THE

NURSERY

A Monthly Magazine

For Youngest Readers.

[65]

THE PIGEONS AND THEIR FRIEND.

[66]

THE PIGEONS AND THEIR FRIEND.

A TRUE STORY.

Here, just as you turn into Franklin Street,
on the right, a poor peddler used to stand with
a few baskets of oranges or apples or peanuts, which he
offered for sale to the passers-by.

The street-pigeons had found in him a good friend; for he
used to feed them with bits of peanuts, crumbs of bread,
and seed: and every day, at a certain hour, they would fly
down to get their food.

On the day when I stopped to see them, the sun shone,
and the street was crowded; and many people stopped, like
myself, to see the pretty sight.

The pigeons did not seem to be at all disturbed or frightened
by the noise of carriages or the press of people; but
would fly down, and light on the peddler’s wrist, and peck
the food from the palm of his hand.

He had made them so tame, that they would often light
on his shoulders or on his head; and, if he put food in his
mouth, they would try to get it even from between his
teeth.

The children would flock round to see him; and even the
busy newsboy would pause, and forget the newspapers under
his arm, while he watched these interviews between the
birds and their good friend.

A year afterwards I was in Boston again; but the poor
peddler and his birds were not to be seen. All Franklin
Street, and much of the eastern side of Washington Street,[67]
were in ruins. There had been a great fire in Boston,—the
largest that was ever known there; and more than fifty
acres, crowded with buildings, had been made desolate, so
that nothing but smoking ruins was left. This was in
November, 1872.

I do not know where the poor peddler has gone; but I
hope that his little friends, the pigeons, have found him out,
and that they still fly down to bid him good-day, and take
their dinner from his open hand.

The picture is an actual drawing from life, made on the
spot, and not from memory. The likeness of the peddler is
a faithful one; and I thank the artist for reproducing the
scene so well to my mind. Folks do say that he has hit off
my likeness also in the man standing behind the taller of
the two little girls.

ROWDY-DOWDY.

THE OBEDIENT CHICKENS.

When I was a little girl, I had a nice great Shanghai hen
given to me. She soon laid a nest full of eggs; and then I
let her sit on them, till, to my great joy, she brought out a
beautiful brood of chickens.

They were big fellows even at first, and had longer legs
and fewer feathers than the other little yellow roly-poly
broods that lived in our barn-yard. But, although I could
see that they were not quite so pretty as the others, I made
great pets of them.[70]

They were a lively, stirring family, and used to go roving
all over the farm; but never was there a better behaved,
or more thoroughly trained set of children. If a hawk, or
even a big robin, went sailing over head, how quickly they
scampered, and hid themselves at their mother’s note of
warning! and how meekly they all trotted roost-ward at the
first sound of her brooding-call! I wish all little folks were
as ready to go to bed at the right time.

One day when the chickens were five or six weeks’ old, I
saw them all following their mother into an old shed near
the house. She led them up into one corner, and then, after
talking to them for a few minutes in the hen language, went
out and left them all huddled together.

She was gone for nearly an hour; and never once did they
stir away from the place where she left them. Then she
came back, and said just as plain as your mother could say
it, only in another way, “Cluck, cluck, cluck! You’ve all
been good chickens while I was away; have you? Well,
now, we’ll see what a good dinner we can pick up.”

Out they rushed, pell-mell, as glad to be let out of their
prison, and as pleased to see their mother again, as so many
boys and girls would have been.

Well, day after day, this same thing happened. It came
to be a regular morning performance; and we hardly knew
what to make of it, until one day we followed old Mother
Shanghai, and discovered her secret.

She had begun to lay eggs again, and was afraid some
harm would come to her young family if she left them out
in the field while she was in the barn on her nest. So she
took this way of keeping them out of danger.

Of course, what she said to her brood when she left them
must have been, “My dears, my duties now call me away
from you for a little while; and you must stay right here,[71]
where no harm can come to you, till I come back. Good-by!”
And then off she would march as dignified and earnest
as you please.

She did this for a number of weeks, until she thought her
young folks were old and wise enough to be trusted out
alone. Then she let them take care of themselves.

This is a true story.

JOHN RAY’S PERFORMING DOGS.

There was once a little boy whose name was John Ray,
and who lived near a large manufacturing town in England.
When only seven years old, he fell from a tree, and was
made a cripple for life.

His father, who was a sailor, was lost at sea soon afterwards;[72]
and then, John’s mother dying, the little boy was
left an orphan. He was nine years of age when he went to
live with Mrs. Lamson, his aunt,—a poor woman with a
large family of young children.

It was a sad thought to John that he could not work so as
to help his good aunt. It was his frequent prayer that he
might do something so as not to be a burden to her; but
for a long time he could not think of any thing to do.

One day a stray dog came to the house; and John gave
him a part of his dinner. The dog liked the attention so
well, that he staid near the house, and would not be driven
off. Every day John gave him what he could spare.

One day, John said to him, “Doggie, what is your name?
Is it Fido? Is it Frisk? Is it Nero? Is it Nap? Is it
Tiger? Is it Toby? Is it Plato? Is it Pomp?”

When John uttered the word “Pomp,” the dog began to
bark; and John said, “Well, sir, then your name shall be
Pomp.” Then John began to play with him, and found that
Pomp was not only acquainted with a good many tricks, but
was quick to learn new ones.

Pomp would walk on his hind-legs better than any dog
that John ever saw. Pomp would let John dress him up in
an old coat and a hat; and would sit on a chair, and hold the
reins that were put in his paws, just as if he were a coachman.

Pomp learned so well, and afforded such amusement to
those who saw his tricks, that the thought occurred to John,
“What if I try to earn some money by exhibiting Pomp?”

So John exhibited him in a small way, to some of the
neighbors, and with so much success, that he bought another
dog and a monkey, and began to teach all three to play
tricks together.

A kind lady, who had been informed of his efforts to do
something for his aunt, made some nice dresses for the dogs[73]
and the monkey. The pictures will show you how the animals
looked when dressed up for an exhibition.

The kind lady did still more: she hired a hall in which
John could show off his dogs; and then she sold five hundred
tickets for a grand entertainment. It was so successful,
that John was called upon to repeat it many times.

Oh! was he not a proud and happy little boy when he
found himself so rich that he could put a twenty-pound note
in the hands of his aunt as a token that he was grateful for
all her care of him?

It was more money than the poor woman had had at any
one time in her whole life before; and she kissed her little
nephew, and called him the best boy in the world.

John and his dogs grew to be so famous, that he had to go
to other cities to show them; and soon he earned money
enough to keep him till he could learn to be a watchmaker.[74]

As he was a diligent, faithful workman, he at last became
the owner of a nice house, and then took his aunt and some
of her children to live with him.

THE SLIDERS.

THE SONG.

ELLEN’S CURE FOR SADNESS.

Our little Ellen is never in a good temper when she
comes down late to breakfast, and finds the things cleared
away. First she complains that her bowl of bread and milk
is too hot; and then, when Aunt Alice pours in some water
to cool it, Ellen says, “It is now too cold.”

I think the fault is in herself. She is five years old,—quite
old enough to know that she ought to get up when
the first bell rings, and come down to breakfast. She knows
she is in fault. She has missed papa’s kiss, for he had
to leave home early on business; and this adds to her
grief.

But, after she had eaten her bread and milk on the day I
am speaking of, she asked Aunt Alice what she should do
to cure herself of her “sadness.” “I think that the best
plan, in such cases, is to try to do some good to somebody,”[76]
said Aunt Alice. “The best way to cheer yourself is to
cheer another.”

This made Ellen thoughtful; and she stood at the window,
looking out on the street, long after Aunt Alice had left the
room. It was a cold, cloudy day, and there were flakes of
snow in the air. Ellen stood watching a poor woman at the
corner, who was trying to sell shoe-strings; but nobody
stopped to buy of her.

“That poor woman looks sad and discouraged,” said Ellen[77]
to herself: “she must be almost as sad as I am. How can
I comfort her? Why, by buying some of her shoestrings,
of course.”

Ellen had some money of her own put away in a box.
She ran and got it, then, putting on her bonnet, went out
and bought a whole bunch of shoestrings. Then, with her
aunt’s consent, she asked the poor woman to come in and
get some luncheon.

The poor woman gladly accepted the invitation; and
Ellen soon had her seated by a nice fire in the kitchen,
chatting and laughing with the maids as merrily as if she
had no care in the world.

“Have I made you happy?” asked Ellen. “That you
have, you darling,” said the poor woman, with a tear in her
eye. “And so you have made me happy,” replied Ellen.
Yes, she had found that Aunt Alice was in the right. “The
best way to cheer yourself is to cheer another.”

KITTY AND THE BEE.

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[80]

MINDING BABY.

[81]

MINDING BABY.

[82]

LITTLE MISCHIEF.

VIII.

Bessie went into the parlor one day, and noticed that the
clock did not tick. “I must wind it up,” thought she. “It
must be very easy, for you only have to turn the key round
and round.”

So Bessie began to turn the key. At first it would not
move; but then she tried it the other way, and it went
round and round quite easily. She was determined to do
it thoroughly while she was about it: so she went on winding
and winding, and was charmed to hear it begin to tick.

But all at once it made a noise,—burr-r-r-r,—and then
it stopped ticking.[83]

IX.

The hands, too, that had been going so fast, stood still.
What could be the reason of it? Had it really stopped?
Bessie put her ear quite near, and listened. Yes, there was
not a sound.

She began to feel frightened, and to think that perhaps,
after all, she had better have left it alone. Her mother
came into the room and said, “What are you doing, Bessie?
You must have broken the mainspring of the clock.”

“I saw it was not going, mamma, and so I wound it up,”
sobbed out Bessie: “I did not mean to break it.” That was
all she could say.

[84]

DEEDS, NOT WORDS.

HOW THE WIND FILLS THE SAILS.

“What makes the vessel move on the river?” asked
little Anna one day of her brother Harry.

“Why,” said Harry, “it’s the wind, of course, that fills the
sails, and that pushes the vessel on. Come out on the bank,
and I will show you how it is done.”

So Anna, Harry, and Bravo, all ran out on the lawn.
Bravo was a dog; but he was always curious to see what
was going on.

When they were on the lawn, Harry took out his handkerchief,
and told Anna to hold it by two of the corners
while he held the other two.

As soon as they had done this, the wind made it swell
out, and look just like a sail.

“Now you see how the wind fills the sails,” said Harry.[86]

“Yes; but how does it make the ship go?” asked Anna.

“Well, now let go of the handkerchief, and see what becomes
of it,” said Harry.

So they both let go of it; and off the wind bore it up
among the bushes by the side of the house.

In order to explain the matter still further to his sister,
Harry made a little flat boat out of a shingle, and put in it
a mast, and on the mast a paper sail.

Then they went down to the river and launched it; and,
much to Anna’s delight, the wind bore it far out towards
the middle of the stream.

Bravo swam out, took it in his mouth, and brought it
back; and Anna was at last quite satisfied that she knew
how it is that the wind makes the vessel go on the river.

[87]

MOLLY TO HER DOLLY.

[88]

IDA’S MOUSE.

One morning when Ida went to the closet for the birdseed
to feed her canary, she found a wee brown mouse in
the bottom of the bottle where the seed was kept. Instead
of screaming and running away, Ida clapped her fat little
hand over the mouth of the bottle, and mousie was a
prisoner.

Mamma said mousie should be drowned; but Ida begged
so hard to keep him, that mamma got a glass jar, put mousie
into it, with a bit of bread and cheese to keep him company,[89]
tied a piece of tin, all pricked with little holes, over the
mouth of the jar, and set it on the shelf.

Ida spent half the day in watching the mouse.

When papa came home at night, he brought a funny little
tin house for mousie’s cage. Mousie was put into it; and
he soon began to make the wire-wheel go round. He turned
the wheel so fast and so long, that he soon made his nose
sore. Ida thought he was very tame; but I think he only
wanted to get out and run away.

[90]

One day mousie managed to get his door open and scamper
off. Then Ida cried and cried, and was afraid her dear
mousie would starve. But after a day or two, as grandma
was going up stairs, she saw little mousie hopping up ahead
of her.

He ran into Ida’s closet. Ida brought the cage; and
mamma and grandma made mousie run into it.

“Perhaps it is not the same mouse,” said grandma.

“Oh, yes, it is!” said Ida. “I know him by his sore
nose.”

Ida took good care of mousie till warm weather came,
and it was time to go into the country for the summer.
Then she took the cage outside the back-gate, and opened
mousie’s door. Mousie was very quiet at first; but soon he
peeped out, and, seeing nothing to hinder, he ran away as
fast as his little legs could carry him.

I am glad that he was set free; for I do not think he
was happy in the cage. I hope he will keep away from
traps and cats, and live to a good old age.

[91]

ALMOST LOST.

Soon after school had commenced, it began snowing so,
that the mistress dismissed all the scholars, and they started
for their homes.

Among the girls were two little sisters, Julia and Emily
Burns, who lived a mile and a half from the schoolhouse,
and had to cross a wide field, and pass through a wood, before
they could reach the well-known road that led up to their
own house.[92]

They had an umbrella with them; and Julia, the elder
sister, had a leather bag on her arm, containing their luncheon.
Soon the snow began to fall with blinding force: the
wind blew, and they could not see their way.

They were by this time near the entrance to the wood.
Emily began to cry with alarm; but Julia said, “Do not be
afraid. See! there is the little old shanty where the wood-choppers
used to go in winter to eat their dinners. We will
go in there, and stop till somebody comes for us.”

So they went in; and, as good luck would have it, Julia
found some matches in an old box on the shelf. There were
plenty of pine-chips, too, lying in the corner of the one
room, which was all that the shanty afforded.

Soon Julia had a merry fire blazing on the hearth; then
Emily began to laugh. They sat down on a log, and
warmed themselves; and Julia drew forth their luncheon
from the leather bag, and they ate a hearty meal.

What do you suppose the sisters did after that? Why,
they began to sing songs, and tell stories, and repeat riddles;
and they were in the midst of this, when they heard
the sound of voices.

“Oh, dear! what’s that?” cried Emily.

“It sounds very much like papa’s voice,” said Julia; “and
that bow-wow sounds like the voice of old Tiger. Yes, here
they come.”

And the next moment the children’s father, with two big
boys, sons of one of their neighbors, burst into the room;
and papa exclaimed, “Why, you little rogues, how I have
worried about you! And here you are as comfortable as a
mouse in a meal-bag!”

Then old Tiger began to frisk round them, and to jump
up as if to kiss them. “Down, old fellow!” said Mr. Burns:
“you told us where they were; didn’t you, old Tiger?”[93]

Tiger barked loudly, as much as to say, “Yes, I told you
where they were; and I think I am the smartest dog that
ever lived. Bow-wow! Of all the dogs ever told about in
‘The Nursery,’ I am the wisest, the bravest, the handsomest,
and the best. Bow-wow!”

LITTLE MAY.

There were pigs and chickens and cows and a good old
gray pony on the farm where little May lived.

May loved them all; and they all seemed to love her.

The cows, as they lay chewing their cud, would let the
little girl pat them as much as she pleased. They never[94]
shrank from the touch of her soft little hands. Sometimes
papa would let May stand beside him when he milked.
Then she would be sure to get a good saucer of milk to feed
the kittens with. She was a great friend of all the cats.

She took great delight in feeding the chickens; and she
even liked to throw bits to the pigs. It made her laugh to
see piggy, with one foot in the trough, champing his food
with such a relish.

Once she saw her papa scratch piggy’s back with an old
broom. So, a few days after, she thought she would try it;
but, instead of getting an old broom, she took a nice new
one, and, reaching over the side of the pen, managed to touch
the pig’s back with it.

Now, what do you think that ungrateful animal did? He
caught the broom in his mouth, and began to chew it.

Off went May to her mother as fast as her little feet could
carry her. “Mamma, mamma!” said she, “come quick.
Oh, dear, dear! piggy is eating the broom.”

To be sure, there was mamma’s best carpet-broom all
chewed down to a stub; and the pig was still eating away.

May cried then; but it was so very funny, that mamma
only laughed, and by and by May laughed too. When papa
got home, he was told the story, and it made him laugh.

May was almost ready to cry again; for she felt sorry, and
she did not like to be laughed at. “There’s nothing to cry
about, darling,” said her papa; “but don’t try to scratch the
pig’s back again until I show you how to do it.”

[95]

AN IMPORTANT DISCLOSURE.

“I want to tell you something, Tommy.”

“What is it?”

“The country is going to ruin.”

“You don’t say so! What’s the matter?”

“Rag currency is the matter.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll explain. You paid for that kettle of milk ten cents.
You paid in rag currency. Did you ever see a silver
dime?”

“No, Billy; but my big brother has seen one.”

“Well, that is specie. Now, what we want is specie payment.”

“How do you know?”

“My father says so.”

Carlo the dog listens attentively, and seems to be absorbed
in a profound reflection upon the currency question.

[96]