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Read Ebook: The Nursery Volume 17 No. 101 May 1875 A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers by Various
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Ebook has 246 lines and 12196 words, and 5 pages
OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE.
EDITOR'S PORTFOLIO.
We think that the present number, both in its pictorial and its literary contents, will please our host of readers, young and old. The charming little story of "The Little Culprit," in its mixture of humor and pathos, has been rarely excelled.
The drawing lessons, consisting of outlines made by Weir from Landseer's pictures, seem to be fully appreciated by our young readers, and we have received from them several copies which are very creditable.
Remember that for teaching children to read there are no more attractive volumes than "The Easy Book" and "The Beautiful Book," published at this office.
The pleasant days of spring ought to remind canvassers that now is a good time for getting subscribers, and that "The Nursery" needs but to be shown to intelligent parents to be appreciated. See terms.
The use of "The Nursery" in schools has been attended with the best results. We have much interesting testimony on this point, which we may soon communicate. It will be worthy the attention of teachers and school committees.
Subscribers who do not receive "THE NURSERY" promptly, , are requested to notify us IMMEDIATELY. Don't wait two or three months and then write informing us that we have "not sent" the magazine, : but state simply that you have not RECEIVED it; and be sure, in the first place, that the fault is not at your own Post-office. Always mention the DATE of your remittance and subscription as nearly as possible. Remember that WE are not responsible for the short-comings of the Post-office, and that our delivery of the magazine is complete when we drop it into the Boston office properly directed.
"Every house that has children in it, needs 'The Nursery' for their profit and delight: and every childless house needs it for the sweet portraiture it gives of childhood."--Northampton Journal.
ON A HIGH HORSE.
On a velocipede Harry would ride: Quickly the splendid steed Set him astride.
Now for a jolly time! Now for some sport! Hold on!--the little chap's Legs are too short.
Harry can't touch the peg, All he can do; Though he may stretch his leg Out of his shoe!
What can we do for him? This much, of course: Let down the rider--or Let down the horse.
Many a hobby-horse Small boys must ride, Ere such a steed as this They can bestride
So, little Harry dear, Don't look so cross When you are taken down From a high horse.
JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
CELEBRATING GRANDMOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.
There were three little sisters and one little brother; and their names were Emma, Ruth, Linda, and John. And these children had a grandmother, whose seventieth birthday was near at hand.
"What shall we do to celebrate our dear grandmother's birthday?" asked Emma, the eldest.
"Get some crackers and torpedoes, and fire them off," said Johnny.
"Oh, that will never do!" cried Linda. "Let us give her a serenade."
"But we none of us sing well enough," said Ruth; "and grandmother, you know, is a very good musician. Let us do this: Let us come to her as the 'Four Seasons,' and each one salute her with a verse."
"Yes: that's a very pretty idea," cried Linda. "And I'll be Spring; for they say my eyes are blue as violets."
"Then I'll be Summer," cried Emma. "I like summer best."
"I'll be Autumn," said Johnny; "for, if there's any thing I like, it is grapes. Peaches, too, are not bad; and what fun it is to go a-nutting!"
"There's but one season left for me," said Ruth. "I must be Winter. No matter! Winter has its joys as well as the rest."
"But who'll write the verses for us?" asked Emma. "There must be a verse for every season."
"Oh, the teacher will write them for us!" cried Ruth. "No one could do it better."
And so, on the morning of grandmother's birthday, as she sat in her large armchair, with her own pussy on a stool at her side, the "Four Seasons" entered the room, one after another, and formed a semicircle in front of her. Grandmother was not a bit frightened. She smiled kindly; and then the "Seasons" spoke as follows:--
SPRING.
I am the Spring: with sunshine see me coming; Birds begin to twitter; hark! the bees are humming: Green to field and hillside, blossoms to the tree, Joy to every human heart are what I bring with me.
SUMMER.
See my wealth of flowers! I'm the golden Summer: Is there for the young or old a more welcome comer? Come and scent the new-mown grass; by the hillside stray; And confess that only June brings the perfect day.
AUTUMN.
Mark the wreath about my head,--wreath of richest flowers; I am Autumn, and I bring mildest, happiest hours; In my hand a goblet see, which the grape-juice holds; Corn and grain and precious fruits, Autumn's arm enfolds.
WINTER.
Round my head the holly-leaf; in my hand the pine: I am Winter cold and stern; these last flowers are mine. But while I am left to rule, all's not dark or sad; Christmas comes with winter-time to make the children glad.
ALL THE SEASONS.
Here our offerings glad we bring, And long life to Grandma sing.
EMILY CARTER.
THE LITTLE CULPRIT.
School had begun. The boys and girls were in their places, and the master was hearing them spell; when all at once there was a soft, low knock at the door.
"Come in!" said the master; and a little cleanly-dressed girl, about six years old, stood upon the threshold, with downcast eyes.
She held out before her, as if trying to hide behind it, a satchel, so large that it seemed hard to decide whether the child had brought it, or it had brought the child; and the drops on her cheeks showed how she had been running.
"Why, Katie!" cried the schoolmaster, "why do you come so late? Come here to me, little culprit. It is the first time you have been late. What does it mean?"
Little Katie slowly approached him, while her chubby face grew scarlet. "I--I had to pick berries," she faltered, biting her berry-stained lips.
Katie still looked down; and her face grew redder still.
"Look me in the face, my child," said the master gravely. "Are you telling the truth?"
Katie tried to raise her brown roguish eyes to his face: but, ah! the consciousness of guilt weighed down her eyelids like lead. She could not look at her teacher: she only shook her curly head.
"Katie," said the master kindly, "you were not sent to pick berries: you ran into the woods to pick them for yourself. Perhaps this is your first falsehood, as it is the first time you have been late at school. Pray God that it may be your last."
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