[33]

THE

NURSERY

A Monthly Magazine

For Youngest Readers.

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER.

[34]

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER.

When that little boy, whose name was Edward, grew up,
it seemed as if his mother’s prayer had been answered, and
that, in making it, she had been wiser than she knew or
dreamed.

She had not prayed that he might be wise; but somehow
the love in his heart seemed to make him wise, and to lead
him to choose what is best, and to remember all the good
things he was taught.

She had not prayed that he might be rich; but it turned
out that he was so anxious to help and serve others, that
he found the only way to do that was to get the means of
helping: and so he became diligent, thrifty, and prompt in
business, till at last he had the means he sought.

Edward’s mother had not prayed that he might be handsome;
but there was so much love and good-will manifest
in his face, that people loved to look on it: and its expression
made it handsome, for beauty attends love like its shadow.

The prayer had not been that he might be happy; but—dear
me! how can there be love in the heart without happiness?
Edward had no time for moping discontent, for
revenge, or anger. He was too busy thinking what he
might do for others; and, in seeking their happiness, he
found his own.

[35]

But was he learned? Of course, when he found it pleased
his parents to have him attend to his studies, he did his
best: and though there were many boys quicker and apter
than he, yet Edward generally caught up with them at last;
for love made him attentive and earnest.

But last of all, though Edward loved others, did others
love him? That is the simplest question of all. You must
first give love if you would get it. Yes: everybody loved
Edward, simply because he loved everybody. And so I
advise those little boys and girls who think they are not
loved, to put themselves the question, “But do you love?”

CHARLEY’S OPINION.

[36]

COOSIE AND CARRIE.

Cousin Charles said, “Come and see the sheep.” So I
went to where he was standing on the front porch, and calling
“Co-nan, co-nan, co-nan!” The gate was open; and the
sheep and lambs were coming into the yard.

I asked, “Why do you tell John to drive the sheep into
the yard?” Charles answered, “Because it has been raining
hard; and the brook in the meadow has grown so big,
that I am afraid the sheep will get drowned in it.

“Last year we found a sheep lying dead in the brook.
Her two lambs were standing near by, crying for her.
We took them to the house, and fed them with milk. We
named them Coosie and Carrie. Mother can tell you about
them.”

Then I ran to auntie, and said, “Oh! tell me all about
Coosie and Carrie.” So my aunt told me about them; and
this is what she said:—

Auntie and I laughed again, to think of the lambs’ frolic;[37]
and I said, “O auntie! how I wish they would eat out of
my hand now! Do you think they will?”

“I am afraid not,” said she. “They have been with the
flock a whole year, and I suppose are no longer tame; but
you can try. Take some apples to them.”

So, with some apples in my hand, I went out, calling
“Co-nan, co-nan!” The sheep were afraid, and walked
away, crying “Baa-a-ah;” and the little lambs answered,
“Baa-a-ah.“

I followed slowly; and at last one sheep stood still. I
went up close to her, calling “Coosie, Carrie!” for I knew
it must be one or the other. She ate the apples out of my
hand, and let me pat her head, and feel her soft wool.

The next time I went out with apples, two sheep came to
my call. They looked exactly alike to me; but Mary told
me which was Coosie, and which was Carrie. After that,[38]
they did not wait to be called, but came running up as soon
as they saw me.

When the sheep were driven away into the meadow-lot
again, I stood near the gate to see them go. The old sheep
walked along quietly; but the lambs jumped and frisked
about, and kicked up their heels in a very funny way. The
sheep called out “Baa-a-ah!” and the lambs answered,
“Baa-a-ah!” and sometimes it sounded like “Maa-a-ah.“

Coosie and Carrie ran up, and licked my hand as I said
good-by. Now, were they not dear little pets?

THE FOURTH OF JULY CAKE.

Fred.—Oh! look here, Bessy and Maggy: come and see
the splendid Fourth of July cake that mother has made!

Bessy.—You must not touch it, Fred: mother will be
displeased if you touch it.

Fred.—I want to see if she has salted it well. Look at
the currants and the raisins!

Bessy.—And how nicely it is sugared and frosted!

Maggy.—Me see; me see!

Fred.—There! Maggy has put her whole hand in.
What will mother say?

Bessy.—It will do no harm now for me to taste it.

Fred.—Isn’t it nice?[39]

Maggy.—Me want plum.

Bessy.—Maggy mustn’t stick her hand in. She will
spoil mamma’s nice cake.

Maggy.—Me want taste. You and Fred taste.

Fred.—Hark! I hear mother’s step on the stairs. Now
scatter, all three! Lick your fingers clean, and run.

Bessy.—I wish we hadn’t touched the cake.

Mother.—What’s this? Who has been at my cake,—my
cake that I took so much pains to make handsome?

Bessy.—Fred wanted to see if it was properly salted.[40]

Mother.—Here’s the mark of Maggy’s hand! And
here’s a deep hole which Fred’s naughty finger must have
made! And here, Bessy, are your marks. I’m ashamed
of you all. Meddling with my nice cake without leave.

Bessy.—I’m very sorry I touched it, mother.

Fred.—So am I; but I wanted to see if it was well
seasoned.

Mother.—Well seasoned, sir? You deserve to be well
seasoned with a rod. Now, your punishment shall be, not
to taste a crumb of this nice cake, any one of you. I shall
give it to the poor family opposite.

Fred.—Hoo-oo-oo-oo! Oh, don’t!

Maggy.—Don’t, mamma; don’t!

Bessy.—Such a beautiful cake!

Mother.—The cake shall be given to the poor; and you
must be contented with your bread and water.

Fred.—Forgive us this once, mother. Remember it’s
the Fourth of July,—a day when we all want to be jolly.

Mother.—They who would be jolly, must begin by
being good. The cake goes to those who need it much
more than we do.

[41]

[42]

HOW OUR SCHOOL CAME TO HAVE THE
NURSERY.

There are fifty little boys and girls who go to the Blank
street Primary School. Brown heads, black heads, yellow
heads, all shades of heads, may there be seen studying their
A, B, C. Some are very pretty, and some are very plain;
but they are all good children. I think so, and I ought to
know; for I am their teacher.

Well, they read and sing and spell; and some of the larger
ones write a little. But we all get tired of doing the same
thing day after day; and I felt that my little pupils needed
a change.

So, one day, I said to them, “If you will each of you
learn a little verse so as to say it very nicely, we will have
a good time next Saturday morning. There shall be no
lessons,—nothing but speaking and singing.”

Some of the little children looked as if they did not know[43]
what I meant. But the older ones came to me, one after
another, and said, “Please find a piece for me to learn.”

So I undertook to find pieces for them all. I thought
that was an easy thing to do; but, when I came to try it, it
proved to be a hard task. I looked through all my books
and papers, without finding much of any thing to suit me.

I was almost ready to give up the whole plan, when a
bright little boy handed me a book with a green cover, and
said, “I think there are some nice pieces in this.”

I took the book, and looked it through. First I looked
at the pictures; and they pleased me so well, that I turned
back to the first page, and began to read. The more I
read, the better I liked it; and, before I got to the end,
I was delighted.

“Why, Johnny,” said I, “I thank you for bringing me
this. It is the very thing we want.”

I sent out at once, and bought twelve back numbers of
“The Nursery;” and, before Saturday morning came, each
of the children had learned a piece from them by heart.

Since then “The Nursery” has been in regular use in
our school; and we depend upon having a new number every
month. Every one of the children wishes to be the owner
of a copy: so I think we shall soon make up quite a large
club.

WHERE THE DANDELIONS WENT.

When Willy was two years old, he lived in a red farmhouse
with a yard in front of it. The dandelions were very
thick there; so that the yard looked yellow, instead of green.

One bright morning Willy’s mamma put on his straw hat,
and sent him out in the yard to play. She knew the yard[44]
had a high fence; and he could not open the gate; so he
was safe.

When it was time for him to have a nap, and mamma
went to call him, she noticed that a great many of the dandelions
were gone. She wondered where they were; but, as
Willy could not talk much, she did not ask him about them.

A short time after, while Willy was asleep in his crib, his
mamma went out to draw some water. When the bucket
came up full of water, the top was all yellow with dandelions.
Looking down into the well, she could see no water
at all, only dandelions.

It was no wonder, then, where the blossoms had gone.
Willy had been very busy trying to fill up the well!

THE BIRD’S-NEST.

Last summer little Josie, with her papa and mamma, went
into the country to spend a few weeks with her grandmother.
Grandmother lives on a farm; and Josie had many happy
times, tumbling about in the hay, hunting hens’ eggs in the
barn, and watching the birds and squirrels.

One day her papa told her that he had found a bird’s-nest
in the orchard, with some queer little birds in it. Of course,
Josie was very anxious to see it; but papa was too busy to
go with her then: so mamma said that she would go.

Josie clapped her hands, and said, “Oh! you are a good
mamma;” and they started at once for the orchard. A pair
of kingbirds had built a nest on a low branch of an apple-tree;
and in the nest were two little baby-birdies. As soon
as the old birds saw Josie and her mamma coming, they began
to scold, and fly about in great alarm.[45]

I guess the father-bird said, “Oh, dear! here come some
giants; and, if we are not very fierce, they will steal away
our babies. So, mother-bird, you just sit here on this
cherry-tree, and scream, while I stand ready on the apple-tree
to fly at them if they come near our nest.”

Josie and her mamma walked slowly along, not knowing
how angry the kingbirds were getting, until they came to
the apple-tree. “Here is the nest, Josie,” said mamma; and
they went close to the tree. But the mother-bird began to
scream, and fly about, and seemed to feel so badly, that
mamma said, “We will go away from the nest, Josie; for we
are making the old bird unhappy.” But Josie said, “Oh!
do let me take just one peep at the little birdies. Do,
mamma, hold me up to the nest just once!”

Now, all this time the father-bird had kept so still that
they did not know he was on the tree just above their heads;[46]
but, as soon as mamma lifted Josie so that she might look
into the nest, he flew straight down at them, pecked at
Josie’s hands, pulled mamma’s hair, and beat her face with
his wings. Josie was frightened, and began to cry; but
mamma held her close in her arms, and ran away from the
tree as fast as she could.

When they reached the gate, and stopped to rest, they
heard the old birds talking it over. I guess the father-bird
said, “There! I’ve driven those wicked thieves away.
They’ll never dare to come here again.” And the little
birds began to cry, “Tweet, tweet!” And the mother-bird
sat down in the nest, and said, “There, darlings, just tuck
your little heads under my wings and go to sleep. No one
shall harm my dear babies.”

Josie says, “I think they were real cross not to let a little
girl just look at their babies.” But I think they were brave
birds to take such good care of their little ones. What do
you think about it, little “Nursery” folks?

MEDITATIONS OF A SHUT-OUT ONE.

Well, now, do you call that good manners? My master
shut the gate in my face, as much as to say, “Stay where
you are, Bob.” Then he goes in to dine and play chess
with the parson, and leaves me here to watch and wait.

Three hours, I do believe, I have been here on the watch,—three
long, long hours. And there he sits yonder with
the folks in the summer-house. The roast meat seems to be
deliciously done, if I may judge from the odor. Just one
little bone for me, if you please, good master mine.

What do I see? He gives a bone to that scamp Fido;[47]
but for me, his trusty one, who, year in and year out, have
guarded yard and stable so faithfully,—for me he has nothing,
not even a mouthful! And here I sit hungering and
thirsting till my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

But stop! I hear a whistle. Yes, it comes from my
master. And there comes Betty with a whole plateful of
bones in her hand! After all, there isn’t a master like mine
in all the world. I knew he wouldn’t forget old Bob. Yes,
here they come. Truly a patient waiter is no loser. Bow-wow!

DREAMING AND DOING.

Amy was a dear good girl in many things; but she had
one bad habit: she was too apt to waste time in dreaming
of doing, instead of doing.

In the village where she lived, Mr. Thornton kept a small
shop, where he sold fruit of all kinds, including berries in
their season.

One day he said to Amy, “Would you like to make some
money?”

“Of course I would!” said Amy; “for my dear mother
often has to deprive herself of things she needs, so that she
may buy shoes or clothes for me.”

“Well, Amy, I noticed some fine ripe blackberries along
by the stone walls in Mr. Green’s five-acre lot; and he said
that I or anybody else was welcome to them. Now, if you
will pick the ripest and best, I will pay you sixteen cents a
quart for them.”

Amy was delighted at the thought, and ran home and
got her basket, and called her little dog Quilp, with the
intention of going at once to pick the blackberries.

Then she thought she would like to find out, with the aid
of her slate and pencil, how much money she should make,
if she were to pick five quarts. She found she should make
eighty cents,—almost enough to buy a new calico dress.

“But supposing I should pick a dozen quarts: how much
should I earn then?” So she stopped and figured that out.
“Dear me! It would come to a dollar and ninety-two
cents!”

Amy then wanted to know how much fifty, a hundred,
two hundred, quarts would give her; and then, how much
she should get if she were to put thirty-two dollars in the
savings bank, and receive six per cent interest on it.[49]

DREAMING AND DOING.

[50]

Quilp grew very impatient, but Amy did not heed his
barking; and, when she was at last ready to start, she found
it was so near to dinner-time that she must put off her enterprise
till the afternoon.

As soon as dinner was over, she took her basket, and hurried
to the five-acre lot; but a whole troop of boys from the
public school were there before her. It was Saturday afternoon.
School did not keep; and they were all out with their
baskets.

Amy soon found that all the large ripe berries had been
gathered. Not enough to make up a single quart could she
find. The boys had swept the bushes clean. All Amy’s
grand dreams of making a fortune by picking blackberries
were at an end. Slowly and sadly she made her way home,
recalling on the way the words of her teacher, who once said
to her, “One doer is better than a hundred dreamers.”

BOBOLINK.

[51]

PRAIRIE-DOGS.

Annie and her baby-brother went to ride with their papa
and mamma. They crossed the river on a long bridge; and
beyond it they saw horses and cows feeding on the green
prairie.

“What are all these heaps of dirt for?” said Annie.

“We are just entering ‘dog-town,'” said her papa; “and
those are the houses of the inhabitants. Do you see the
two little fellows sitting up on that mound?”

“Yes,” said Annie; “but they look like little fat squirrels;
don’t they, mamma?”

Baby pointed his little chubby finger, and said, “Ish!”

“They are prairie-dogs,” said mamma; “but are sometimes
called the ‘wish-ton-wish’ and ‘prairie marmot,’ and
sometimes ‘prairie marmot squirrel.’ It is like the marmot
because it burrows in the ground, and like the squirrel
because it has cheek-pouches.”

“Well, what do they call them dogs for?” said Annie.

“Let us stop and watch them,” said her papa. “Hark!
do you hear them bark?”

“Yes: it is a little squeaking bark,” said Annie. “It
sounds like ‘chip-chip-chip.'”

“Now see,” said her papa, “how funnily that little fellow
sits up, with his fore-paws hanging down, and watches us.”

Annie shook the whip; and the prairie-dog scampered into[52]
his hole. Up he popped his head again in a moment, and
jerked his short tail, and barked.

This seemed a signal for the whole town. On almost
every mound appeared two or three dogs; and they set up
such a barking and jerking of tails, that everybody in the
wagon laughed and shouted.

“Now we will ride up close to the mound,” said papa, as
he started up old Fox, and sung a bit of the old song:—

There were several bushels of dirt in the mound. In
the centre of it was the hole, which was very large at the
entrance. The earth all around was worn very smooth and
hard.

Here the little dogs sit and bark and jerk, ready to dodge
into their hole in a moment. They all looked fat and
clumsy. Their color is reddish-brown. Owls and rattlesnakes
are often found living with them; but Annie did not
see any.

[53]

[55]

A JOURNEY TO CALIFORNIA.

Two little girls, Annette and Lisette, went to California
with their parents in 1849. There was no Pacific Railroad
at that time; and the journey across the plains was a long
and a hard one.

Annette and Lisette rode in the great wagon drawn by
oxen. They thought that fine fun. At night they slept in
a tent. On pleasant days they walked with their mamma
for miles over the green prairies, plucking wild-flowers as
they went along.

They saw great numbers of the funny little prairie-dogs
sitting in the doors of their cunning houses; sometimes
they caught sight of an antelope; and they often passed
great herds of shaggy buffaloes.

They liked the prairie-dogs and the antelopes; but they[56]
were afraid of the buffaloes; and, when their papa went out
to shoot one, they would almost cry for fear he would get
hurt. But, when he came back with plenty of nice buffalo-meat,
they had a real feast; for they had had no meat but
salt-pork for many a day, and they did not like that very
well.

Sometimes a storm would come up with fearful peals of
thunder, and flashes of lightning. More than once the tent
was blown down, and the rain came pouring on them; but
the little girls put their heads under the bed-clothes, and
crept close to their mamma, and never minded the storm.

After travelling in this way three or four months, they
were still many, many days’ journey away from California,
and Annette and Lisette began to wish themselves back in
their old home; for now the plains were no longer green
and bright with flowers, but hot, sandy, and dusty, with
only ugly little bushes, called “sage-bushes,” growing on
them.

Sometimes they would have to go all day without water;
for the water was so warm and impure, that nobody could
drink it,—not even the cattle. They saw several hot
springs, so hot that they could not put their hands in
them; but their mamma found them very nice for washing
clothes.

Late in the fall they crossed the Sierra Nevada Mountains;
and, oh! how steep and narrow and rough the road was!
Often their papa had to fasten logs of wood to the wagons
to keep them from going down the mountains too fast.
Sometimes a wagon would upset, and go rolling down
hill.

Yet the children enjoyed being in the mountains; for
they liked to play under the tall pine-trees, picking up the
cones, and hunting for lumps of pine-gum, and hearing all[57]
the time the sweet music of the wind as it sang in the
branches.

But in a few days the weather got very cold. Heavy
snow-storms came on. One night twenty head of cattle
were frozen to death; and as there were few oxen left, and
the flour was almost gone, the little girls began to be very
much afraid that they should perish too.

Luckily their papa shot some fat deer, which gave them
plenty to eat; and, after many hardships, the whole party
reached the Sacramento River in safety. Here they got on
board of a flat-boat, and went to Sacramento City, where
they lived in a tent for many months. I may some time tell
you how they went to the mines.

A journey to California is a very easy matter now-a-days.
You may go by railroad all the way, and have every comfort
by day and night.

Annette and Lisette have made the journey more than
once in a palace car; but they often think of the times
when they were two happy little girls riding over the prairies
in a baggage-wagon, or playing together under the
mountain pines.

Salt-Lake City, Utah.

[58]

A LETTER TO GEORGE.

[60]

THE BLACKBERRY FROLIC.

“Why, where are you going, Nelly?” asked Martin Ray
of his sister, as, with a plate of pudding for him, she entered
his chamber where he was confined to his bed.

Poor Martin had broken his leg by a fall from a tree, and
he had to keep very still.

“We have made up a blackberry-party,” said Nelly.
“The girls and boys are waiting for me at the door; and
I can only stop a minute to say that you must be good,
and not fret while I am away.”

“Don’t be late in returning home,” said Martin; “for
mother is going to take me down stairs for the first time, this
afternoon; and I want to see you before I go up to bed.”

“All the sweetest berries I can find shall be saved for
you,” said Nelly, as she tied the little scarf about her neck,
put on her hat, and kissed Martin for good-by.

Nelly’s companions were waiting impatiently for her at[61]
the door; and, when she came, they raised a shout of “Here
she is!” Then they set off, through a shady lane, on their
walk to Squire Atherton’s woods, along the borders of
which the blackberries grew in great profusion.

Soon they came to a place where a brook crossed between
two fields, with such a narrow plank for a bridge that some
of the girls did not half like going over it; for the brook
seemed to be quite full and deep.

“What a fuss you girls make about trifles!” cried Robert
Wood. “Who but a girl would think of being frightened
at a bridge like this?”

“Stop that, Robert,” said Harry Thorp. “I will help
them across in a way that will prevent all danger.”

Harry plucked up a stout bulrush that grew near by, and
held it out over the plank to the girls to serve as a kind of
support for them to hold by. Susan Maples was the first to
lay hold of the thick end of the bulrush, by which Harry
led her across. Then the other girls followed; but, just as[62]
Nelly got on, Robert Wood shook the plank, and tried to
scare her.

He did not succeed in this; for Nelly was thinking of her
dear brother at home with his broken leg, and she felt that
she would not be afraid of a much more dangerous crossing
than that over the plank.

After a walk of a mile, they came to the edge of the
wood. “Jewels of jet! Look here!” cried Harry Thorp.
“See the bouncers! Here’s sweetness! Here’s blackness!
Here’s richness!”

And, true enough, there they were. Never were high-bush
blackberries finer or riper; but the largest and ripest
seemed always the hardest to get at. The boys cut hooked
sticks, with which they pulled down the branches; and their
mouths were soon black with the juice of the berries. Then
the girls began filling their baskets.

The sun was low in the west when Nelly remembered
her promise to Martin, and said, “Now for home!” to which
the rest cried, “Agreed!”[63]

But the girls had not gone far before they began eating
the berries from their baskets, and offering them to one
another,—all but Nelly Ray. She did not eat any of her
blackberries, nor did she give any away; and yet she had
the best basketful of all.

She had, besides, a branch of a bush, with berries on it,
which she was carrying very carefully; so that she kept a
few steps behind the other girls.

When Nelly reached home, she looked in at the open
door, and saw Martin down stairs for the first time since his
accident. He was wrapped in shawls; and Nelly said, as she
put the full basket on his knees, and waved the branch before
his eyes, “Why, brother, they have wrapped you up
so, and your face is so pale, that you look like a girl.”

“Looks are nothing: behavior is all,” said Martin, laughing.
“Why, Nelly, what a splendid feast we shall have!
What big ones! Thank you, dear, dear sister.”

As she heard those words, and saw his pleased looks,
Nelly felt she was well repaid for all her trouble.

[64]

LITTLE JACK HORNER.