Aunt Jan will come again. She isn’t really lost.

After Tea

Very often in the evening,
Shortly after tea,
Father, when he’s read the paper,
Takes me on his knee.

There I fix myself “quite comfy,”
In his arms so strong,
While he makes up lovely stories
As he goes along.

Mother near us with her sewing,
Rocking to and fro,
Smiles and listens to the stories,
Likes them too, I know.

And I’m sure that she is thinking,
What perhaps you’ve guessed,
That the stories Father tells us
Are the very best.

Tingle, Tangle Titmouse

“Come hither, little puppy-dog,
I’ll give you a new collar,
If you will learn to read your book,
And be a clever scholar.”

“No! no!” replied the puppy-dog,
“I’ve other fish to fry;
For I must learn to guard your house,
And bark when thieves come nigh.”

With a tingle, tangle titmouse,
Robin knows great A,
And B, and C, and D, and E,
F, G, H, I, J, K.

“Come hither, pretty cockatoo,
Come and learn your letters;
And you shall have a knife and fork
To eat with, like your betters.”

“No! no!” the cockatoo replied,
“My beak will do as well;
I’d rather eat my victuals thus
Than go and learn to spell.”

With a tingle, tangle titmouse,
Robin knows great A,
And B, and C, and D, and E,
F, G, H, I, J, K.

“Come hither, little pussy-cat,
If you’ll your grammar study,
I’ll give you silver clogs to wear,
Whene’er the gutter’s muddy.”

“No! whilst I grammar learn,” says puss,
“Your house will in a trice
Be overrun from top to toe
With flocks of rats and mice.”

With a tingle, tangle titmouse,
Robin knows great A,
And B, and C, and D, and E,
F, G, H, I, J, K.

“Come hither, then, good little boy,
And learn your alphabet,
And you a pair of boots and spurs,
Like your papa’s, shall get.”

“Oh, yes! I’ll learn my alphabet,
And when I’ve learned to read,
Perhaps papa will give me, too,
A pretty, long-tailed steed.”

With a tingle, tangle titmouse,
Robin knows great A,
And B, and C, and D, and E,
F, G, H, I, J, K.

An English Alphabet

is for

Ale,
Apple,
Artichoke,
and Ann;

is for

Brown Bear,
Black Bear,
and Bran;

is for

Chestnut,
Clay,
Coke, and
Coal,

is for

Dear,
Dray,
Dick,
Duck, and
Droll,

is for

Eve,
Eagle,
Eel,
East, and
Ear;

is for

Fan,
Feather,
Furrow,
Fox, and
Fear;

is for

Goose,
Gander,
Green,
Grub, and
Gray;

is for

Horse,
Hound,
Hip,
Haw, and
Hay;

is for

Ice,
Idler,
Ink,
If, and
Ill;

is for

James,
Jane, for
Jack, and
Jill;

is for

Kiss,
Kitten,
King,
Kitchen,
and Kite;

is for

Lamb,
Lady,
Lace,
Luck, and
Light;

is for

Moon,
Mitten,
Mist,
Moth, and
Mote;

is for

Ned,
Nurse, for
Nose,
Nut, and
Note;

is for

Oil,
Order,
Oat,
Orange,
Oak;

is for

Pin,
Pan, and
Pig in a
Poke;

is for

Queen,
Question,
Quarter, and
Quack;

is for

Reel,
Radish,
Ruff,
Reeve, and
Rack;

is for

Skate,
Salmon,
Sprat,
Saw, and
School;

is for

Tin,
Teapot,
Tar,
Torch, and
Tool;

is for

Urn,
Usher,
Umpire, and
Use;

is for

Vegetables,
Varnish,
and Views;

is for

Want,
War,
Water, and
Wing;

is for

Xenophon,
and
Xerxes,
the King;

is for

Yam,
Yacht,
Yellow, and
Yawl;

is for

Zeal,
Zebra,
Zany—

That’s all!

Nonsense Alphabet

BY EDWARD LEAR

A was an ant
Who seldom stood still,
And who made a nice house
In the side of a hill.
a
Nice little ant!

B was a book
With a binding of blue,
And pictures and stories
For me and for you.
b
Nice little book!

C was a camel;
You rode on his hump;
And if you fell off,
You came down such a bump!
c
What a high camel!

D was a duck
With spots on his back,
Who lived in the water,
And always said “Quack!”
d
Dear little duck!

E was an elephant,
Stately and wise:
He had tusks and a trunk,
And two queer little eyes.
e
Oh, what funny small eyes!

F was a fish
Who was caught in a net;
But he got out again,
And is quite alive yet.
f
Lively young fish!

G was a goat
Who was spotted with brown;
When he did not lie still
He walked up and down.
g
Good little goat!

H was a hat
Which was all on one side;
Its crown was too high,
And its brim was too wide.
h
Oh, what a hat!

I was some ice
So white and so nice,
But which nobody tasted;
And so it was wasted.
i
All that good ice!

J was a jackdaw
Who hopped up and down
In the principal street
Of a neighboring town.
j
All through the town!

K was a kite
Which flew out of sight,
Above houses so high,
Quite into the sky.
k
Fly away, kite!

L was a light
Which burned all the night,
And lighted the gloom
Of a very dark room.
l
Useful nice light!

M was a man,
Who walked round and round;
And he wore a long coat
That came down to the ground.
m
Funny old man!

N was a net
Which was thrown in the sea
To catch fish for dinner
For you and for me.
n
Nice little net!

O was an orange
So yellow and round;
When it fell off the tree,
It fell down to the ground.
o
Down to the ground!

P was a pig,
Who was not very big,
But his tail was too curly,
And that made him surly.
p
Cross little pig!

Q was a quail
With a very short tail;
And he fed upon corn
In the evening and morn.
q
Quaint little quail!

R was a rabbit,
Who had a bad habit
Of eating the flowers
In gardens and bowers.
r
Naughty fat rabbit!

S was the sugar-tongs,
Nippity-nee,
To take up the sugar
To put in our tea.
s
Nippity-nee!

T was a tortoise,
All yellow and black:
He walked slowly away,
And he never came back.
t
Torty never came back!

U was an urn
All polished and bright,
And full of hot water
At noon and at night.
u
Useful old urn!

V was a veil
With a border upon it,
And a ribbon to tie it
All round a pink bonnet.
v
Pretty green veil!

W was a whale
With a very long tail,
Whose movements were frantic
Across the Atlantic.
w
Monstrous old whale!

X was King Xerxes,
Who, more than all Turks, is
Renowned for his fashion
Of fury and passion.
x
Angry old Xerxes.

Y was a yew,
Which flourished and grew
By a quiet abode
Near the side of a road.
y
Dark little yew!

Z was a zebra,
All striped white and black;
And if he were tame,
You might ride on his back.
z
Pretty striped zebra!

Past History

BY EDWARD LEAR

a
A was once an apple-pie,
Pidy,
Widy,
Tidy,
Pidy,
Nice insidy,
Apple-pie!

b
B was once a little bear,
Beary,
Wary,
Hairy,
Beary,
Take cary,
Little bear!

c
C was once a little cake,
Caky,
Baky,
Maky,
Caky,
Taky caky,
Little cake!

d
D was once a little doll,
Dolly,
Molly,
Polly,
Nolly,
Nursy dolly,
Little doll!

e
E was once a little eel,
Eely,
Weely,
Peely,
Eely,
Twirly, tweely,
Little eel!

f
F was once a little fish,
Fishy,
Wishy,
Squishy,
Fishy,
In a dishy,
Little fish!

g
G was once a little goose,
Goosey,
Moosy,
Boosey,
Goosey,
Waddly-woosy,
Little goose!

h
H was once a little hen,
Henny,
Chenny,
Tenny,
Henny,
Eggsy-any,
Little hen?

i
I was once a bottle of ink,
Inky,
Dinky,
Thinky,
Inky,
Black minky,
Bottle of ink!

j
J was once a jar of jam,
Jammy,
Mammy,
Clammy,
Jammy,
Sweety, swammy,
Jar of jam!

k
K was once a little kite,
Kity,
Whity,
Flighty,
Kity,
Out of sighty,
Little kite!

l
L was once a little lark,
Larky,
Marky,
Harky,
Larky,
In the parky,
Little lark!

m
M was once a little mouse,
Mousy,
Bousy,
Sousy,
Mousy,
In the housy,
Little mouse!

n
N was once a little needle,
Needly,
Tweedly,
Threedly,
Needly,
Wisky, wheedly,
Little needle!

o
O was once a little owl,
Owly,
Prowly,
Howly,
Owly,
Browny fowly,
Little owl!

p
P was once a little pump,
Pumpy,
Slumpy,
Flumpy,
Pumpy,
Dumpy, thumpy,
Little pump!

q
Q was once a little quail,
Quaily,
Faily,
Daily,
Quaily,
Stumpy-taily,
Little quail!

r
R was once a little rose,
Rosy,
Posy,
Nosy,
Rosy,
Blows-y, grows-y,
Little rose!

s
S was once a little shrimp,
Shrimpy,
Nimpy,
Flimpy,
Shrimpy,
Jumpy, jimpy,
Little shrimp!

t
T was once a little thrush,
Thrushy,
Hushy,
Bushy,
Thrushy,
Flitty, flushy,
Little thrush!

u
U was once a little urn,
Urny,
Burny,
Turny,
Urny,
Bubbly, burny,
Little urn!

v
V was once a little vine,
Viny,
Winy,
Twiny,
Viny,
Twisty-twiny,
Little vine!

w
W was once a whale,
Whaly,
Scaly,
Shaly,
Whaly,
Tumbly-taily,
Mighty whale!

x
X was once a great king Xerxes,
Xerxy,
Perxy,
Turxy,
Xerxy,
Linxy, lurxy,
Great King Xerxes!

y
Y was once a little yew
Yewdy,
Fewdy,
Crudy,
Yewdy,
Growdy, grewdy,
Little yew!

z
Z was once a piece of zinc,
Tinky,
Winky,
Blinky,
Tinky,
Tinkly minky,
Piece of zinc!

The Apple Pie

A was an apple pie,
B bit it;
C cut it;
D dealt it;
E ate it;
F fought for it;
G got it;
H had it;
I inquired about it;
J joined it;
K kept it;
L longed for it;
M mourned for it;
N nodded at it;
O opened it;
P peeped in it;
Q quartered it;
R ran for it;
S stole it;
T took it;
U upset it;
V viewed it;
W wanted it;
X, Y, Z, and amper-sand,
All hoped for a piece in hand.

Who’s Who in the Zoo?

By Carolyn Wells.

A is for the Antelope,
A beast that I have never met;
They say he jumps the skipping-rope
And makes a charming household pet.

Well, as to that I cannot say;
But A is for him, anyway.

B stands for Bajjerkeit; maybe
You’ve never chanced this beast to see;
So I’ll describe him to you. Well,
There isn’t very much to tell.
One day I idly chanced to look
Within a Natural History book,
And there I saw his funny name,
And thought I’d hand him down to fame.

C is for Codfish. He must be
The saltest fish that swims the sea.
And, oh!
He has a secret woe!
You see, he thinks it’s all his fault
The ocean is so very salt!
And so,
In hopeless grief and woe,
The Codfish has, for many years,
Shed quarts of salty, briny tears!
And, oh!
His tears still flow—
So great his grief and woe!

D stands for Dodo. He’s a bird
That isn’t known to many;
And this the reason, I have heard—
Because there aren’t any!
The Dodo, who once blithely blinked,
Is now exceedingly extinct,
And doesn’t it seem rather nice
To think that D stands for him twice?

E is for Elephant. I know
He isn’t natty, trim, or trig;
His eyes are rather small, and, oh,
I fear his ears are far too big!
But there’s a well-attested rumor
That he has quite a sense of humor;
So crack a joke whene’er you meet
An Elephant upon the street.

F is Flamingo. All please note
His wondrous height and girth;
He has the longest legs and throat
Of anything on earth.
Such throats are trying, are they not?
In case one catches cold;
Ah, yes! but just think what a lot
His Christmas stockings hold!

G stands for Gnu. Of course that’s right, but then,
It seems as if it should begin with N.
I could select some other beast as well—
Say, Goose or Grampus, Gadfly or Gazelle;
But seems to me the Gnu is more attractive,
He is so merry, frivolous, and active.

H is for Hippopotamus.
If you desire a pet,
He is, it really seems to us,
The best that you can get.
Train him to follow at your heels
Whene’er you walk abroad,
And note with what delighted squeals
The lookers-on applaud!

I is for Ibex. This fine creature
Is favored well in form and feature.
And I is for Ichneumon, too—
But what is that to me or you?
But Ibex answers just as well,
And isn’t near so hard to spell.

J stands for Jay. This little fellow
Is blue. Sometimes I think
I’d like him better were he yellow,
Or even reddish pink.
I know, of course, it is absurd
To mind the color of a bird;
And, now I think of it, I’ve seen
Some Jays that were exceeding green.

K stands for Kangaroo. I’ve looked all round:
A better beast for K cannot be found.
The Kangaroo can hop and hop and hop;
Somehow he never seems to want to stop.
What more could one desire of him, I pray,
Than just to hop around and stand for K?

L is for Leopard. Do you know
He’s very, very vain?
And sometimes quite dejectedly
He mopes along the plain.
At these sad times the Leopard’s heart
Is filled with angry passion,
Because his spots are out of date,
And Zebra stripes in fashion!
But other years, when fashion-books
Say spots are all the style,
The Leopard proudly stalks abroad
With most complacent smile.

M is for Microbe. This bad beast
Is very, very small;
Some people say—or think, at least—
He isn’t there at all!
He’s smaller than the mitiest mite;
The only way he comes in sight
Is when he’s pictured in a book,
Or through a microbescope you look.

N is for Nautilus, and he’s
A pirate, bold and gay;
He dashes madly through the seas,
A-searching of his prey.
He’s just a sort of silvery mass,
All spotted blue and pink;
And with his eye, which looks like glass,
He winks a wicked wink.

O stands for the obsequious Ounce,
Who weighs full many a pound;
At you he playfully would bounce,
If you were walking round.
Approach him and the Ounce you’ll see
Spring like a catapult;
Just try it once, and you will be
Surprised at the result.

P stands for Puma. His sleek paws
Go softly pit-a-pat;
His teeth are sharp, and sharp his claws;
He’s just a great big cat.
There were some Pumas in the ark;
There are some also in the park:
But, strange to say, in Montezuma
They do not raise a single Puma!

Q stands for Quagga. We’ve been taught
Nothing was ever made in vain;
But even after serious thought
The Quagga’s use is not quite plain.
Though, stay!—ah, yes! at last I see
Why the queer Quagga has to be:
Were there no Quaggas, how would you
Find any beast to stand for Q?

R’s for Rhinoceros. You see
His clothing does not fit;
Yet so indifferent is he,
He doesn’t care a bit.
Although it does not seem to us
The unconcerned Rhinoceros
Has any claim to wit or grace,
We must admire his earnest face.

S stands for Sponge. You’d scarce suppose
This could be called a creature;
It hasn’t any eyes or nose—
Indeed, it has no feature.
And, though this may cause some surprise,
The mermaids, I dare say,
Will set a Sponge at night to rise,
And make sponge-cake next day.

T stands for Tiger. In the south
He roams his native heath.
He has a wide, capacious mouth,
And long and glistening teeth.
’Tis not worth while your time to spend
To cultivate him as a friend;
But to your house, so warm and snug,
Invite the Tiger as a rug.

U is for the Unicorn,
The dearest little thing;
Though he has but a single horn,
And not a single wing.
A Unicorn of any age
Is nicer, so I’ve heard,
To keep within a gilded cage
Than a canary-bird.

V is for Vervet. From his name
You’d be inclined to think
This creature rather mild and tame,
In color somewhat pink.
But not at all; the Vervet’s green,
And very cross and spunky;
In fact, it’s plainly to be seen
The Vervet’s just a monkey!

W is for Whale. He’s in
The oceans, north and south.
He doesn’t have a dimpled chin,
Nor yet a rosebud mouth.
Yet he is very fond of fun,
And has wide smiles for every one.

X stands for Xiphias; he’s a fish.
If you a Xiphias should wish,
Don’t let him roam around the grass,
But keep him in a globe of glass.
His name, as everybody knows,
Is Xiphias Gladius. I suppose
That means the Xiphias is glad
Because he wasn’t born a Shad.

Y is for Yak,
Who is not very tidy;
And he’s lazy, alack!
He sleeps all day Friday.
About a yard wide
The Yak is, precisely;
With fringe on each side
He’s trimmed very nicely.

Z stands for Zibet. I’ve been told
This beast was much esteemed of old;
But, latterly, most people think
They’d rather have a moose or mink.
In a museum that’s in Tibet
They have one stuffed—he’s an Ex-Zibet!

A Was an Archer

A was an Archer, who shot at a frog;
B was a Butcher, and had a great dog.

C was a Captain, all covered with lace;
D was a drunkard, and had a red face.

E was an Esquire, with pride on his brow;
F was a Farmer, and followed the plough.

G was a gamester, who had but ill-luck;
H was a Hunter, who hunted a buck.

I was an Innkeeper, who loved to carouse;
J was a Joiner, and built up a house.

K is the King, who governs England;
L was a Lady, who had a white hand.

M was a Miser, and hoarded up gold;
N was a Nobleman, gallant and bold.

O was an Oyster-Girl, who went about town;
P was a Parson, and wore a black gown.

Q was a Queen, who wore a silk slip;
R was a Robber, and wanted a whip.

S was a Sailor, and spent all he got;
T was a Tinker, and mended a pot.

U was an Usurer, a miserable elf;
V was a Vintner, who drank all himself.

W was a Watchman, and guarded the door;
X was expensive, and so became poor.

Y was a Youth, that did not love school;
Z was a Zany, a poor harmless fool.

A Little Folks’ Alphabet

BY CAROLYN WELLS

Affable Andy
Ate sugar candy.

Boisterous Ben
Shot at a hen.

Gay little Guy
Thought he could fly.

Helen and Hugh
Called the sky blue.

Careless Corinne
Lost her gold pin.

Dear little Davy
Liked chicken gravy.

Ignorant Ike
Fell off his bike.

Jaunty young Jack
Stepped on a tack.

Elegant Ed
Had a new sled.

Fair little Fanny
Wrote to her Granny.

Kind little Kay
Gave things away.

Lovable Lenny
Lost his new penny.

Merry young Mac
Rode in a hack.

Nice little Nettie
Never was fretty.

Unsocial Una
Gazed up at Luna.

Vigorous Vinton
Always was “sprintin’.”

Opulent Ollie
Rode on the trolley.

Popular Polly
Made pies so jolly.

Whimsical Winnie
Started for Guinea.

Xenophon Bump
Tried a high jump.

Queer little Queen
Always wore green.

Rollicking Rory
Read a long story.

Yellow-haired Yorick
Made leaps historic.

Zealous young Zed
Stood on his head.

Sturdy St. Clair
Marched everywhere.

Tommy and Teddy
Climbed straight and steady.

Ampersand held a book in his hand.

Child Health Alphabet

BY MRS. FREDERICK PETERSON

is for Apples
and also for Air;
Children need both
and we have them to spare.

is for Butter spread
thick on Brown Bread,
Also for Baths
before Breakfast or Bed.

is for Cereals
and Cocoa too;
Consider the Calories
coming to You.

is for Dates,
the kind that You eat,
Deliciously sweet
and far cheaper than Meat.

is the Excellent
Edible Egg,
One daily at least,
dear Children, we beg.

is for Fruits, whether
fresh, dried or stewed;
Dried, at the Grocer’s,
you’ll buy them, if shrewd.

is for Gaining,
as every Child could,
A half pound a Month
is the least that he should.

is for Height,
be as tall as you can,
Weight up to Height
makes a healthy strong Man.

is for Iron
in Spinach and Eggs,
Builds Red Blood and Sinews
for strong Arms and Legs.

is for Jam
and also for Joy,
Which spread on his Bread
it brings to a Boy.

is for Kitchen
so spick and so span,
We all like our Food
from a shining clean Pan.

is for Luncheon
served hot in the School;
We wish all the Teachers
could follow this Rule.

is for Milk which
makes Muscle and Bone;
One pint a day
would be best till you’re grown.

is for News
of habits you need,
To grow up so healthy
you’re bound to succeed.

is for Oatmeal,
the finest of Food;
With Milk for your Breakfast
there’s nothing so good.

is for Prunes,
Potatoes and Peas,
And Patriots who will
be glad to eat these.

is for Quiet,
we frequently need;
After Meals don’t run
at the top of your speed.

is for Rest
and Round Rosy Faces;
Rest is a thing
which nothing replaces.

is important
and therefore I hope
You’ll pardon my specially
mentioning Soap.

is a Topic
which Trouble begins;
Both Tea and Coffee
for Children are Sins.

Understanding
the best way to live,
United for Service
our Country to give.

is for Vegetables;
if you’re too slim,
These Victuals are full
of Vigor and Vim.

is for Water,
the best thing to drink
Between Meals
as often as ever we think.

is for Xtras
of Soup or of Milk
For a thin little Girl
till she’s finer than Silk.

is for You,
and I tell you the Truth,
Learn to be Healthy
and Strong in your Youth.

Now march for it, Children,
with Drum and with Fife.
Z is the Zest
which Health gives to Life.

Here’s a, B, C, D

Here’s A, B, C, D,
E, F and G,
H, I, J, K,
L, M, N, O, P,
Q, R, S, T,
U, V, W,
X, Y, and Z,
And oh, dear me,
When shall I learn
My A, B, C.